#Smaller me (Kid Trunks) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

st4rbe0m · 1 month

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PAIRING ▸ Nishimura Riki x fem!reader

SUMMARY ▸"Am I dating Y/N L/N? No thanks, I'd rather choke." Or in which you're clearly using some sort of spell to entice Riki, because why on earth would he suddenly start feeling this way about you?

GENRE ▸one-sided enemies to lovers, highschool au, she fell first but he fell harder, angst (lots of it), slow-ish burn.

WARNINGS ▸ swearing, featuring Eunchae from LeSserafim as your best friend and some additional cameos by other idols, some of dickish behaviour from Riki at the start :(, kissing, mentions of curses, occults knowledge, spells and witchcraft.

WC ▸ 7.1K

A/N ▸ Thank you for the immense support for this on the teaser!! I hope this lives up to your expectations, and I hope you guys enjoy the rest of my work as well :)

PLAYLIST ▸ Voodoo Doll by 5 Seconds of Summer, Kiss Me Kiss Me by 5 Seconds of Summer, Brought the Heat Back by Enhypen, Stockholm Syndrome by One Direction

masterlist

The air is a sweet smelling summer type, the day you first meet Nishimura Riki. He's a scrawny little thing of twig arms and downcast, shy eyes. Having moved to Korea from Japan only barely a month back, the number of words he can say in this newfound land in the foreign language can be counted on one hand. And this poses a problem to him right now, considering how his older sister had already gone off on her own despite their mother's strict orders to stay together at all times. You spot the boy, a sprightly little thing yourself, and the first thing you notice is his eyes. The most gorgeous, mesmerizing eyes. They looked like the black beetles you saw in the spring - lazing on the dark brown tree trunks, absolutely fascinating and captivating.

Nishimura Riki is six years old and scared. He's at a playground with kids his age, but he feels like an alien in his own skin. They're all either playing in groups or duos - but no dice for singles. It's times like this that makes him want to clutch on to the fabric of his mother's dress and be whisked away to safety. A place where he doesn't feel so out of place. His soft, trembling body stills in a bit of surprise as a gentle tap knocks on his shoulder, ever so slightly. Turning around fearful of being picked on, he only comes face to face with a girl. You're looking straight at him with owlish, unblinking eyes that make Riki shiver in your gaze - feeling smaller and smaller than before. He doesn't like how you're looking at him, not in the slightest. "Hi there! I'm Y/N L/N. Are you new here?" You're quite articulate for a kid, he thinks, as if he's not one himself. He's barely managed to string together the meaning of what you said through his broken understanding of the language, but it's the general environment about you that makes him hesitate. His lack of a response doesn't deter you apparently, as suddenly you're latching on to his wrist, trying to pull him to the sand pit, babbling on and on about being his new friend and offering to show him around town. He doesn't know how to get out of your vice-like grip, but he doesn't mind your company either. But it's just all too much. There's too many things going on around him, and you're too loud.

Suddenly, he's wrenching his hand out of yours, a scowl on his youthful features. It's a frown directed right at you like a bullet, but it leaves you unscathed. You still look at him with a complete look of innocence, completely boring into his own eyes. There's something about the way you look at him, and he hates it. He notices the way you hold no precise expression on your face, only a peaceful and serene look coupled with the way one would gaze when they felt curious and fascinated. He decides at that moment, with all the iron resolve of a six year old boy, that he hated this girl. He hated you and he wanted absolutely nothing to do with you.

But this was in no way similar to the way you were feeling currently. With the way that inky void in his eyes were pulling you in like a siren song, you decided that you loved Nishimura Riki.

11 years later

"Riki! Riki!". Your chants are loud even amongst the bustling crowd of attendees, all mingling about on the bleachers, eyes trained on the orange basketball as the squeaking sound of shoes against the polished wooden floor accentuated the tension of this cut-throat game. Jersey number 9, tallest on the team and jet black hair that had everyone reeling in his subtle aura, Riki's eyes are piercing as his focus solely stays on two things - the first being how to get past the rival team's defense, and the second being how annoying your cheering was to him.

Their opposing team is not letting them cut through this bottle neck tie easily, and the red timer with its robotic, digital numbers clocking down to the game's end was not really helping either. It was right now, or never. And Riki never let a game get to the tie-breaker, ever. He's quick and sharp witted, and he's got the athletic skill to get past the crowding defense team, and with a crisp swish of the white net hanging on the post, the ball is swiftly sent through the basket. The whistle is loud, but the rest of his teammates are louder, wasting no time in running on the court to aggressively smother their prodigal player in affection and sweat, with Riki glaring away at them in faux irritation, but clearly preening in their pride. This was an important game after all, because it would be the game that would help team captain, Lee Heesung, who was graduating this spring, to choose the next in line to his legacy. And anyone with two eyes, who wasn't even on the team could easily say it belonged to Riki.

Your voice is back, louder again this time, and it has Riki grimacing amongst the celebrations, and Sunoo and Taki, his friends who had descended from the stands themselves, gave each other a knowing look of what was about to occur.

You're singing praises and it has him glowing, regardless of the frown marrying his sharp features. "God, that was so cool! You're so, so tall, it must have been an advantage for sure, but wow I mean that basket? Crazy!"

He's still glaring at you and his teammates have wry smiles on their faces. Your praises quieten down when you, and Riki, notice Lee Heesung walking over to Riki with a championing grin that only means one thing. Ushering Riki away, you just gazed at him at raw adoration as the boy's face lit up with the news Heesung was breaking him.

"By the way dude, are you dating that girl there? Y/N L/N?"

The question has him coughing slightly from the water he was chugging down. Sunoo and Taki are cackling violently at his expression, like Heesung had performed the most blasphemous act in front of him. "Heesung, what the hell dude. I'm not dating her, at all. I'll only date Y/N when pigs start flying."

He looks back to where you stood before, now gone from that spot. You always waited a bit before you left, usually, trying to catch him and make conversation with him, so this was new. A different kind of feeling he wasn't sure he was used to. It was strange, how he felt a bit different from the absence of you.

"Look, oh my god!" Taki cries out, pointing vaguely at the air. "What?" "I just saw a pig fly." “Shut the fuck up man.”

You were a curse sent from hell to torment him, that much was sure. He wasn’t sure what penance he was due to pay in this life for his previous actions that caused you to appear in his life, considering how since that moment on the playground, you’ve done nothing to actually make his life any better. And while he was explaining this very situation to Heesung, who was now sporting an amused grin at the way the normally nonchalant Riki’s mouth seemed to fly a mile a minute, Sunoo interrupted with a gasp at a particularly harsh tease. “She isn’t even doing anything bad you prick! I’d kill to have someone crush on me that long!”

“Oh you can have her then, Sun. I do not want to see her in my life ever again once we’re out of here.” He huffs.

The various examples of the ways you’d managed to make things bad for him seemed to resurface to his mind almost immediately, souring his mood. Like when in middle school, when he bagged the hottest girl of their grade, Choi Ri-ah, to go out with him. It was magical to Riki, that eighth grade relationship - mainly because him being in it meant having you off his back. Your displeasure with his newfound relationship status was not a secret either, no your distaste was very clear, with the way you’d frown when they would walk in the hallways together holding hands, which in eighth grade, was a very big deal. It didn’t help that Ri-ah was also your quote unquote, sworn enemy. The two of you had hated each other's guts since almost preschool, and the sickening punch in the stomach was how she’d managed to be with the only guy you’d ever loved. But Riki didn’t know any of that. And frankly, he didn’t care much about his and Ri-ah’s conversations or dates, where he would nod along as she talked his ears off about getting new earrings or the summer holiday her father was planning, where she was going to get the most outrageous tan. Sure, he liked her. But he liked not hearing your voice constantly bugging him more.

“Dude she didn’t end your relationship with Ri-ah! Ri-ah was already going after another guy from that prep school, she just needed an excuse to end the relationship and made Y/N the scapegoat.” Taki told him exasperatedly, which just fell on deaf ears, because Riki was still convinced that you were the reason for the demise of his juvenile dating plan. Ri-ah had broken up with him seemingly out of the blue, over text, claiming that she felt uncomfortable dating a boy who was so coveted by another girl. And when fourteen year old Riki read that heartbreaking message curled up in his duvet at 10PM on a Tuesday, he just felt a bitter pill of hatred for you. Nothing had changed in the six years since that fateful meeting at the playground, no. You still made Riki shudder.

“I hate Y/N L/N. I wish she just left my life, because she’s what makes it worse.”

“He’s absolutely phenomenal.” You breathe out in a sigh, full of awe as you watch Riki skirt across the court with lightning speed. The dreamy looks and the lovestruck sounds was like routine to Eunchae, who had honestly even given up on rolling her eyes at you, because with the way she’d spent the last 10 years doing the same, she was afraid her eyes would get stuck at the back of the skull due to routine. It was truly a wonder how you hadn’t given up immediately after the first few tries - when he was extremely stubborn in denouncing the “Y/N’s boyfriend” title he’d earned. But you had your justification ready to go - that he never outright rejected you. Sure, he politely declined some invitations, but never a word against your feelings as such. It still raised the question, as to how you could chase a guy around this long. Because to you, the reason was quite fundamental - his eyes were still beautiful, and most importantly, they held no hate. Not an ounce of it, no matter how hard he tried to emulate it, which gave you hope.

Unfortunately hope was a wonderful thing for sure, but also dangerous. It was quite the cycle you’d found yourself stuck in, and you weren’t honestly sure how long you could afford to linger as nothing but a mandatory footnote to him. It was eating away at you. But hope, hope made you hold on.

Only Eunchae knew about the firm decision you’d taken last night. After all, she was your closest friend. And she even held you, as you solemnly promised to yourself, on the eve of the 11th anniversary of the day you first met Riki, to leave him behind forever, if there wasn’t any improvement in his behavior, or general perception of you. It was shocking, and honestly a huge decision. But firm in its promise, that last hook of hope would be gone soon by tomorrow.

“You know he ignored you again, right?” Eunchae points out for the nth time, and like always that doesn’t deter you, as you gaze lovingly upon where the soon-to-be former captain Heesung was talking to Riki about leading the team, a position quite coveted which you were very proud of Riki for acquiring. The pride that swelled in your heart was immense, but the cold words you heard Riki utter were like a small pin-prick on your heart. He was tense from the game, and let’s be honest, you’d always managed to survive the weight of his brash words. But why did this one hurt so much? Were you reaching your breaking point, finally? No wonder you’d tipped and already decided to get over him last night.

Snapping yourself out of these negative emotions, you decided to busy yourself a bit away from the bleachers and Heesung and Riki, focusing on Eunchae as she tried to decide where to grab a snack before you both went off to your own houses.

“I hate Y/N L/N. I wish she just left my life, because she’s what makes it worse.”

The sound of his voice has always been melodious to you. It had a deep timbre and was almost soothing. But right now, you felt anything far from soothed. Your throat was closing up into a lump, and you huffed slightly as you blinked away tears. Eunchae’s eyes were blown wide in shock, and were slowly beginning to narrow in anger. Your movements were almost automatic as your hand reached out to stop Eunchae from storming out from your hiding spots’, the fuming girl looking like she was ready to punch Nishimura across the face immediately. The tears were burning into your lower lash line like furious embarrassment, making you more and more smaller, wishing now more than ever that the ground swallowed you whole. You kept telling yourself over and over again, that this wasn’t the first time you’d heard words of this type uttered against you by him. But it was like a disenchanting spell on you, the way a veil lifted off your eyes. A crack in the rose tinted looking-glass you always stared at him through.

“Y/N”, Eunchae’s voice is a careful whisper, sensing your vulnerability as your best friend. She knew you long enough to tell that those extremely cruel, mean words did more than just a regular rebound on your thick skin. She was cooling down in an attempt to comfort you, rubbing your arm in support. Your lower lip was wobbling, and you felt like someone had slapped you hard across the cheek. You weren’t that annoying to put up with, were you?

Your heart felt stomped on at that point, and you wanted nothing more than to get away. As shocking as it was, you couldn’t stomach being around Riki right now, and hastily grabbing Eunchae and making a beeline towards the exit, your downtrodden expression morphed to anger as your shoulder harshly bumped against Riki’s, who’s expression you couldn’t tell with the way you could only see red. Your decision was ironclad now, if it wasn’t firm already. This was the moment you’d decided to get over Nishimura Riki.

The touch of your shoulder against his was like a static current being passed through his skin, in the most pleasant way possible. Like he craved it. Riki was baffled, and even more so when he realized it was you, and your usually ever-present adoration from him being blatantly missing, even in this short interaction, if it even be called that. He felt a twinge of concern for you, which he suppressed easily. This was the Y/N he was talking about. Any emotion for you rather than disgust? No thank you!

However, it was strange. For the first time in your life, you felt almost nothing for Nishimura Riki. And for the first time in his life, he felt something for you.

It’s been a week since the fateful basketball game. You’ve been through the stages of grief quite quickly, storming through each of them with Eunchae helping you along, although your headstrong need to get better did worry her, that you weren’t actually processing your pain to heal. But to hell with all that. No, you wanted to eviscerate any remaining thought of Riki from your head immediately. The school day seems to be quite regular, with spring break just a mere two weeks away, that had people buzzing with low energy in the hallways, all in the state of deciding their spring break plans. Your spring break plans weren’t anything fancy, or anything at all rather - with the main idea being that you’d while away the time with your best friend, doing all the fun activities you could possibly do. And a break that you were sure would be the final nail in the coffin that contained the corpse of your feelings for Riki, the dark haired boy who up till now kept an iron grip on your heart.

The boy in question, like you, had also spent the previous week raging through some emotions. But in his case, rather he found them very confusing and very out of character. Of course, he wasn’t self actualised enough to work through them, and that led him to create a stubborn mindspace - that you, Y/N L/N were messing with his head by purposely ignoring him. He just couldn’t stop thinking about you, your presence and the recent lack of. Your voice wasn’t greeting him in the homeroom every morning anymore, and it was a change many had noticed, but not yet commented on. He found this pit in his stomach from the first week, the immediate day after the match, when he saw you sitting in class - head bent, hair falling over your face messily. And for a fleeting second, his hand had to fight off the urge to get up and brush them away. Your eyes looked slightly swollen, with a faint bloodshot look, like you’d spent the night crying rather than sleeping. It made his chest ache and his head spin slightly. What the hell? When the hell did he feel sorry for Y/N L/N? When the hell did he feel anything for Y/N L/N?

That was about three days ago, and that same pit in his stomach has been growing ever since. He, for whatever reason, missed you. Instead of coming face to face with this fact, he turned his back on it, and it was killing him. Pinpricks of pain would shoot through him whenever he noticed you deliberately changing your path on noticing him walk towards your way. God, it’s like he was a hostage to your feelings all these years, and automatically he felt guilty of thinking about you that way. You just liked him right? Why was he even so rude to you?

His behavior, and his demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by all of his friends, even the basketball team, who were more than aware of your absence at practice anymore. Whatever you were doing to remove Riki from your life might be working in your favor, but it was ruining him.

His brain felt like someone was swirling its contents around with a spatula, making a mess of his thoughts and his emotions. He hadn’t wasted a moment in spilling his dilemma to Sunoo, and invariably the guys he was closest to on the basketball team - Jake, Sunghoon, Jay and Heesung. The team itself were all in all pretty much aware of how the youngest was going through quite the mind-boggling series of epiphanies (if it could even be called that. Jay liked to refer to it as just a dumbass waking up from his stupidity sleep).

“Dude, I just don’t know anymore. Her not being there is very odd to me? I just can’t get used to it.” Riki sighs, shaking his head as he thumbs around his packet of Cheetos, slumping against the cafeteria wall, while the rest of his group gathered around him like a pack, eagerly listening in. “But isn’t that what you wanted? So there must be something else then? Maybe you didn’t mind her as much as you let on?” Jake inquired, his head tilting like a confused puppy. That had Riki scratching his head again. He saw you this morning by your locker. You were catching up with Eunchae, both of you laughing boldly to whatever Eunchae had just said, and there was a glow on your face as your eyes crinkled in amusement, which made a heartbeat skip in his chest. He was staring longingly at you, and it seemed like you noticed, because your eyes met his in scrutiny - your single glance making him feel like that six year old at the playground again.

When you were in freshman year, you had developed a fascination with reading horror novels and mangas and watching horror movies very frequently. Something about spirits and the occult had interested you very much, and many people around you knew about this hobby of yours. If anyone had any doubts about the intricacies of rituals and possessions, spells and witchcraft, they’d just go to you. Right now, Riki thinks that’s exactly what’s happening to him - you’d used your occult knowledge to put a spell on him. Of course, he knew how ridiculous he sounded. But he felt like he was bound to you, and couldn’t shake off your spell no matter how much he tried. And it was purely on him. This was just all so,so confusing, which he decided not to voice out to his friends until he himself had gotten a grip on what was happening to him. How he kept thinking about your little habits. Day before yesterday, he found himself soaked in sweat and thirsty beyond comparison after practice. Parched and defeated, he stumbled along to the locker room to find his flavored water that one of his teammates usually kept in his locker for him, only to come up empty handed.

“Jake, have you seen my flavored water? I figured you usually put one in my locker.” He asked nonchalantly, only to find Jake, and the rest of the team that entered the room in a state of sly smiles, stifled giggles and shock.

“Dude, we never did any of that. Y/N did that, she’d purchase the fancy water for you and put it in your locker before we came for practice.”

It made him feel different. He was blinking slow, and his brain was sluggish. You did that for him? God, you were so sweet, weren’t you. He already felt a bit sad about not seeing your bright grin that you directed to him in the morning (even though he always dismissed it with ignorance), but this was the cherry on top. You had loved him to death, and now he was a dead man walking without you.

“He looked at you, you know.” Eunchae is careful in her observation, but she knows you noticed too. Your pupils seem narrowed, and your lips are drawn in a tight line as you contemplate that look he gave you. You still couldn’t fight off the feeling of butterflies in your stomach when you met his eyes - those gorgeous, beetle-black eyes that had a magnetic pull to them. But within the haze of your flusteredness, you’d managed to catch the slight look of misery in them. He was looking at you like he was an injured puppy, lost without you. But your resolve was stronger. With the utmost focus, you managed to drive away the maddening thoughts of the possibility of him missing you away, and walked away with Eunchae.

Over the weekend, Riki had realized that being away from you was driving him insane. So on Monday, he was pulling his chair close to yours in the classroom, the metallic screech against the wooden flooring making everyone turn their heads to the scene, their eyes widening in shock at what was unfolding in front of their eyes. How on Earth was Nishimura Riki sitting next to Y/N L/N? Your thoughts were also very similar to the rest of your classmates, because what was happening right now? Riki, the boy you’d put your heart dangerously on the line for was right here, sitting next to you. His movements were awkward and he was fiddling with his fingers while casting shy glances towards you, reminding you of the scared six year old version of him you’d met at the playground. There is a faint red crawling up his pale ears, and he clears his throat roughly, before saying “Is it alright if I sit here?”

Your all consuming feelings seemed to come back like a crashing wave on the shore the moment he uttered those words to you, and you just nodded wordlessly, too shocked to say anything.

You look too pretty this morning, and it’s messing with his head. Riki’s beating himself up internally, because this wouldn’t be so difficult if you weren’t so goddamn beautiful for some reason. He nods when you do, and then gets to his work. His proximity feels dizzying to you, and the scent of his cologne makes it harder for you to focus on the work in front of you. He’s biting into his lip hard, to suppress the urge to just hold your hand. The smell of your shampoo, the warmth of your thigh being barely centimeters next to you. You’re both so horribly blind and it is just painful to you both, unbeknownst to each of you.

Nishimura Riki liked you. He really, really liked you. And as he turned his head to see your face, accented by the golden sunlight and eyes sparkling like dewdrops in the early morning, he knew that even if he wanted to run, he couldn't. He was trapped under your spell, and the thought of it made him smile.

The following days are filled with such odd interactions with Riki. He always found an excuse to find you first in classrooms, or walk you to the cafeteria. You suddenly found yourself back at basketball practices again, but this time forcefully dragged to the court by Riki, and an amused Eunchae in tow. He was there to offer you snacks and drinks from the vending machine. He helped you with homework and you helped him with his. Whatever diabolical game he was playing was working wonders on you, because suddenly all you could see behind your closed eyes was his gorgeous face.

The rest of the student body isn’t blind to his newfound affection for you. It’s all they’ve been talking about the entire time. His teammates slap his back in teasing jests while he shoos them all away, all the while that smile never leaving his face.

“There’s no way!” You’re laughing hard, and yours and Riki’s shared giggles are quite audible over the soccer field. You’re both sitting on the grass just after practice, where Riki’s cooling off in the gentle breeze blowing across the grass. He’s telling you about some antics he had put up in class to get away from not turning in assignments, which involved a fake rubber rat and a very scared Calculus teacher. You’re wiping tears from your eyes from the laughter while Riki shakes his head in amusement. The breeze blows a single leaf to land right on top of your head, and it makes you giggle harder.

He shuffles a bit closer to you, arm raising up to remove the leaf from your head. His breath is warm as it fans across your warming cheeks, the narrowed distance between you both not being lost on either of you. His eyes meet yours, and you’re still a goner for them. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing in nervousness, yet he makes no attempt to move away. Instead, he feels a bold surge in him. His finger loops around the bow on your school uniform, tugging the ribbon and invariably, you, forward towards him, making the breath in your throat hitch, and your eyes becoming wide as saucers. His eyes dip to your cupid’s bow, and scan over your lips and how they’re parted. Riki spends not a second more pressing his lips to yours, and you’re in heaven.

The walk back to your house is full of shy touches, and the warmth of your hand in his. Riki’s lips are still tingling where yours were just moments ago. He can’t even begin to fathom how he ended up here - from loathing you to wanting to kiss you again. He was addicted to you and wanted more of you. But these things needed to be paced, and Riki wanted it done right. Bidding you goodbye in front of your house, where you left him with another giggle-pressed kiss to his cheek and a warm buzz filling his body, he was absolutely enamored by Y/N L/N.

The next day, he wakes up and it’s a good day. It’s a good day because he’s going to ask you out finally. He wanted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, just because of the implausibility of the situation. There was a brightness surrounding the boy all throughout, a contrast to his regular attitude. Sunoo and Taki had been updated already, and he was planning to tell the team, the rest of his friends during practice, after which he would ask you on a date during your regular after-practice hangouts. Except for the life of him he couldn’t find you, at all. It was unfortunate that today was the day of the announcement of the student council election results, for which classes were mostly halted, since the student council was quite a big deal

He’s scanning around to find you amongst the crowd of the assembly where the results were to be announced - only to spot you a bit later. Also, he notices that you’re not alone. You’re grinning (a bit too much for his liking, if he's being honest) at Yang Jungwon, the boy who was the sure-shot winner of the President position. You’re too close to him, and it makes his heart clench. He’s biting his tongue until it almost bleeds. He doesn’t get an opportunity to speak to you, as the event commences. He just decides to wait till later, ignoring the pain in his chest he got from seeing you with another guy.

“The President of this year’s student council is Yang Jungwon.” There’s a smattering of loud applause, and even Riki joins in half-heartedly, still wounded over what he was previously. “The position of Vice President goes to his running mate, Y/N L/N!”.

He’s still in his place, though his heart bursts with pride and joy for you, his eyes drinking in your excited run up to the stage, shaking hands with the Principal of the school. Your face is broken into the biggest smile ever, and your eyes are shining from pure happiness. Why didn’t you tell him? Why didn’t he know you were going for it? Or that Jungwon was your running mate?”

But all in all he’s very, very happy and proud of you, so he squishes down that ugly feeling of jealousy in him, and focuses on how you somehow look directly right at him. Your smile drops a little when you notice he isn’t clapping, a fact Riki himself didn’t realize, too busy staring in awe at you. It takes Eunchae’s loud hollering in the crowd to break you out of your stupor and your return to your regular state.

He’s changing out of his practice clothes, feeling a bit down from the events that actually happened today and how he’d expected it to go. He hadn’t been able to catch a moment alone with you after the ceremony, and four of the older members of the team were missing from practice today too, since Jay was the treasurer of the previous session, he had to oversee the handing over of the duties to the newer batch. Practice, because of that, ended up being him, and the benchwarmers and people he didn’t really know all that well. It was something he had to get used to as the new captain, so he figured this would serve as a good preview. He was talking to another benchwarmer of his grade, Junhee, while changing. Junhee wasn’t necessarily a good person, if Riki was honest. He always hung out with the rash crowd and got into fights because of his crass nature. He placed the small box of chocolates he’s managed to quickly buy for you from a store outside school, a sticky note with your name and a congratulation scrawled on it, down on the metallic bench as he gathered up the rest of his things. This doesn’t escape Junhee’s notice, who smirks lazily as he spots the name on the post-it.

“No way, Nishimura. She did it, huh?”

Riki already doesn’t like the way he refers to you as just someone, and it sets his skin aflame. “Hmm?” he responds half-heartedly, not at all interested in maintaining a conversation with Junhee of all people. “Well, doesn’t it make sense, Nishimura? She’s into that horror shit right? Clearly she’s made a voodoo doll of you and forced you to love her. Manifestation shit, am I right?”

Riki’s blood is boiling as he hears what Junhee is saying, but for some reason he says nothing back. It’s like he’s trapped in this vortex in his mind fueled by the insecurity he felt from seeing you with Jungwon, or how he felt out of the loop about your co-curricular adventure. Staying mum, he just grabbed the chocolate box, and turned around, only to gasp in shock to see you standing right there. Your mouth is twisted downwards in disappointment, and you’re staring at him with absolute loathing in your eyes right now. He rushed forward towards you, ready to explain, and also wanting desperately to punch the snickering Junhee behind him, who was now slinking away from the scene.

It feels like there is a knife in your back and twisting itself in your flesh all over again. There is a panic rising in your throat, suffocating you overwhelmingly. It’s jarring and mind-boggling. So before Riki gets to you, you run.

Eunchae is gathering you up in her arms as your inconsolable state renders you helpless, slumping on the floor of your bedroom, finding it harder to breathe as the sadness keeps washing over you in painful crashes, making you feel weaker and weaker as the time goes.

“Why does he hate me, Eun? He kissed me, didn’t he? So why is he so cruel?”

The six boys in Riki’s room are trying their best with damage control, as they all had rushed over to his house when Riki had texted them in a panic and explained what had gone down. “But why didn’t you defend yourself in front of Junhee in the first place man?”, Taki asks frustratedly, tugging at his hair. Riki frowns, trying to ignore the flashes in his head of your heartbroken face while his chest aches. “I kept thinking about her and Jungwon. I treated her terribly before all this, didn’t I? I just kept thinking how she might like Jungwon now.” His eyes are downcast in sadness, and his voice is broken. Pulling up a chair right in front of Riki, Heesung plops down and holds Riki up by the shoulders, squaring him up. “Riki. Go. Go right now and apologize, before you lose her even more.” Riki is crying harder now, and wiping his tears, he breaks and finally tells them. “I don’t think I want to be without her, Heesung. I want her love, no matter if it drives me to my end.”

Riki sees how Eunchae slipped out of your house to walk towards the supermarket, no doubt to get you both some consolation food. He takes this moment to approach your front door, knocking furiously in nervousness and apprehension. It’s now or never.

You open the door, assuming it’s Eunchae who left something behind before she left, so seeing Riki - messy hair, lips bitten to the extreme and bloodshot eyes standing on your front porch knocked the wind out of your lungs. Ready to slam the door on his face, his long hand stops you from doing so, pleading “Y/N please, please just listen to me. It wasn’t how it happened. I didn’t agree with Junhee at all. I like you, Y/N L/N, like it’s breathing. Being away from you makes me lose my mind, and I know I haven’t been the best to you in the past. But please, Y/N. I need you to give me a chance. I need you.”

There’s warm tears flowing down your face, and even in this state Riki thinks you’re beautiful. The porch light shines on your face and you look angelic. He hopes it showed in your mercy as well.

“Why didn’t you disagree?” you sniffle, sweater paws raising up to wipe away some of the tears on your face. The dejected tone with which you ask him makes him feel a deep tug in his heart, aching and sad. “I felt. Jealous. And angry, that Jungwon was so close to you, and that you hadn’t told me about being his running mate. And I know that doesn’t excuse my actions. I just felt, I don’t know. Out of the loop.”

“I wanted to surprise you with the vice president's news.” You mumbled, head down. Riki hesitantly moved toward you, and slowly patting your head, he said “I was surprised, baby, and so, so proud of you. I felt so proud of my girl up there.” He says hoarsely, hoping that his sincerity is as evident as much as he feels it.

The breath gets knocked out as he groans through his mouth with the impact of your crushing hug. You have your face burrow into his chest, crying softly but also laughing slightly, wetting his shirt. He doesn’t spare a moment to wrap his arms around you tightly, fearing that letting go would mean that he’d lose you again. He sniffs in the soothing and familiar scent of your shampoo and mumbles into your hair, “I don’t know what spell you’ve casted on me, Y/N L/N. But I want to be under it forever.”

The sunlight, Riki thinks, just manages to make you so beautiful that it makes Riki speechless every single time. A lot has changed since the playground and the years after that. And a lot more changed within the last year too. You and Riki are midway through your senior year now. He was sad when he had to bid farewell to the older members of the basketball team, who were practically like brothers to him now. You continued your duties as vice president, though the shared activities you had with Jungwon, still a sore spot for Riki, made him pout adorably, which you always kissed away with a laugh. Riki was the basketball captain now, which added new responsibilities to his shoulder, which he carried excellently. The evidence of which was the recent basketball game that he’d just won with the team. The pep rally, and most of the team was still loitering around the court (Junhee was out. It was one of the first things Riki did as captain, in fact). Riki had sneaked you out to that fateful soccer field where you both had first kissed, and a beautiful sense of deja vu hit him as he looked at you in wonder - how you’d managed to put up with all of him was still a mystery to the boy. But, when you looked to meet his eyes - those dazzling, black eyes that glittered under the setting sun, you both realized - you were both enchanted by each other.

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shushmal · 5 months

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steddie request! pre steddie during a pool day eddie feels cute aggression and bites the back of steve's shoulder and surprises him

It should be ILLEGAL, Eddie thinks, for Steve Harrington to allowed out into polite company, much less in a community pool where innocent eyes could gaze upon him. Objectively, sure, Eddie knows that those little pink swim shorts aren't any more scandalous that what anyone else is wearing today. Ted Wheeler is knocked out on a lounge chair with only a speedo. But it's Steve. And Eddie's doing his best to rehab his image in Hawkins, so drooling after the local Harrington prince wasn't going to help.

Never mind that it was Steve who drug Eddie out into Satan's crack that is Indiana summer in August. He'd made a good case about it, too—something, something, being seen doing good in front of all the moms at the community pool, something, something, Holly's birthday party, yada yada. Honestly, Eddie didn't hear most of it, lost in Steve's stupid, beautiful brown eyes.

What was Eddie going to say? No?? Be for real.

That was how Eddie found himself sat on a deck chair (thankfully one with an umbrella), in his jeans next to a cooler, handing little girls juice boxes and snacks when demanded of him.

Holly Wheeler must befriends with the entire elementary school, Jesus Christ.

Steve himself, in his aforementioned pink swim trunks, was playing as pool jungle gym and had kids crawling all over him. It helped a lot to keep Eddie from drooling after him, but didn't do a lot for Eddie's heart.

Worse than Steve being hot, was Steve being cute. Eddie couldn't take it. He was going to die.

Steve had one of the smaller kids perched on his hip, held safely up out of the splash zone, while the rest of the hoard took turns climbing up onto his shoulders and using him like a diving board, his free hand guiding them safely into the water as they jumped. It looked like hell to Eddie, but Steve was grinning ear to ear, rating each jump with a booming cheer that had all the kids screaming around him with each splash.

"Um, excuse me," snaps a little girl in front of Eddie. He glances down and feels like he's looking at a mini Erica Sinclair, her hands on her hips and scowling. A chilling sight.

"Whatcha need, shrimp?" Eddie sighs, flipping the cooler lid up to take another order. "We're out of red barrels, and our stock of blue is going fast."

She eyes him skeptically for a moment before her little shoulders slump. "Fine, I guess I'll take the blue."

"Here you go," he says, pulling the foil off for her since little wrinkled baby fingers have yet to manage it all day. "Now be gone with ye."

Treating him with another incredibly bitchy look for a third grader, she bounds off just as a shadow appears over Eddie. A wet arm hooks over Eddie's shoulders, just as Steve crashes into the deck chair beside him, too small for two nearly full grown men, the plastic creaking ominously. Steve is practically in Eddie's lap.

"Harrington, what the fuck," Eddie squawks, cold pool water soaking into his clothes because Steve is dripping wet.

"What the language, Munson," Steve says, still grinning, looking at Eddie with those brown eyes. His face is round and a little pink, and he's so close that Eddie can see the faint trail of summer freckles across his nose. He's so beautiful, and he looks so happy and excited to have Eddie's attention. "There's little ears—OW WHAT THE FUCK!"

Eddie opens his jaw and yanks his head back, almost as shocked with himself as Steve. He can taste pool water in his mouth. There's a line of pink teeth-marks on Steve tanned shoulder.

"Uh," Eddie says.

"Did..." Steve starts. He leans back a little, still half in Eddie's lap, to gape down at him. "Did you just... bite me?"

"Y-Yeah," Eddie breathes. "Whoops."

"Whoops?" Steve repeats, brows high on his forehead. "Why the hell did you bite me?"

"You're very bitable." Eddie's going to drown himself in the pool at this rate. "You're too cute. I had to bite you."

He watches as Steve's eyes narrow, watches as Steve begins to suss him out. Eddie's still too shocked with himself to do anything, can't even panic, because he's that much of an idiot and his brain has gone completely offline. Because Eddie bit Steve Harrington and then called him cute, Jesus Humphrey Christ.

Then Steve leans down, slowly, until his face is right in Eddie's, and an insane thought goes through Eddie's brain. I bit Steve Harrington, told him he was cute, and now he's going to kiss me.

Except Steve bypasses Eddie's face and lands his lips against Eddie's neck, where he then tries to take his own pound of flesh.

Eddie screeches.

Distantly, he recognizes what a weird blessing it is that they're at the community pool, surrounded half the elementary school, all of them screeching and screaming and splashing. Everyone is completely oblivious to whatever homosexual nightmare is happening to Eddie right now.

"You're pretty cute yourself, Ed," Steve says into the small space next to his ear. And then he's up and standing between one breath and the next. "We really gotta teach you some manners though," he says, grinning, before he turns and dives into the pool.

"Y-Yeah," Eddie says weakly in his absence. He can feel Steve's spit on his neck, rapidly drying the summer heat, the bite mark aching with promise.

#asks #steddie #pre-steddie #steddie ficlet #brought to you by personal experience as a past (unwilling) pool jungle gym i did not enjoy it as much as steve does here smh #THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!!!!!#i hope you like it!!#my steddies

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prettiestlovergirl · 7 months

Text

DISCONNECTED

tw: MDNI; fem!reader; semi-public sex; teasing; almost getting caught; unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it); oral fixation! reader; family friend! luke castellan.

concept: going on vacation to your family's beach house with your favorite family friend. song: disconnected by 5sos.

a/n: oh how i love family friend luke castellan. also, sex in a bikini. that is definitely a plus. for pool house context, i'm imagining one like slightly smaller than the one in the OC. this is supersuper unedited. enjoy, my lovelies! 𓆩♡𓆪

when your mom informed you that the castellan's were joining you guys for your yearly spring break trip to your family's beach house, you'd been fucking ecstatic.

you played it cool in front of your mom, of course. just smiled and said it sounded fun, you couldn't wait to see them again and catch up. you had to play it cool, telling your mom you were looking forward to catching up with mind-blowing sex was not an option.

unfortunately for you both, you hadn't gotten a moment alone. there was always a sibling or parent interfering in every single private moment the two of you had.

until today, that is.

you had resigned yourself to having an orgasm-free vacation, deciding to instead spend as much time as possible in the pool, the cool water acting like a giant cold shower.

you got up early, hoping to relish in some of the silence at the pool without any smaller kids running around. you figured you were the only one awake, so you had no issues wearing one of your smaller bikinis.

you'd been in the middle of placing your sunglasses on your face when you suddenly felt two hands wrap around your waist. you yelped in surprise, hand flying over your heart when you heard a familiar laugh in your ear.

"jesus, luke! you scared the shit out of me!" you huffed, smacking his chest roughly while he continued to laugh at your surprise. god, you didn't realize how much you missed his laughter against your skin.

"'m sorry, 'm sorry." luke grinned, pressing a quick kiss behind your ear before he went on. "let me make it up to you?" he hummed suggestively, hands lightly squeezing your hips.

"knowing our luck, someone's gonna wake up right now and cockblock me." you grumbled, biting your lip as he started pressing soft kisses along your neck that made you shiver despite the april heat.

"then let's go into the pool house. no one'll think to check there first." he hummed, nipping at your skin hard enough to make your breath hitch. you finally relented, just nodding your head. you didn't trust your voice not to come out all breathy.

luke led the two of you to the small pool house, locking the door behind you before pouncing almost immediately. his lips met yours in a hungry kiss, drawing out a desperate whine from you.

it had been far too fucking long since you'd had his lips on yours like this, it had been pure fucking torture having him be so close for this past week and be unable to touch him.

your hands roamed all over his bare chest, desperate to feel every inch of his skin, feeling for any new scars or marks he'd gotten since the last time you'd seen him.

"fuck, i wanna take my time with you, but there's no time." he murmured against your lips, groaning softly against you. you tightened your grip on him, gently grinding your hips against the bulge in his swim trunks.

"s'okay, don't care, just fuck me." you moaned, relishing in the feel of his skin against yours. he grunted as your hips rolled against him, quickly pushing you back towards the white chaise lounge in the center of the room.

he helped you lay back against the pillow, not once pulling his lips off of yours. he'd waited far too long to bruise your lips with his, he didn't plan on breaking until he absolutely needed to.

you laid against the pillow, one leg bent up on the chaise lounge while the other hung off the side so you'd be spread open for him, just like he wanted.

luke moved one of his hands down, slipping it under the fabric of your bikini. he rubbed his finger over your entrance, moaning at just how fucking wet you were for him already. it was certainly good to know you wanted him just as bad as he wanted you.

finally, he broke the kiss and you whined as he pulled away, despite the fact that you were now practically gasping for air. "need you to hold this to the side, baby" he told you, panting lightly before pressing his lips to your throat.

you brought your hand down, pulling the small strap of fabric covering your aching pussy to the side and holding it there. he ran his tongue over his suddenly dry lips, taking another mental picture of how fucking gorgeous you looked all spread open for him.

if he had it his way, he'd just bury his tongue in you right then and there, but there was no time. "never gonna get tired of this sight." he informed you, his free hand bringing his throbbing cock out from his swim trunks.

he lined himself up to your glistening pussy before thrusting inside of you, drawing moans out of you both on impact. your back arched against the chaise, mouth open as you felt the delicious sting of your walls stretching to fit him.

you'd think that after the amount of times you two had fucked, he'd fit without much of a struggle, but alas, here you were. "fuck, baby." luke groaned, hands moving back to grip your hips tightly.

"fuck, luke, give me your fingers, need to muffle." you moaned, eyes focused on him while he started to thrust into you. he did as you asked, releasing the grip on your hip with one hand and letting you grab hold.

he started thrusting fast and hard, your eyes squeezing shut as you moaned out before bringing three of his fingers into your mouth. you sucked and swirled your tongue around the digits, making him groan as his eyes watched.

"god, you look so fucking hot like that." he grunted, his pace picking up more as you looked at him. the feeling of your cunt gripping him like a vice and your tongue coating his fingers in your saliva spurred him on.

"harder" you moaned around his fingers as he fucked you, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. your voice came out muffled and wet, drool and spit slipping down chin as he moved faster into you.

you let out more muffled moans, hips bucking up to meet his every thrust as he fucked into you. your foot stayed up on the tips of your toes, body buzzing with the attention it craved for so long.

luke's eyes were fixed solely on where you two were joined together, watching the way his cock got lost amongst your soaked walls again and again.

your arousal created a thick, creamy white ring around the base of his cock that he fucking relished in. he just couldn't take his eyes off you, the way your pussy clenched every time he moved out and fluttered when he shoved back in.

"fuck, g'na cum!" you moaned, mouth hanging open with his fingers still in your mouth. he started fucking into you even faster, wrapping your bent leg around his waist to go even deeper into you.

"hold on just a little longer, baby, fuck, just a little longer" he grunted, grip on your body tightening so he could fuck into you harder, getting close to cumming himself.

"shit, shit, fuck!" you cried out as your legs quivered around him until you finally came, drenching his cock in your pussy juices and creating a loud, wet slapping noise as he continued to fuck you rough and fast.

"oh, fuck, c'mon, fuck, cum for me, luke, please, want to see you cum" you moaned out, your hips bucking up once again to meet his thrusts and take him in deeper to help him get closer.

"oh, fuck, do that again" luke demanded, eyes closing as you bucked your hips up again to meet his thrusts until he quickly pulled out of you.

he wrapped his hand around his cock, fisting it immediately before cumming on your stomach with a groan. "fuck, babe..." he panted, the two of you slumped in silence for a moment.

he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva trailing behind them as he swiped them through his cum on your chest. wordlessly, you pulled his hand back up to your lips, cleaning the cum off his fingers while he watched with rapt attention.

he'd been about to say more when he heard the doorknob start to jiggle. "luke? is that you?" your dad's voice called, snapping you instantly out of your dizzy post-orgasm haze. you quickly grabbed your towel, wiping your chest off.

"yeah! what's up?" luke called, looking at you with wide eyes as he started to quickly put his dick back in his shorts. "have you seen y/n?" your dad questioned, making your eyes widen.

"uh.. yeah! yeah, she went down to the beach like twenty minutes ago. wanted some alone time, i think!" he lied, biting his lip gently. "oh, alright."

he waited until your dad's footsteps trailed off before letting out a sigh of relief. "shit, that could have been bad." he murmured, glancing back over at the door.

you let out a giggle as you slumped back down against the chaise lounge, biting your cheek to try and stop your smile as he glared at you.

"so, now that he's gone... round two?"

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ᵇʸ @ᵐᵘʳᵘᶠᶠⁱⁿ

#☆lola writes !#luke castellan #luke castellan oneshot #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan fanfic #pjo luke #luke castellan smut #pjo #pjo smut

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bonesandchalamet · 1 year

Text

predictable - c.fisher

masterlist

requested: y- “Can you do a conrad fisher x reader where the readers family has a house next to theirs so they grew up going to cousins for the summers (cons age), and they are in love w each other but don’t want to admit it and everyone notices it around them/teases them. maybe a flash ward to their wedding in a couple of years and everyone’s speeches are like “yeah i won the bet they would be married by now” or smth like that?“

pairings: conrad fisher x fem!reader

warnings: fluff + jokes

a/n: I hope I did this justice anon! xx there are NO spoilers of book 2 or season 2!

you can hear his voice. it’s muffled, he sounds like he’s in your kitchen, a blessing of having the bedroom right above it, but you can hear him talking to your mother.

you don’t have time to think, you just fling your legs over your mattress and rush down the stairs at an appropriate pace. you’d just woke up, maybe not your best state to be in, but you couldn’t wait to see conrad fisher. the boy next door.

he’d gone to Princeton, smart cookie if you say so yourself, and you hadn’t seen him since last summer. in fact, you only saw him maybe once or twice outside of the neighborhood and that was getting ice cream and groceries. other than that, you live by the fence that separates your yards waiting to hear the laughter and conversations from the Conklin and fisher kids.

“just tomatoes? are you sure? I can go pick out some basil—“

“no, no laurel will kill you if you do any more yard work! I can get it.” you hear conrad protest. the fisher family was used to your parents generosity, the beautiful vegetable garden grew right on the fisher/y/l/n house line, the family was more than welcome to eat and take whatever they wanted, but it didn’t stop them from being kind enough to ask. Susannah raised those boys right.

“are you sure?”

“what’s going on?” you ask, it’s like the words floated out of you when you saw him. his brown hair a little longer than normal, his t-shirt a bit smaller on him, and he’s wearing small navy blue swim trunks. a sight to make any girl swoon for a fisher.

“oh, y/n, do you think you can help conrad get some more tomatoes from the vines? it seems to be the fisher-Conklin clan has run out.” your mother hands you Susannah’s woven basket that conrad was once holding. your mother looks at you with pleading eyes but she knows you’ll do anything that has conrad fisher involved.

“happy to.” you take the basket in your hand and gesture for conrad to follow. he thanks your mother once again and follows along out the back door. you can hear not only just your heartbeat, but the blood rushing to your ears.

being alone with Conrad was sometimes awkward. at least to you it always felt that way, because you never knew how to be around him as yourself. you were so deeply in love with him that just being in his presence was enough to make you fumble over your words.

“here I can get the tomatoes.” conrad pushes past you, his shoulder brushing against your body, you could smell his cologne, the salty ocean in his hair, and the mixture of the laundry detergent Susannah uses. it was an intoxicating smell, one to make your world spin.

“you sure? they are kind of all over the place.” you chuckle setting the basket down into the grass. you start picking the beautiful blush red ones and gently place them in the basket along side the ones conrad was picking. every so often your hands would brush or you’d about pick the same tomato. you both would blush and apologize instantly for the connection.

“would you guys just kiss already! you’re making me nauseous.” Jeremiah calls over the fence line from the pool, he’s watched about every embarrassing second of you and his brothers interactions.

“come on, con!” Steven hollers, it’s loud enough for the neighbors on the other side of their house to snicker at the boys energy for far too early in the morning.

“I don’t know what their problem is.” Conrad says and it’s only for you two to hear. he’s picked up the basket from the grass now, you’re stuck with holding a few more tomatoes that he claims would be more than enough for everyone.

“no seriously, just keep those ones.”

“we have enough inside, just take them—“

“fine,” he huffs out an annoyed sigh and watches you dump them into the basket, “can I at least make you breakfast with them?”

“sounds like a plan to me.”

that day, he made you more than breakfast. he made you feel the most indescribable feeling of love and excitement. he left you walking home as beat red as those tomatoes you picked. you could thank Steven and Jeremiah for their pressure and tease, because conrad fisher did in fact kiss you that morning.

—

FUTURE

“I’m so happy for these guys because today I became twenty dollars richer,” Jeremiah pauses, the laughter of friends and family make you both blush, “so thank you Steven for believing they would never get married. here’s to the bride and the groom!” Jeremiah holds his champagne glass up, others in the room follow.

“you really bet we would get married?” Conrad turns to his brother who passes the microphone to belly before sitting down beside him.

Jeremiah’s hands clap his brothers shoulder, “we also made a bet that you’d kiss her that summer. belly also made a bet that you’d have tomatoes on the menu, looks like you guys are the most predictable couple ever.”

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luxaofhesperides · 11 months

Text

Childhood friends to lovers ; requested by @starlightcat04!

Duke’s grandmother lived in Illinois when he was a kid, years before he and his parents were captured by the Joker and the news of it sent her to a hospital that she didn’t leave until Death arrived for her. But before all that, before his life upended and tore itself to shreds in front of him, Duke used to visit her in the summers.

His parents didn’t want to leave Gotham, but they also didn’t want him to grow up there amid all the crime and rogue attacks. The solution was to drive down to his grandmother’s house, suitcase in the trunk, and stay with him there for a few days before they returned to make sure no one broke into their house.

She lived in the outskirts of Amity Park, a town smaller than Gotham and much, much quieter. The change in scenery always blew his mind, and he spent most of his childhood summers running around the woods, accidentally scaring hikers.

There were other kids in Amity, further in towards the suburbs, but he never got along with most of them, too strange, only here for a month or so, and carrying an awareness and sense of danger that all Gothamites had.

He didn’t really have friends in Amity Park, except for one: Danny Fenton, local outcast due to his scientist parents'… everything. His only friend, a boy named Tucker, would always be gone in the summers as well, visiting family in Chicago and Pennsylvania.

They gravitated towards each other, as lonely kids tend to do.

Danny helped make those summers fun, full of laughter and skinned knees and smuggled tech from the Fenton household to mess around with. They shared stories of their lives, comparing Amity Park to Gotham, arguing over superheroes and getting distracted each time by how cool heroes were.

The last summer he ever went to Amity Park, Danny had gotten his first cell phone and eagerly gave Duke his number. Any time they weren’t together, they were texting until they fell asleep, phone still in hand.

The time they spent together was always limited, but Duke could swear that no one in the world knew him as well as Danny did.

He still misses him.

They still text and call when they can, but it’s gotten hard over the past few years. Duke was caught up in foster care and searching for his parents and being part of the We Are Robin gang and then becoming the Signal. Danny, from what he’s shared with Duke, went through similar things of recovering from a lab accident and then having his town be overrun with ghosts, of all things, which had the government get involved and cause problems.

The few times they were able to find a quiet night where they could just talk and be Duke and Danny again were nights he always treasured, though they left an ache in his chest when it was over.

It’s just been so long since they’ve seen each other in person. He doesn’t even know what Danny looks like anymore! And, sure, he could always ask for a picture, but it feels awkward. They know what they looked like before. And they’ve heard each other’s voices, know the basics of what’s going on in each other’s lives…

They still know each other, but Duke is all too aware of the distance that’s grown between them.

“Duke, seriously, what’s got you spacing out so much?” Steph asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Just thinking. Sorry about that. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” she says, “That you should do a road trip. Or just like, travel around. Check out college campuses. Enjoy your last summer vacation of high school! Trust me, you’ll want the break before going into senior year.”

“Just because you’re two years older than me—”

“Excuse me for trying to impart my wisdom! See if I help you again when I’m older and wiser.”

“Sure, Steph,” he says, “Whatever you say.”

She squints at him. “What’s with that tone? I’m being helpful right now!”

“Mhm.”

“Geez. I should have let Dick talk to you. Anyways, I already told Bruce that you wanted to do this, so he’s agreed to fund it.”

Duke jerks upright in his seat, nearly falling out of it. “You did WHAT?!”

“You’re welcome,” Steph grins, unrepentant.

“Steph, come on. This is unnecessary. Isn’t it better for me to help out more in the summer? Train more, work with the team on stuff, you know, important things?”

“Duke.” Steph’s voice suddenly turns serious and he can’t help but give her all his attention. “Listen to me. Your life is more important. If Gotham survived when Bruce was the only cape around, then it’ll survive while you prioritize your life. And that means touring colleges to figure out where you want to go.”

“I could just stay here and go to GCU.”

Steph just stares at him, unimpressed, and he has to admit, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not gonna do that.”

“Just enjoy traveling around, okay? And if you want someone to go with you…” she nudges him with her shoulder, repeatedly, very clearly hinting at something.

“I’ll be sure to ask Cass,” Duke says, and Steph rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny that Cass would be a great travel partner.

Their conversation comes to a halt when an alarm on her phone goes off and she drops her head with a groan. She grabs her bag and takes off with a quick explanation that she has to get to class, one she hates but is determined to ace just to spite the professor, and in no time at all, Duke is alone again.

Without Steph providing him a distraction, Duke has nothing to do but read through his texts with Danny. It hasn’t been that long since they last talked; four days ago is nothing compared to the months of silence that went between them a few years ago. They’ve gotten better since staying in contact since then, and make sure to text at least once a week.

It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.

He considers asking Danny where he’s planning to go. Maybe they could go to the same place together, live in the same apartment, be able to finally stick together. Not that it’ll ever happen; the more likely outcome is that they’ll be accepted into different universities, chose places closer to their respective homes, and still be far apart.

An idea begins to form in his mind.

They’ve had summers together before. Maybe they could have one more.

First, he needs to talk to Bruce.

He’s working from home, thankfully, typing away at a laptop in his office when Duke knocks on the door and pokes his head in.

“Duke,” Bruce smiles, pushes his laptop away. “Come in.”

“Hey. Steph said she talked to you about me traveling this summer?”

“Yes. She was very insistent that you go visit any universities that pique your interest. I’ve already agreed to fund everything, and I can take care of plane tickets and hotels as well.”

Duke nods, trying not to look too nervous. “Yeah, so about that. Could I travel with someone? Would that be cool? Or is this a thing for me only?”

Bruce blinks. “I promise cost is not an issue. Adding another person won’t be a problem. Who is it?”

“Ah, no one you know. He’s a childhood friend of mine who lives in Illinois, and I’d like to spend a summer with him again.”

“Who is it?”

Oh boy. Bruce is definitely going to find everything he can about Danny and his family and start interrogating Duke about him. But if that’s going to let him travel the country with Danny, then he’s more than willing to deal with it.

“Danny Fenton, from Amity Park. The town with the ghost problem.”

Bruce leans back in his chair. “I’ve heard of them. The League discussed investigating it when the news first got out, but Constantine warned us to stay away due to risk of possession. It seems that the local hero, Phantom, has it all in hand.” Bruce nods, already thinking deeply about his next steps. “Alright, I’ll need to do some research. And send me a list of the universities you’d like to visit so I can plan your itinerary.”

“Cool. Thanks, B.”

Duke leaves as quickly as he can after that, letting out a relieved breath once he’s sure no one is around to hear it.

Step one is done.

Now for step two: communication.

duke: hey, are you free for a call anytime soon? danny: yeah! we can call now if u want :)

Well! That was way faster than he was expecting.

He all but sprints through the halls to get to his room and locks the door behind himself. It won’t do much to stop anyone from actually coming in, but it is a sign that he wants privacy. Once he’s sure no one is going to be listening in and interrupting, Duke pulls up Danny’s contact and hits the call button.

It rings twice before Danny’s picking up, greeting him with a cheerful, “Hey Duke! What’s up?”

“Hey Danny,” he replies, unable to help the way his voice softens with affection. “So, this is totally out of the blue, but if you could spend this summer going around the country with me, would you?”

“I mean, yeah, obviously. You know I’d do anything to spend more time with you! Why?”

Duke grins. While he was sure about what Danny’s answer would be, that didn’t stop him from worrying about a rejection. “Well. Bruce has offered to fund the entire trip and bring someone along.”

“Wait, seriously? You want me to go with you?”

“Who else? Dude, you know I love spending time with you, and I’ve missed you like crazy.”

“Oh my God, you’re serious. Duke! Yes, I want to be your travel buddy! Are you kidding me? In what world would I say no?”

“Hey, man, you can’t blame me for making sure. Are your parents going to be fine with that?”

Danny goes quiet, and Duke feels his heart drop. “Danny? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Danny says, followed by a bitter laugh. “They won’t care. I’ll just tell them I’m going traveling with a friend and that’ll be enough. They’re too busy to care much about what I do, these days. They probably won’t even notice that I’m gone, now that Jazz isn’t here to remind them that I exist.”

“How is Jazz, by the way? We could visit her.”

“She’s doing fine. Really loving Harvard. And I’d love that Duke. You’re the best.”

The mood of the conversation eases and they fall into the usual rhythm of catching each other up, chatting about their lives and any other thought that crosses their minds. It’s easy for the hours to slip away with Danny, and before he knows it, there’s a knock on his door as Alfred calls him for dinner.

He hangs up with a quick goodbye to Danny, along with a promise to send him the itinerary once it’s made.

Somehow, news of his summer plans get out by the end of the day. Which means Steph blabbed and feels no remorse about it. The next week of Duke’s life is overtaken by nearly every trying to help him plan and prepare for his trip, while lightly interrogating him about Danny. By the time he was heading off to the airport, agreeing to take one of Bruce’s smaller private planes which was piloted by a man who definitely wasn’t Jason going by the name 'Todd Jameson'. Of course not, that would be silly.

(Duke sighed very, very loudly when he saw Jason waving at him from outside the plane. He should have expected the guy to take advantage of Bruce needing a pilot and teasing him about Danny.)

He can’t bring himself to be too bother by it, though, when it means he’ll get to be with Danny again soon. Duke would pay any price to be with him again, so this is hardly anything.

They set off with a wave from Duke and Jason flipping the bird to the rest of the family. And then Jason is up in the cockpit, blasting his playlist of songs from musicals, and Duke is left to wait impatient for the next few hours until they reach Illinois.

The hours pass far too slow but also much too fast. Duke feels like he barely has time to prepare himself before they’re landing smoothly and Danny texts him to let him know he’s at the airport.

Jason sees him off before heading out to take a call from Roy, telling him to find his own way to his hotel. Duke barely pays him enough mind to say goodbye, grabbing his suitcase and hurrying into the airport, searching for the terminal Danny’s at.

He doesn’t find Danny first. Danny finds him and slams into him like a freight train. It’s only his training that keeps Duke from toppling over, dropping his suitcase to hold Danny. They cling to each other tightly, as if they might never see each other again. Danny’s got his legs wrapped around Duke’s waist like a koala, and Duke would be happy to carry him forever.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Danny murmurs into his ear. Duke shivers, holding him tighter, and smiles.

“Yeah. I know. Man, you don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I can take a pretty good guess.”

Danny pulls away, dropping his feet back to the ground.

Duke is finally able to see Danny for the first time in years, and he’s pretty sure he stops breathing for a solid minute. Danny grew up fine. He’s got the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, and soft black hair that’s a little windswept and messy, and his grin is as bright and beautiful as always. For a moment, Duke wants nothing more than to kiss him.

Then Danny steps back and the thought fades.

“Ready to go? We’re going to UChicago first, yeah?”

“That’s the plan,” Duke says, falling into step with Danny as they make their way out of the airport. “Then a day just to hang out in Chicago before we head to Harvard.”

“Cool,” Danny grins. “Hotel first, though, right?”

“Yeah, man, catch up time is essential.”

Danny glances over at him, something unreadable in his eyes, but he smiles when he sees that Duke is already looking at him. “Let’s get going, then.”

Danny drives them in a car he apparently made himself, which explains why it’s a model Duke’s never seen before. It drives like a dream and Duke is very tempted to get Danny to make one for the Signal, maybe even wrangle up a contract to have him work with Batman Inc.

They spend the two hour drive chatting and laughing as if no time has passed at all since they last saw each other in person. All the years seem to fade away and they’re just Duke and Danny again, spending another summer together.

Check in goes smoothly, and the room Bruce has booked them is large, with two beds, a seating area, and a dining area. A glass door leads to a small balcony with two chairs and a fantastic view of the lake behind the hotel. They set both their suitcases on the luggage rack, and Duke only has time to turn to Danny to ask which bed he wants before he finds himself pressed up against the wall, Danny’s hands on his cheeks.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he whispers against Duke’s lips.

Duke doesn’t bother replying. He just leans in, closes the minuscule distance between them, and kisses Danny. It’s soft and sweet and everything he’s ever wanted.

Then Danny makes a small noise in the back of his throat and deepens the kiss. It goes from soft to heated and desperate and all consuming instantly. Duke slides his hands around Danny’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and thinks I never want to leave you again.

He’s completely lost track of time when Danny pulls back with gasp. They both take a few seconds to catch their breath, and Duke realizes his cheeks feel cold.

“Sorry,” Danny whispers, pulling his hands away. Duke catches them before they can go too far and holds them together.

“Sorry for what?”

“The frost,” he says, wiggling his fingers lightly. Duke glances down and sees that his fingertips are lightly coated in frost, spilling down his fingers.

“You have powers?”

“Came with the lab accident.”

“Man,” Duke says, “We have got to catch up properly. There’s a ton I haven’t told you.”

Danny laughs lightly, breathlessly. “Oh, for sure. But later. I’ve been wanting to kiss you for years.”

“Danny, baby, you can kiss me all night if you want.”

“I intend to,” he says with a bright grin.

What else could Duke do but lean in and kiss him again?

Nothing else exists in that moment except them. Duke is so, so glad he’s got the rest of summer to spend with Danny. He’s going to take him on dates in every city they visit.

They’ve gone years without seeing each other. Duke refuses to let it happen again. Whatever future awaits them, he’ll do all he can to keep Danny in it.

But for now, he’s got his cute childhood friend to kiss and all the privacy a hotel room can offer. He fully intends to make the most of it.

. . .

[send me a ghostlights prompt!]

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #prompt fill #dc x dp fic #my writing #it was struggle to keep this short bc i love this trope so much!!!#thank u for the prompt!! working on your other one right now :)

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luvrodite · 2 months

Text

JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

synopsis. the room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. you smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. a pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other. the only problem, you realise when bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant.

content warning. fem!reader, inspired by The Boy (2016), dark content, horror, extreme dubcon, non consensual voyeurism, violence, death, blood, masturbation, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie please let me know if you feel i've missed any tags

additional note. idk i’m trying my hand at something new but also this isn’t for everyone and that is OK! please don’t read if you’re not interested in the above tags and remember that you curate your own internet experience. peace and love.

minors and blank blogs do not interact, you will be blocked. please have your age in your profile

read on ao3

You see the notice when you need it the most. Seeking Household Manager/Nanny for Child, written in small bold letters on the corner of your friend’s open newspaper. You’re glad then, for their insistence on subscribing to the papers of surrounding cities, the Gotham Gazette something akin to a beacon of hope when you nearly topple over yourself to reach for the issue and scan the ad. When they’ve saved the glass of wine you nearly knocked over, their eyebrows furrow into a disdainful frown.

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

You look up from the black and white print, breathless. Immediate start. 9 to 6 weekdays. Boarding and meals provided. “It isn’t like I’ve got that many other options.”

They grimace, leaning over to skim the print. “It’s in Gotham. You’re just asking to get robbed, at the very least. Have you ever even looked after a kid?”

The double digits in your bank account weigh on you, the suitcases that have been pushed into their storage closet. The couch that’s served as a bed for the past month has begun to mold itself to the shape of your body – and isn’t that a humiliating thought, for how much had been spent on it, it deserves more than for its primary purpose to be housing a poor girl. Your friend sits beside you, clad in thousands of dollars worth of clothing and sneers at what’s beginning to look like the only option you have.

You push down the urge to bite back, eyeing them pointedly instead. “I can’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ve babysat my cousins before. It’ll be fine.”

The semester is well underway when you get the email, midterms that you haven’t so much as glanced at closely approaching and about a dozen other things to do that threaten to break you into hives when you linger on it for too long. A Mr Bruce Wayne confirms that you’re fit for the job, and he looks forward to meeting you. You stare at the cracked screen of your phone until the letters begin to blur into one another, feeling the rising lump in your throat. A dinner party goes on around you, all friends of friends who you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with. They don’t miss you when you slink away to the bathroom to cry, relief pulling the stopper of your emotions free.

Not wasting any time, the car comes for you early in the next morning and your friend sees you off, massively hungover and raising a hand as you pile the meagre collection of your belongings into the trunk. You are grateful to be rid of the townhouse, and in truth you think they are glad to be rid of you – a month and then some of their poor, Poor, border taking up space on their couch. It’s an unkind thought, fueled by the bitter humiliation of your failure – they’d not complained once, unthinkingly, unhesitatingly opening their door to you when the job you’d been relying on to (barely) make ends meet had let you go and your roommate had quit on you not a week later.

The stress of it all lulls you into sleep as the car pulls away from the city, cement grey turning to green and rolling farmland. You’re too drowsy to appreciate any of it, and you’re out before you even leave the state.

You wake from your dreamless sleep, startling at the sound of screeching metal. A wrought iron gate pulls open slowly, disused hinges whining loudly. It feels as though an eternity passes before the car is able to pass through, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross the threshold, eyes drinking in the secluded land around you. Gravel crunches under the tires as you drive down a private road, lined on both sides by looming oak trees. Through the gaps, you catch a glimpse of the wide stretch of land that makes up the Wayne estate.

The chill of the morning has travelled with you, it seems. A thin cloak of mist hangs in the air, painting all it touches in wide strokes of silvery grey. Through bleary eyes, you take it all in. The car turns a corner and you duck your head to peer through the windshield, a large manse coming into view suddenly, only growing bigger the closer you get.

It looms over you when you come to a stop, blotting out the already pale autumn sunlight. Here, everything is tinged in a light blue film, forever suspended in twilight despite the early afternoon hour – the sun isn’t due to set for another few hours but you half expect the moon to be hanging in the sky when you step out of the car.

Sleep softened and weary from the journey, you stretch your limbs, trying to regain some of the feeling after sitting for so long. Your legs feel static-y and you’re conscious as the front door opens and the face of your employer comes into view, of the wrinkles in your clothing. Discreetly, you smooth a hand over the hem of your shirt, but it only folds back after your palm passes over it.

“Mr Wayne,” you greet when the man comes to a stop in front of you.

It’s difficult to mask your surprise. For all that you’d spent the better part of the last few weeks emailing him, you hadn’t expected someone so...old. He looks a great deal older than a man nearing his fifties, raven hair streaked with thick locks of silver and exhaustion lining an aged face. You feel a pang of sympathy.

“Hello. I hope the journey up wasn’t too bad?” He turns his attention to the driver, who has begun to lift your things out of the car, eyes creasing kindly at the corners and an awkward smile lifting his mouth. “You can just take those on inside, thank you.”

“I can’t complain,” you tell him easily. I wasn’t awake enough to. “You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Ah, thank you,” he mutters, glancing back over his shoulder at the house. Upstairs, a window is open, and the curtain flutters through, white fabric rippling in the air. “Come on inside, we’ve got a lot to get through before I have to leave.”

You pause at the doorway. “You’re leaving tonight?”

He hums. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me.” He offers no further explanation and you’re too tired to press.

He runs you through the basics – emergency contacts, the local police department’s number – as he takes you through a number of rooms on the lower floor. In the living room, as he’s telling you about the fair distance to the town, your attention snags on the portrait hanging over the mantle.

It’s a large thing, set in a gilded frame with a small plaque below it. It dates to a little over a decade ago, and you look up to the subjects of the painting. Of the two faces, you recognise only one and it takes a few seconds to register. Bruce, much, much younger, stands for the portrait with an easy smile curving his mouth. The only wrinkles to be found are those that frame his eyes. He’s handsome, you think, stunned, with an old movie-star kind of charm, blue-black hair and pearly grin. It’s a stark difference from the man that stands next to you now, lacking all the heaviness that clouds over him now.

There’s a little boy in the painting, too. You draw closer, curious. Bright blue eyes, almost blazing, stare back at you, a soft, sweet face that offers a toothy smile.

You’re ushered into the next room before you can get a closer look, but the date lingers with you. What could have happened in such a short amount of time, you think, to cause such a change? Ten years had passed, yes, but the age in your employer’s face spoke of a greater, age old haunting.

You are finally led, after a labyrinthine tour through the manor and its various rooms, to the bedroom of your charge.

Something, you aren’t quite sure what, tips you off before you even open the door. It might be the sudden tense set to Bruce’s shoulders, hiking up nearly imperceptibly as he reaches for the doorknob, or the tremble in his voice he disguises with a cough.

“Jason,” he murmurs, “is eager to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him, too,” you say slowly, and he steps through the threshold.

The room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. You smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. A pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other.

The only problem, you realise when Bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant.

He turns and you freeze when you take in the mass in his arms.

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

Pale, porcelain and unmoving, a doll stares back at you from its perch in your employer’s arms. Its likeness is a mimicry of the boy in the painting, a manufactured blush painting its cheeks in soft rose, dull blue eyes lacking the vibrancy of the portrait. It unnerves you, staring at it, and you look back and forth between Bruce and the thing but the former remains steady, expectant.

You raise a trembling hand, fingers clasping one small hand in greeting – it’s barely bigger than a pre-schooler, and even smaller in your arms when he deposits in your arms.

(It takes every ounce of your strength not to flinch at the press of cool ceramic against your skin.)

Whether this is a sick joke or some awful scheme, your situation takes time to reveal itself. Bruce addresses the thing as though it were flesh and blood and you follow, uncertain and stilted. Rising unease makes it difficult to look at the thing properly, and you trail after Bruce back downstairs cradling it stiffly.

It begins to piece itself together easily enough when on your way out of Jason’s bedroom, you catch sight of various photographs littering the surface of the walls and end tables, Bruce and a very real boy with bright blue eyes. It’s easy then, to understand what has happened, and what is being asked of you. Your discomfort softens, if only slightly, making way for sympathy.

You know loss. Death is no stranger to you. The grief of losing a child – it feels cruel to fault your employer for how he’d chosen to cope. Soft-hearted, your chest aches when you catch the lingering of his gaze on the photographs as you pass them in the hall. So dearly loved, it’s no wonder the death of his son had driven him to...this.

Still, you wonder whether this is right, to take money from him like this. It feels as though you’ve taken advantage of this man, accepting to live in his house and eat his food in return for services that wouldn’t come to be.

But the emptiness of your wallet stings like a phantom lash, the desperation of your situation weighs on you and you close your mouth.

Bruce takes your leave almost immediately after your tour concludes. You stand on the front steps with the doll in your arms, a puppet held like a toddler on your hip, and watch him pile into a sleek black car.

“If you need anything,” he says, “they’ll take care of you in town.”

Something in your consciousness snags on the tightness in his voice, something that’s just out of reach, a note you can’t quite make out. His eyes flicker down to the mass in your arms and you follow his gaze. There is nothing you find, the black of the doll’s sweater unruffled, the manufactured flush of his rosy cheeks still cool to the touch – still porcelain. It has not suddenly gained the weight and warmth of a real child.

“Jason’s a good boy. He won’t give you too much trouble,” Bruce murmurs.

When you look up, you catch the comet tail of a funny look, winking out of existence before you can see it properly. It triggers a crawling sensation on the back of your neck that you try to tamp down. Grief is all it is. You chalk it up to grief.

He takes your leave, then, piling into his car with a brief goodbye to the doll. A cloud of dust kicks up behind him and by the time it settles, the car has vanished.

The doll remains tucked in its bed in the hours that follows your employer’s departure, and once or twice you’ll peer into the room, tugged by an invisible string towards the empty bedroom to make sure you haven’t dreamt it all. But every time you open the door, there it lies, porcelain and so very still.

You take the rest of the evening to explore the house – properly this time, lingering in the various rooms of this huge home. Part of you wonders how you’ll manage to keep the place tidy. You’re no neat freak, but it seems a herculean task for one person to manage the entire household. Dust amasses easily, and you eye the high ceilings of each floor critically – how on earth are you meant to get up there?

You file it away as a worry for later, drifting in and out of rooms. An office, untouched, down the hall from your room with a sturdy, mahogany desk and large window which offers you a view of the estate. Guest rooms on guest rooms, white tarp covered furniture and slightly stale air. You find the library after a few turns, drawing closer to a table stacked with books.

They’re well loved, each with a child’s scrawling handwriting in the front cover. Property of Jason Peter Todd.

It sends a pang through you and you pick up the books, flipping through them absentmindedly. It’s fairly advanced for a younger child, you think. One of them piques your interest and when you leave the room a little while later, it’s with the hardcover in your hands.

Your first night in the manse is restless. The house is old. Every so often, the bones of the place snap and crack, shuddering under a great weight. You curl further into the heavy blankets of your bed, willing your burning eyes to close but the nap on the way up has left you unable to sleep. You let out a frustrated sigh, a hand smacking against the sheets before you push yourself up to sit against the headboard and switch on the bedside lamp. From where you sit, the mirror in the corner of the room shines your reflection back at you, a soft orange diffusing through the room.

Down the hall, another snap of the foundations. You shiver, and reach for the book, opening the cover to the name scribbled inside. The clock on your phone reads a bright 2:43 and you flip the page.

To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking...

Dawn comes in slow breaths, the world swallowed in a cool, blue mist as the sky begins to lighten. You have long since succumbed to your fatigue, the pages of your borrowed book splayed open against your sheets and eyes closed to the world. The shadows lengthen on the floor, the house echoes, groans, and sunlight slips in through the gaps in your curtains.

Still, you sleep.

The schedule that Bruce leaves you with is left on the table in Jason’s room, a sheaf of papers detailing his day at length – when he is to take his breakfast, lunch and dinner, when you are to sit down with him for his lessons.

There are more pressing things that hold your attention – namely, the matter of your coursework.

When you wake the following day, it is a little after noon and you curse when you realise you’ve slept half the day away. The list of things to do hasn’t grown any shorter in your search for a job. In fact, when you sit down at the desk in the office with your laptop and connect to the internet – poor, laggy – it only seems to have grown exponentially.

You spend most of the day holed up there, staring at the screen of your laptop as you try to catch up, typing out notes upon notes until your eyes burn and the emptiness of your stomach is too hard to ignore. In the kitchen, you assemble a plate of what you can find. Cold cuts of meat, cheese in the fridge that seems edible, bread slathered in butter, a few slices of fruit.

It isn’t a proper meal, but it tides you over until dinner, when you wander out of the study to root through the butler’s pantry and put together a simple bowl of pasta.

You eat alone in the kitchen, sitting at the island and staring at the grooves in the counter-top. The silence presses in on all sides of you and not even scrolling through social media, of which a limited number of posts actually deign to load, distracts you from the stillness of it all. For some reason the tinny sound of your music, filtering through your wired headphones, isn’t enough either.

Dinner is a short affair, before you return to your work.

It’s a gradual thing, the building anxiety in your gut. The loneliness and late hour are no friends of yours and the tottering pile of coursework threatens to topple over, crushing you beneath a mountain of assigned readings and lectures. The world had not waited for you to get your shit together, and midterms had crept up on you before you could blink.

It isn’t the time for panic. You stave it off when the anxiety simmering in your cells threatens to boil over, willing your tears away. The third cup of coffee at your desk side has grown cold, and the espresso tastes bitter when you bring the mug to your mouth, clinging to your tongue like film.

You get back to bed well into the evening, too exhausted to shower the day off. It’s all you can do to let out a few bitter tears before unconsciousness claims you, a distant throbbing in your head that you ignore in favour of sleep.

how is it out there? haven’t heard from you since you left, just checking in you get there okay? let me know

The texts on your phone are responded to in a perfunctory manner – yes, everything’s fine. talk 2 u soon. very busy !! – before you shove it into a drawer and return to your work.

You think the isolation must be getting to you when things begin to go missing.

It’s easy to grow lonely out here, you realise on the third day when you pick up your phone to message a friend and the connection is so bad your texts barely go through. A rare break from your work, you curl up in the window seat of your bedroom and thumb through the photos on your camera roll. Faces you haven’t seen, fond memories of nights out and shared experiences – your old life seems farther away from you than ever, and part of you is a little bitter that it’s only the case for you.

out for G’s bday!!! we miss u text u when im home?

Accompanying those texts are photos – they take an age to load, of course, but when they finally do, your eyes burn with jealousy at the wide, drunken grins, carefree and happy.

It seems especially cruel to you that fate would deal you such a poor hand in comparison to those around you. The girls you love – whose circle you’d once been part of, young, privileged enough to be reckless – get to reel through their lives without a care. Here you were, miles away from anyone else, a grand total of fifty dollars to your name and with only a fucking doll for company.

Envious, self loathing and miserable, you don’t reply to the messages.

You try to reason that you’ll get to it later, that you have work to do, that the house only seems to grow wider and lonelier around you.

Work.

You fling your phone to the side, pressing your hands to your face and letting out a heavy breath. It clatters against the floor with a dull thud and you can already imagine the newest addition to your screen’s collection of hairline fractures.

You file it away – just another thing you don’t have time for.

Back in the study, you sit down at the desk, only to stop short. Where your pen and notebook had been, outlining your midterm paper, the ballpoint is nowhere to be seen. You peer over the edge of the desk, ducking your head underneath, but there’s no sight of it. You’re certain you’d left it just there, atop the paper.

It’s innocuous enough that you forget about it, coming up with a replacement when you rifle through the drawer of the desk. The thought leaves your mind when you return to your work, new, blue ink crossing out black to scribble notes in the margins. It’s not a loss you mourn – or notice – much.

Your bracelet, however, preceded by the vanishing of your clothes, is.

A pair of jeans, your underwear and a shirt had been folded on the counter only twenty minutes ago when you’d entered the bathroom to take a shower. Now, clad in only your towel, you stare at an empty spot and feel something like fear prickle over your skin.

Blood rushes in your ears the longer you remain in place – for what, you have no idea. Perhaps willing your things to return in between blinks, assure you that it had only been a trick of the light, or that the caffeine and stress had gotten to you.

No such luck. Your belongings do not reappear and the longer you remain in the bathroom, the more you feel like a sitting duck, like soft-bellied prey waiting to be caught.

You venture out of the bathroom timidly, clutching the front of your towel. The floor is cold under your bare feet and you suck in a breath, trying to remain quiet. The house is quieter than usual, it feels like, when you peer carefully out into the hall. There is no sign of any disturbance, no sound from the lower levels or any of the surrounding rooms.

The closed door of your bedroom is much more ominous than it ought to be. You stare at it for a long time, heart in your throat, before you reach for the doorknob with shaky hands.

A soft, scared noise leaves your throat before you can reel it in. Your room has been nothing short of ransacked, clothes and other belongings strewn about your bed and the floor. There isn’t an inch of it that hasn’t been left unturned, drawers pulled out, trunk at the foot of your bed sprung open, the fucking covers pulled back. You step further into the room, horror only growing as you spin slowly, taking it in.

Somewhere down the hall, something clatters and your blood turns to ice in your veins. You whirl back to the open door and lunge forward to slam it shut, breath rattling in your chest as you fumble with the locks on it, palms sweaty and fingers trembling so badly you fear it’ll sweep open on you before you can latch it. Water drips into the carpet at your feet when you finally lock the door and back away, trembling lips pulling downwards.

Fear blurs your vision in saltwater, slipping down your cheeks when the sound of laughter filters through the walls, a soft, child-like, playful sound that only drives you further backwards, a scream spilling from your lips when you bump into the post of your bed, the wood pressing against your back unexpectedly and startling you.

“Please...” You don’t know what you’re pleading for, or who to. Tears stream down your damp face, and your breath hitches, stuttering over a sob when the shadows in the hall shift, the gap underneath the door showing movement right outside your door.

And then – so sweetly, so softly you wonder if you’ve heard it wrong – your name.

You begin to cry in earnest then, taking in big, shuddering breaths that wrack through your body. Crouching, you press your hands to your face, sobbing louder when the voice continues –

“Please come out, I promise I’ll be good.”

Your scream catches in your throat, turning into a spluttering cough when the door knob rattles slightly before stilling. You watch through teary eyes, snivelling, as the shadows move once more and then, as if it had never happened, the house falls into silence once more.

It takes a while for you to move from your spot on the floor, to relax your frozen muscles and pull yourself up, clinging to the banister of your bed to steady yourself. Snot and salt smeared across your face, you keep your eyes on the thin gap beneath the door, the small, solid mass in the centre of it.

You must be going crazy. The isolation must be getting to you. It’s the only reasonable explanation you can procure when you open the door and find your clothes in a clumsily folded pile, the metal of your bracelet glinting amongst the folds of fabric. Holding a hand to your head, you slump against the door frame, feeling the energy leave your body.

“Fuck.”

It takes you a long time to clean up your room, pulling on your clothes with an eye kept on the door and returning your things to their places. Nothing is broken, but you don’t know whether you should be thankful for it. The house continues to breathe as it had before, the structure settling back into place after letting whatever had been outside your door loose. You don’t leave your room for the rest of the night.

Daylight returns some of your courage to you. You venture outside, clutching the end of a pair of scissors as a safeguard. You don’t know how much damage they’re actually capable of, meant for cutting through first aid dressings and fabric, the blade barely an inch long – but it feels comforting that you aren’t empty handed.

In his bedroom, where you had last left the Doll, you do not find it. Even the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains isn’t enough to fully shield you from your unease. You look all over the room, pushing aside the curtains, peering under the bed, but it isn’t there.

The afternoon you had planned to spend studying is wasted away on a hunt for the thing. You check each of the surrounding rooms, first, before moving to the upper floors. In each, all that greets you is a thick layer of dust, white tarp and the smell of long undisturbed air. It grips you, the intense need to locate the doll. You cannot place anything beyond this feeling, only that you must find it.

In a downstairs office – what you assume serves as Mr Wayne’s study – you find, curiously, a few papers scattered over the edge of his desk. At first you are too preoccupied to pay it any mind, instinctively crouching to pick them up and arrange it. Your mind remains fixated on the task at hand.

Chance, or perhaps the machinations of fate, pulls your sight to the bright, bold print on the paper in your hand and you process the text belatedly, stilling on the floor.

GOTHAM GAZETTE Wayne Heir Found: Body Recovered From Tragic Blast Alexander Knox The body of Jason Todd, aged 10, was discovered yesterday after a blast in central Gotham that killed at least 200. The Gotham City Police Department is currently reporting this as a “tragic accident.” Jason Todd is survived by his father, Bruce Wayne, who currently holds the position of CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and older brother Richard Grayson. He is remembered by his classmates and teachers as a “bright soul, with boundless potential, who was taken too soon.” The GCPD are working together with the Gotham City Fire Department in responding to this incident. As of this morning, Rescue and Recovery teams have made progress through 75% of the fallout zone and are continuing to do so. Civilians are reminded to keep clear of the area until recovery efforts have been finalised. In remembrance of Jason’s life, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to the Catherine Todd Recovery Centre.

The photos of the fallout that accompany the article make your throat tighten, staring at the grey of a destroyed city block, smoking rubble and dark stains seeping from beneath cracked cement. The faded edges of the paper, the deep creases where it had been folded and unfolded – your heart twists painfully in your chest at the thought that Bruce had kept this reminder in here, all these years.

It lingers with you long after you exit the room, searching for the doll with a slightly muddled mind. You’d known, of course, that his son had died – but you think of the violence of it all, how abruptly he’d been ripped from him. It settles in your chest uncomfortably, making a home for itself in the space beneath your sternum and pressing down on your oesophagus as you move through the house.

When you finally chance upon the doll – sat upright in plain sight in the downstairs sitting room – you pause a few feet away. The fear of last night’s incident clings to you, but with that is something else, the makings of a theory you haven’t quite gotten to, another, foreign feeling that outweighs your fear, tempers it into something malleable. You scrutinise the porcelain face, drawing closer slowly until you come to a stop in front of the armchair you’d been lounging in only yesterday.

Crouching, you stare into dull glass eyes. They remain lifeless, forever affixed on nothingness, unmoving. You pass a hand over it.

“Was it..” you hesitate, feeling acutely aware that you’re talking to an inanimate object, and half expecting an answer. You whisper, “Was it you, last night?”

There is no answer. Of course there isn’t. Still, you stare a moment longer, before your gaze slides over to the leaf of paper that’s tucked beneath it’s leg – the schedule of rules you’re meant to abide by in Bruce’s absence.

You look back up to the doll.

You’ve bowed to the pressure of your isolation and gone mad, you think absently as you sink a knife into the flesh of an apple. Clumsily cut, you arrange the slices onto a plate in the kitchen and slide it onto the small table where you’ve sat the doll. You lean forward until you’re level with it, and narrow your eyes.

“Is it you?” you ask again. Silence hangs in the air of the kitchen and you begin to feel a little hopeless, clinging to this half-formed idea.

You stand and turn, taking a few steps forward into the butler’s pantry but the sound of footsteps makes you whirl around, heart in your throat. The doll remains in place, but – the plate is empty. You draw in a shaky breath, moving closer.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” Your hands tremble as you peer around the kitchen, eyeing the closed door. It’s implausible that anyone might have moved in such a short space of time without your noticing – you’re the only one in the room.

You try once more, this time without turning around, keeping your gaze fixed on the doll as you slide a plate of toast in front of him. It’s covered in a thin smear of hazelnut spread, the chocolate melting over the warm bread.

The doll does not move.

Your brows draw together, confused. A few beats. The toast is cooling, and a silly, superficial part of you worries that it won’t taste any good if this goes on any longer.

“Are you shy...?” you wonder out loud. The doll does not answer you but you turn away slowly anyway, fixing your eyes on the back door.

A second passes, and then another. You wait.

You feel it then, a few moments later, rather than hear it. It’s difficult to place, the manner in which the very atmosphere in the kitchen shifts, to let you know you are no longer the only one in here. There is the rustle of something moving, the bread, you think, and then it recedes entirely without a sound.

You wait a few beats before you turn, and your breath punches out of you in a rush when you note the once again empty plate. Disbelieving, you laugh.

“Holy shit.” Rounding the table, you pick up the doll, handling its weight much more carefully as you hold it out in front of you. “It was you, then, last night. You know, if you wanted my attention, you’ve got a funny way of showing it, kid. I think I lost ten years of my life with that little stunt.”

The threat seems to abate, after that, when you consider it. The spirit of a lonely child tugs at your poor heartstrings, and when you open your bedroom door after your evening shower to find a clumsily arranged sandwich, it only softens you further. You go to check on the doll – on Jason – and find him sat in bed, his schedule next to him once again.

“So this is what you want, hm?” you mutter under your breath, scanning the paper. Your lips tug downwards into a pout, and you reach out to fix his hair. “Poor thing. You must be bored out here, with no one else to play with.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you find you already know the answer.

Rules 1. No Guests 2. Never Leave Jason Alone 3. Save Meals in Freezer 4. Never Cover Jason’s Face 5. Read a Bedtime Story 6. Play Music Loud 7. Clean the Traps 8. Jason is Never to Leave 9. Kiss Goodnight

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that.

There’s a shift in your mind after your discovery, a distinction that shifts the doll into Jason. You’re able to rest a little easier now, knowing what had been behind the disturbances, and that it wasn’t something you had to fear. He sits comfortably in a chair next to you in the study, keeping you company as you return to your studies, worries that you’d been dealing with something more nefarious comfortably assuaged.

You learn to communicate with him, in your own shared way. The music you play as you study is no longer isolated to your headphones, but filters through the speakers of your laptop as you work. When you begin making your own offhand remarks to him, you don’t know, but as the hours pass it feels less like you’re unaccompanied and more like you’re studying with a friend. Every so often, there is a sign – a tap, or the roll of something on the floor outside the study – that signals you to take a break, pushing away from the desk to take a turn about the room with Jason in your arms.

Once, during a longer break, you bring him along on a walk outside. He doesn’t seem to like it very much – hiding your notebook until you figure it out. And you suppose spirits don’t require much exercise, so you let it be, content to take quick trips to the kitchen for snacks. You keep it for after the day is over, right before the sun sets, stretching your legs as you walk around the gardens before dinner.

Before you’ve realised, you’ve built a camaraderie with Jason. It’s easy for you to confide in him, slumping back in your desk chair with your hands pressed to your face. Tonight, the amount of coursework seems, not for the first time, never-ending. Tears streak through your fingers as you quietly sob.

“I’m so tired,” you cry, and a little hiccup stutters out of you. “It’s so...it’s just unfair. None of this would’ve happened if I’d – if I wasn’t so busy trying to look for a place.”

You work yourself up, tears smearing against the deep hollows beneath your eyes – despite how comfortable your bed is, lately you’ve still been working late into the night, long after you put Jason to sleep with a kiss to his brow. Though the night is young enough that you won’t have to tuck Jason in for a while, it still presses on you. There is too much to do, and not nearly enough time.

“It’s not fair,” you mumble again, weakly. You slide a look over to Jason through swollen eyes, pressing your cheek against your knees. “Everyone else gets to – they get to not care about money and they get to enjoy their lives. It’s just...not fair.”

You close your eyes, hiding your face in the fabric of your leggings. Your head feels congested, after crying so much, heavy, and stuffed with wool. A few minutes later, as you’re working up the will to return to your work, you hear a thud.

When you look up you find an apple on the corner of the desk, bright red and freshly washed, if the few drops of water that cling to it are anything to go by. The sight makes you burst into fresh tears again, a kindness that feels too tender for your poor, bruised heart. You reach for the fruit, feeling the juice run down your wrist when you sink your teeth into its flesh. Mumbling a thank you, you feel, for the first time since your arrival, your hopelessness begins to flicker out.

A crash wakes you in the middle of the night, startling you from your sleep with a jolt. At first, you think it might be Jason. You groan quietly, rolling over into the pillow with a grumble of his name before you sit up and shove the covers off. It’s particularly freezing tonight and you reach for a robe as you shuffle over to your bedroom door only to stop short when, through the walls, floating up from the lower floors, you hear voices.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins and you register the shattering of something downstairs. In the moments that follow, you barely think, flying down the hall to where Jason’s bedroom is and clutching him close to your chest. All the while, the racket downstairs grows louder, raucous bickering and jeering laughter nipping at your heels as you push into a spare room and slip into the depths of a wardrobe.

You kick yourself when you realise you haven’t brought your phone, the landline in Jason’s room being too far out of reach now to dial the local police. You can only press yourself further into the wardrobe, cradling Jason with a hand on the back of his head like you might your own child – like he shouldn’t have to bear witness to the violence enacted on his home. Tears – how many have you spent since your arrival, it must be enough to fill an ocean – slip onto your collar and you hide in a case that smells of mothballs, the fur of old coats brushing against your arms and face.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper, feeling half crazed as you comfort Jason. “We’re going to be okay.”

It’s the longest night of your life, waiting for them to leave. Even without you leaving a crack in the wardrobe door, the noise from downstairs would have reached you. It’s jumbled in your fear-addled mind, but you hear the shatter of glass and yelling – they break out into arguments amongst themselves. You can’t make out the words, but it carries the threat of further violence – the kind that goes beyond stolen valuables and broken glassware.

And then, abruptly, you think you hear a whisper of something, before it all falls still.

The darkness in the wardrobe is stifling but you remain there, clutching Jason with your head bowed until you hear a shout announcing the presence of the police.

It’s only when the Commissioner announces himself, climbing to the second floor of the manor and stepping into the room, that you crawl out from the wardrobe. You’re shaking when he steps forward to meet you, arms coming around you to help you stand.

You’re coaxed into a blanket and ushered into a chair as they question you – the tiles of the kitchen floor are freezing under your bare feet and you wince when you catch the looks his deputies share amongst themselves. You must look like a mess, tear tracks drying on your face and cradling a doll in your arms.

There’s a look in the Commissioner’s eyes, as he questions you, that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise – you forget about it quickly enough when he presses further, but later you’ll recall it. There’s a lack of surprise in his gaze, as though he hadn’t expected any less. You figure he’s hardened by his profession. Still, it lingers in the recesses of your mind.

They clean it up quick enough, and they leave right as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. You see them off, standing on the front steps with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders and Jason in your arms. When the last of the car headlights fade out of sight, you turn back inside.

You venture into the living room, staring at where the sunlight catches on a stray shard of glass, scuffs on the floor where heavy boots had tracked mud in on the hardwood. The lingering smell of peroxide – all that it suggests had happened here – makes you let out a shaky breath, clutching Jason closer.

You know it then, what – who had kept you safe. And if there were any lingering doubts about him, they dissolve under your tongue. The solid weight of the mass in your arms is an anchor, grounding you, reminding you. Safe. You’re unharmed, you’re okay. The intrusion is gone, it’s just the both of you now. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to his hairline. It’s cold beneath your lips as you whisper, a tear carving a path down your cheek.

“Thank you, Jason.”

After the intrusion things, mercifully, begin to settle. You’re glad for it, sure you’ve fulfilled your share of excitement for the next decade. You return to your and Jason’s routine, rebuilding your shattered safe space with every album you introduce him to and each portion of coursework you complete. Brick by brick, you patch the rift.

The evening you finally feel as though you’ve begun to make headway, you turn to him, overjoyed, patting his hand excitedly.

“I think we deserve a bit of celebration, don’t we, Jason?”

You make dinner for the both of you, a simple but favourite pasta dish of yours that you’re grateful to have made extra of when Jason clears his plate in the time it takes you to carry your own plate into the dining room where you’d set him down. You pout at him sympathetically, running a hand over his head.

“If you’re still hungry,” you murmur, taking a seat and spearing a pasta shell on your fork, “there’s more in the pan, sweetheart.”

In the next room, a clatter almost immediately and it draws a smile on your face. You treat yourself to a glass of something sweet, giggling when the bubbles flit up your nose and pop. The taste lingers on your tongue when, after dinner, you scoop him up into your arms and travel into the living room. A record is placed onto the old gramophone and you spin on your feet, socked feet sinking into the plush carpet as you dance around the room. You spin, and spin, and spin until you land on the couch, laughing breathlessly. On the couch, Jason watches until you pick him up once more and dance with him in your arms. You’re careful with him, conscious of tripping in your state and dropping him. You think he might enjoy it, when you hear the whisper of laughter alongside your own.

When you tuck him into bed that night, it’s with a giddy smile as you kiss his forehead. You go to bed feeling floaty, lighter than you’ve felt in an age. There’s a buzz in your veins that isn’t entirely the drink. You’re happy. It isn’t the same as the life you’d wanted back so fervently, but you’re hopeful. It feels, for the first time, like things might work out. You cling to this victory with a vice grip, unwilling to be parted from it.

Your head hits the pillow and you sleep easily, but wake in the middle of the night, slipping out of hazy dreams into consciousness like slipping upstream. You’re distinctly aware of the wetness pooling between your legs, and the lingering warmth of the drinks.

It’s been a long time. The stress of everything – moving, money, adjusting to the manor – has left you unable to focus on anything else. Tonight, though, a reprieve from it all, a break in the clouds offers you a spike in your energy, a longing that heats the blood in your veins and makes your stomach twist. For the first time in a long time, you indulge, fingers creeping beneath the waistband of your pants.

He watches you touch yourself, the night spent tending to what is a seemingly insatiable appetite. Hardening in his trousers, he stands behind the panelling and a large hand curls into a fist by his side, nails digging into the meat of his palm so hard he draws blood. You work yourself up, differently from the way you had when he’d revealed himself. It’s gentler, fingers skimming over your skin beneath the fabric of your shirt. In the dark his gaze sharpens on the soft plane of your stomach, your body shifting under every touch, pliant and responsive.

You come, and it isn’t enough. He tastes copper, sees stars when you kick the covers off and his keen eyes make out the folds of your cunt, sodden and wanting. Your body is covered in a sheen of sweat when you finally, finally, drift off to sleep. Hungry little thing, his girl. You’ll want for nothing, he thinks, remembering the debauched way you’d put your fingers to your mouth. He recalls the slick sounds, the little whines, drawn out and practically demanding he come forth to please you. With no one around for miles to hear you, unknowingly, you feed him with your gasps.

He longs for it, imagines putting his mouth to you. How you’d keen, how you’d thrash under his hold like you had tonight, legs kicking out under the full force of your pleasure. But he’d hold you down, he thinks, breathing hard, draw even more wretched sounds from that mouth – pretty, soft mouth that always curled around his name so sweetly – than the ones you’d spilled out tonight. Prettier, than the sobs of the last few weeks, that’d had him gritting his teeth. He likes you drunk and dizzy on pleasure like this, likes the breathless, open mouthed smile that pushes the apples of your cheeks upwards. This, he thinks, is all you should know, tears born of desire. Not jittery hands, or envy.

Frail, pretty thing. You need to be taken care of. You wouldn’t know worry ever again, he would take care of you, would take care of everything. You’ll want for nothing.

His chest heaves at the thought, muscles tensing as if readying to crash through the wood at a moment’s notice.

No, he thinks, taking a shuddering breath. He can almost taste you from here but – not yet.

You wake up sticky, despite the chill in the air. Late autumn carries with it hints of the oncoming winter – you think it’s going to be a bad one, if your fingertips are numb already. It takes a bit of maneuvering to untangle yourself from the web of sheets and when you finally stand, there’s a distant ache in your head, a dryness in your throat that makes you grimace.

You drag yourself into the shower, scrubbing off the filth of last night’s activities and letting the warm water run over your muscles. The steam fills the air of the bathroom, thick enough to trap the warmth when you step out and reach for your towel.

It confuses you, though, once you’ve dried off and moisturised, that when you turn to reach for your clothes, they aren’t there. A sense of déjà vu settles over you. Significantly more awake, you wrap the towel around you once more and make the trek back to your room, a little peeved.

“Jason,” you call out as you pad down the hall, trying to keep the bite in your tone from being too harsh. “This isn’t funny, it’s cold. I’m not very impressed right now.”

Not even a laugh, but you’re too huffy to notice, picking up your clothes from where he’d relocated them to the top of your dresser and shutting your door firmly.

When you go to pick him up before breakfast – closer to lunch, now, really – you frown at him.

“Not cool, kid,” you tell him. “What if I got sick? Who’d make you lunch, then, hm? You can’t survive on peanut butter sandwiches alone.”

It feels a little as though you’ve regressed over the next week. More and more things go missing, only to turn up in the oddest places. You think he might be a little more playful, finally comfortable around you, but it’s hard to find gratification in that when your underwear joins the catalogue of missing things, turning up when you take your laundry out to hang even though you know you hadn’t put them in the washing. So maybe there’s a bit of wilful ignorance there. You don’t know how to address this, the pressing feeling of eyes on you at every moment now, an obvious presence that lingers around you more insistently, it feels, than before.

And you can’t place what’s brought this on, don’t know what’s to blame for this turn in his mood, toeing the line of malevolent, no longer innocently playful but shifting into something more intent, dull blue eyes seeming darker these days, more watchful.

“What’s going on, huh?” you ask, when you put him to bed, brushing a hand over his hair. “How come you don’t wanna be good anymore? Is something up? I don’t know, kid, I’m not a mind reader.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his forehead. “Let’s have a better day tomorrow, okay? Goodnight, Jason.”

Midnight comes to you in slow winks that night, the pages of Jason’s book marked with a ribbon and placed carefully to the side with the half-formed, tired thought that you would talk to him about it tomorrow. Perhaps it would soften whatever had him agitated as of late. The lamp switches off, and you breathe out into the darkness, one last sigh before sleep claims you.

You wake up to a pressing blackness. Not even the moonlight breaks through the clouds to offer you reprieve tonight, the very air sucked out of the room. Groggy, sleep still clinging to you like silken threads of a spider’s web around your eyes, you blink rapidly. The darkness settles around you and your vision adjusts.

The first thing you notice is the hulking silhouette at the foot of your bed and you freeze under the covers, breath punching out of your chest.

Your first thought is to scream. Before your lips can even part, a rough palm is pressing over your mouth and tears prick your eyes.

(What’s the point? Who is there to hear you scream so far out here?)

In the dim, your tearful eyes adjust further and your heart seizes in your chest when you make out the glint of white – a porcelain mask, a face that’s been your only companion these last few weeks. The cupid’s bow, rosy cheeks greyed in the dark. Down to the very last detail, it’s him.

The cause of all the haunting, the thief of your belongings, sentry of this manor. Not a spirit, but real, solid flesh and blood. He looms over you. There’s a solid weight that settles into the cradle of your hips, arms that cage you in, the smell of sawdust and something. Unbidden, your mind tugs back to you the missing lace, satin stolen by unseen hands – the very hands that press on your mouth and side, now, calloused, roughened.

The whisper of your name hangs in the air between you, your resounding whimper muffled.

It’s faster than it ought to be, your compliance, going limp in his hold and ceasing your thrashing. You stare tearfully, heart in your throat, up at him. He lingers like this a moment longer before withdrawing, seemingly satisfied you won’t bolt. Slowly, you push up onto your elbows. The movement brings your face closer to his, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to flinch at the proximity. He seems pleased enough, however, head tilting, rather like a cat, tracking your movements carefully.

It isn’t as though you’re going anywhere, his weight yet to lift from your legs. You reach out to the side, a shaking hand scrabbling for the flip of a switch. The sudden flood of orange light into the room, soft though it is, makes you flinch.

It’s the eyes that you’re drawn to first. Through the holes of the mask, you meet ultramarine eyes, leagues beyond that of the painting downstairs, which couldn’t hold a candle to the vibrant irises that stare back at you now. Your breath catches when he leans in a hair’s breadth closer and he pauses.

Your voice fails you, when you part your lips to speak, frightened tears wetting your face. You clear your throat, and try once more.

“Jason?”

Dark lashes flutter, something pleased passing through his gaze, something like an unspoken affirmation. It floors you, the blood rushing from your head and leaving you dizzy all of a sudden. He swallows your field of vision, so impossibly big, broad and nothing about him carrying any of the delicateness your doll had. Dark curls fall over the edges of the mask, dark hair peeking beneath it, trailing down the sides of his jaw.

You reach out, carefully, and he lets you press a hand to his chest – clad in a thin, dirtied henley. He gives under the slightest pressure, drawing back until he’s sitting on his haunches, your legs free. You let go, pushing yourself further up against the headboard of the bed and bringing your knees to your chest. He watches, silent, unmoving except for the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Real, solid, flesh and blood.

“You’ve been alive this whole time?” The dust clings to your sticky cheeks and you swipe at them again. Your breaths are shaky as you come down from your fright. He nods, and you wince, the porcelain mask shining as it reflects the light of your lamp.

“Can you – will you take that off? Please?” He stills and you, foolish, softened by fear or trust, scoot forward a little, legs folding under you. Now it’s his turn to widen the distance between you. You let out a soft warble, lips trembling. “It’s scaring me.”

“...Scary?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, and your eyes drop to his sides, watching his fingers curl into fists. “Under...you won’t like it..”

Your breath catches on a sob and you shake your head. You’re still shaking, still scared. He draws a little closer, hands raising as if to reach for you, and you flinch. “Please, Jason.”

Time stretches so long you fear you’ll remain here forever, trembling, suffocating, before big hands reach up to his face. He’s shaking, too, you notice absently. His head bows when the mask is discarded to the side, lying atop your sheets face down. The shadows obscure him slightly, cloaking his face from you, only the dark thatches of hair that cover his jaw visible to you.

You whisper his name.

His eyes flash when he lifts his head, blue flickering into a green glow so suddenly it feels like a trick of the light – gone in an instant. Scarred flesh, waxy, pink patches of skin and pale, jagged remnants of lacerations; he bares himself to you and your breath catches in your throat.

There are remnants of a classical beauty in his face, beneath the scarring. It’s the kind that would’ve made you stop short on the street, that would’ve brought warmth to your face if you’d met his eyes across a subway car during rush hour. The violence wrought renders him no less handsome but lends a brutality to him, the oppressive aura that cloaks him impossible to ignore, laid bare across his face. Still, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that your attention snags on, a child-like wariness that reminds you of the headline you’d found in Bruce’s office that day.

Silly, soft-hearted girl. It makes your heart ache, and once the tears start, they refuse to stop. Your hand draws closer to cradle his face, hovering a hair’s breadth from his cheek before he makes the leap for you, leaning against your touch. His own comes up, fingers pressing beneath your eye.

“Crying..”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, sniffling, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Crying for me?” His voice sounds odd, a tone you can’t quite read through your tears. You try to look away but he refuses to let you, clumsy fingers swiping beneath your eyes.

“You didn’t deserve that. That must’ve been so scary,” you sniffle, and look up at him. “Why were you...why’d you hide? Did – did your father know?”

His eyes flash at the mention of Bruce, and you still at the anger that lines his face.

“Bastard,” he mutters, a decade’s worth of pain packed into one word. It hints to a history you aren’t privy to, raw, jagged wounds still bleeding from an age old hurt. He stiffens and you slide your hand to his shoulder.

“Okay, don’t – we don’t have to talk about him,” you defer hastily, wary of the way his muscles ripple, the thrum of lightning barely contained beneath his skin. It reminds you of something else. “Was...It was you...that night, when they -”

Your breath stutters on the memory of the invasion, and his eyes darken. He crowds into your space more, ducking his head to meet your eyes. More green than blue now, he wills you to understand the severity of his promise.

“Keep you safe,” he says, and you barely notice the hand that curls possessively around your hip, your heart thrumming anxiously in its cavity at the threat of violence his words carry. And yet, you can’t deny it to yourself that it quiets a part of you, too, stills a restlessness that had lingered in your skin after that night.

You don’t consider that night, why he had chosen to reveal himself to you – properly, in all his glory, stripped of parlour tricks and the facade – you’re too relieved that he doesn’t intend to hurt you to linger on it. He lets you guide him back to his room and draw the covers over him, the mask carefully carried in your hands and placed on the bedside table. He catches your hand when you go to leave and for a moment you fear he’ll demand something of you, blue eyes flashing cat’s eye green for the briefest of moments. He lets you go after a moment’s scrutiny, and you eke out a timid goodnight, returning to your bedroom in a daze.

Perhaps you ought to have, though. Perhaps it might have suited you better to linger on the why, to consider what this meant, that there was something in motion, had been since your arrival. Exhaustion renders you pliant, however, and you slip into dreamless sleep the moment your head hits the pillow, the lingering smell of sawdust beneath your nose.

Jason makes it easy on you. It’s a little eerie in a way, re-learning him and yet finding all the hints of your spirit companion in him. He doesn’t stray far from you, content to continue to sit at your side when you sit down for your classes. In the morning, when you go to check on him, he is already awake, and you usher him into the bathroom, unsure at all whether you even should follow the schedule but moving mechanically if only for something to do, to avoid floundering. He waits by the door as you brush your teeth, eyes fixed on you.

You find yourself returning the stare, brows furrowing as you take in every inch of him. Dust and dirt clings to his skin. You wonder when the last time he’d bathed was. You tell him as much, receiving only a blank stare. Uncommunicative, even now.

“You should take a bath,” you murmur, worrying the skin of your lip with your teeth. “I don’t want you to get sick, or something.”

He’s compliant enough, letting you steer him into the bathroom and turning the knobs of the tub. Water comes spraying out, and you startle a little when the pipes whine, but ultimately settle. Dipping a hand in, you test the temperature before looking over your shoulder. He stands by your side, and you tilt your head to the water.

“Will you check if this is okay?” He obeys, dropping his chin in a short nod after brushing his fingers in. You offer him a short smile, and move to stand.

“I’ll try to find some clothes, this is...” you hesitate, looking at the hem of his shirt. “You can’t wear this.”

But his arm blocks your path when you go to step around him, curling around your midsection to keep you in place. You look up, startled. You try to move but he doesn’t budge, looking down at you intently.

“You’ll stay.” It isn’t a request, nor a command, but he delivers it firmly, a matter of fact statement – that you will remain here, with him. You balk, blood rushing to your face.

“I can’t!” you protest, stepping back if only to escape the barricade of his arm, your hands coming up to rest on your hips. “That’s not – Jason, it’s not-”

“You’ll stay,” he repeats, simply, rock-salt voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. Water drips into the steaming bath, and you’re at an impasse, abject indignation warming your veins.

In the end, you give in. You think there was no possible outcome where you did not acquiesce to his whims – you recall the destruction he’d wreaked on his father’s office the night you had foregone a kiss goodnight, frightening you back into his room to press your lips to his temple. You sit by the side of the tub, handing him a cloth and keeping your eyes trained firmly ahead of you as he scrubs himself down. Somehow, you end up washing his hair for him, soapy water providing a suitable enough cover that you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him, pleased and bath soft, skin flushed and curls wet against his forehead as you pour water over his crown.

He only lets you go once the water begins to grow cool and you insist on finding clean clothes for him. It’s easier than you think, rifling through the drawers in the master bedroom and finding a pair of soft trousers and t-shirt that you figure will fit him. You keep your back turned when he emerges from the bath, waiting until he’s dressed to face him with warmth in your cheeks. The glimpse you’d caught as he’d risen from the water had made you squeak, hard lines and dark hair, wet skin glistening – all Man, real, breathing, human man. It’s a jarring contrast from the sexless porcelain of his counterpart. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his broad chest and you promptly whirl around, guilt swarming in your stomach at your momentary lapse in senses.

(In his mind he thinks, don’t you know you’re all his, as he is yours? There is no inch of him that isn’t for your eyes.)

When you sit down for your classes later, you’re more conscious of his presence than ever, a warm arm diffusing soft heat at your elbow. He only shakes his head when you ask if he would rather do something else and you get the feeling later, when you take a bathroom break, that he would follow after you, had you not closed it between you.

He sits close when you have lunch, knee knocking into yours beneath the table in the kitchen. You watch him eat, ravenous, and your wariness melts a little at the familiarity. This, you knew. This, you could handle. When he finishes his plate you push your own towards him in lieu of pointing to the pan but he surprises you – shaking his head and watching you carefully until he’s satisfied you’re fed.

It’s sort of like losing a friend to gain a guard dog. He lingers by your side, catalogues your every movement and bosses you around where he sees fit. You don’t know how to feel about it, and don’t witness the full extent of it until, midway through your lunch, there’s a knock at the back door.

Reactive, he’s a wraith at your back, chair clattering and pressing you away. No guests. You recall the first rule in his schedule as you wrangle him, a hand tight on his chest to set him at ease. You figure it’s fear, in his own, muddled way. There had been a break in, after all, he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone else on the property – you were the only one meant to be here.

“It’s only the groceries,” you whisper, fingers circling around his wrist and pressing down against his pulse to draw his attention. Green eyes strike you down, near unseeing in his wrath and you startle. The seconds pass and you figure the longer this goes unhandled, the likelier Jason is to react for the worse. You take a deep breath, wrangling your own unease to step in front of him, blocking off his path to the door and squeezing his wrist once more.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay,” you murmur, stroking the back of his hand comfortingly. “Just wait here for me, okay? It’s okay.”

He lingers in the room, though it seems only you’re aware of it as the delivery boy brings the bags in. You’re thankful he doesn’t loiter, unwilling to test Jason’s thin patience. The very shadows in the room seem to stretch the longer it takes and by the time the final bag is carried in and the receipt is left on the counter, you fear the kitchen floor will start to crack beneath your feet.

He’s on you the moment the door shuts, wrapping himself around you to run big hands over your sides, assessing you like he hadn’t kept you in his line of sight the entire exchange. You sigh, letting him tilt your chin, inspecting your face. The green in his eyes has completely swallowed the shades of blue, pupils dilated as he closes in on you.

“I’m fine,” you assure. He seems ill-convinced, but finally lets go. “Come on. You’re probably still hungry. Maybe that’s why you’re acting like this.”

He lets out a puff of breath in response and you let out a small laugh.

You make the mistake that night, when you see him off to bed, of unthinkingly voicing out loud as you look around the room,

“Isn’t it -” you hesitate, feeling your words catch on something. You ought to listen to it, but he tilts his head inquisitively, and it coaxes it out of you. “Doesn’t it feel weird sleeping in here? It’s a kid’s room. I don’t think you even fit in that bed.”

His eyes gleam, and you don’t understand what for until he pushes up from the covers and stands. Your brows draw together, confused, but you have no time to question it, weight on your shoulders pushing you forward until you’re steered down the hall to –

Your room.

You stare, wide eyed, as he pushes you; he’s clumsy, but gentle, fingers coaxing you under your covers before rounding the bed to slip under them on your other side. Your heart catches in your throat, alarmed.

“Jason – no, this isn’t what I meant, you-” He turns on his side and you fall silent.

“Kiss goodnight,” he murmurs, a hand reaching out beneath the soft weight of your covers to tug you closer, warmth searing through your pants where it rests on your hip. You resist, pressing against his chest to create a modicum of distance between you, but it’s impossible against his strength. Again, your mind supplies you unhelpfully with attention to the heat that rolls off him, the proximity or lack thereof between you.

“Are you – did the delivery upset you? Is this why-” You’re grasping for straws, searching for something to cling to, a reason that softens the weight of his gaze and all that lies behind it. You blind yourself to it, convince yourself the flash of his eyes is affirmation, let yourself believe it, breathing out a shaky, “Okay.”

“Kiss.” He repeats the word, and your chest presses against his. He’s a furnace, warmth trapped beneath the covers threatening to burn you alive. Your mouth is dry as you lean up, smoothing a hand against his curls to flatten them backwards, bare his temple to you.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, into his hairline, lips brushing against the raised outline of a pale scar.

Slowly, the sands in your hourglass begin to trickle to an end.

The kisses brush closer and closer these days. No longer do your lips meet the spot at his hairline, or his temple. The first time Jason brings a hand to your cheek and guides you lower, you’re too surprised to do anything, kissing the higher point of his cheekbone and pulling away hastily, face warm. It feels so incredibly inappropriate, letting him continue to blur the boundaries between you. He makes a noise of discontent the next night, when you return to his forehead, only settling back into your sheets when your mouth finds his cheek. The hand on the back of your neck is heavy, fingers brushing against the small hairs in feather light touches and sending shocks of something down your spine.

He sleeps on his side, always, facing you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you feign sleep. Is it unwise, to turn your back to him, you wonder. The idea of sleeping on your other side makes your stomach curdle, his breath fanning over your cheek, nose brushing against yours – much too close, too intimate for the way he’s been acting lately. You fear if you give him an inch you’ll never come back from it.

(Silly little thing. You were his the moment you stepped over the threshold.)

Tonight, Jason is heavier handed with you than usual. Something simmers in your gut as he presses on the back of your neck, green eyes near luminescent under the swathes of soft orange light from your lamp. You waver, but it’s all you can do to give in, your arms threatening to buckle under you if you don’t follow. Hovering over his side, you bend your head.

Lower still, Jason pulls you to him – you only barely manage to avoid meeting his lips with your own, skating the corner of his mouth and planting a clumsy peck there. When you chance a look up at him, he’s already watching you, a crease where his eyebrows meet.

“Kiss goodnight,” he says, expectantly, voice rough with an undercurrent of something eerily like want. It makes your breath hitch.

“I...I did,” you stammer, one last attempt at resistance. He doesn’t buy it, blinking slowly at you.

“Kiss.”

Saliva pools in your mouth the longer he stares at you, time stretching between you as he waits and when you swallow, his gaze flicks down to track the movement of your throat, pupils dilating. Now, only a thin ring of green surrounds the vastness of black, observing your every action.

Finally, seemingly sick of your inaction, Jason shifts upwards on the bed and you squeak in surprise, reeling backwards only to meet the solid wall of his hand. Your heart races in your chest, sounds spilling out of your mouth that are muffled when he closes the distance and slants his lips against yours.

It’s a wet, messy thing, clumsy and hungry. Jason’s tongue slides against your bottom lip hungrily and you, foolishly, part your lips to protest. He only uses it to push further, tongue tracing the contours of your mouth, a deep groan wracking through him, a deep-seated tremor that you think he must have been holding back for a long time. His hand fists the material of your pants, the other bearing down on your neck as if to press you even closer. Your own are helpless against his chest, unbalanced and tottering forward onto his lap, trying to push away –

“Mmh, no, J-” you’re cut off, unable to get out a single word. “’S wrong.”

He ignores you, swallowing the pitiful whimper you let out to lick into your mouth. You’re dizzy, head spinning from the lack of air, mouth swollen and spit slicked. Against his chest, your fists push weakly, your strength pale in comparison to his. Absently, a part of you wonders if that’s really the reason you aren’t trying harder – a distinct pressure growing between your legs that you try to tamp down.

Your spine arches ever so slightly under his fingers, legs bracketing his hips to accommodate his size. The throb you feel between your legs is not only his.

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

Uncaring of your internal conflict, the world around you tips in a matter of seconds and you blink up at Jason, vision swimming as he comes into sight. Your positions are now reversed, with him hovering over your body, pressed flat against the wrinkled sheets. Your clothing is rumpled, top riding up the expanse of your stomach and baring your flesh to hungry eyes.

He remains between your legs, an arm descending beside you to hold himself up as he closes in. You shake your head, twisting to avoid the wet press of his mouth against yours again, your hand coming to press against his shoulder.

“No– ‘s wrong,” you murmur, desperately, trying to push him away. Undeterred, his mouth trails over the line of your jaw and you stumble over a gasp when his teeth graze over your skin, taking it between his lips and nipping, tongue flicking out almost immediately after to soothe the sting, something like a keen in his throat when you squirm beneath him. You draw blood trying to stifle the sound you nearly make as a result of it, legs going to press together but only tightening around his waist.

“Not,” he pants, hand on your leg squeezing, trailing higher until it skims the space above your waistband, fingers ghosting over your bare belly. His touch leaves a trail of wildfire behind it, burning licks over your skin that make you gasp. “Not wrong.”

You whimper, a haze of desire settling like a cloud cover over your guilt when he flattens his hand over your stomach and presses down, eyes flashing possessively as he delivers his next blow. “Not wrong,” he repeats in a reverent whisper, leaning down until you’re nose to nose. The smell of cedarwood fills your nose, a history he’s unable to scrub no matter how much of your soap he uses, the milk and honey scented liquid bubbling over his skin. You hold your breath, eyes widening, the flex of his bicep in your periphery as he supports his weight with one arm. “You’re mine.”

The tears leak out of your eyes, and you shake your head. “I’m – not.”

Nose caressing yours – “You are,” he confirms steadily, voice low.

You understand then, the curtains pulling back to reveal the future that has been hanging in the wings this whole time for you, the fate you’d sealed for yourself. The long absence of his father, the shiftiness in Bruce’s demeanour when you’d met him and the eagerness in which he took his leave. Your very purpose, here – all of it, every strand, threaded, curling around you.

It all leads to Jason.

He swallows your sob with an open mouthed kiss, then, and the sands of time run out.

It’s horrifying, the gentleness he treats you with, divesting you of your clothing like you might wilt under his fingers if he isn’t careful, delicate flower that he thinks you to be. There’s adoration in every touch, worship in his eyes. Layer by layer, they come off until you’re bare beneath him, swathes of orange light swimming over your belly and lighting a fire in his eyes. They’re green again, now, near neon in hue, teeming with barely restrained hunger. His fingers shake, hovering over your sides, pressing you down when you try to raise your arms. One broad hand swallows your wrists, held against the soft flesh of your stomach as the other begins to tug his shirt off.

Your breath catches in your throat, whimpered pleas clogging your airway when his fingers drift to the waistband of his pants. Scars, so many scars line the expanse of his torso. His body is a map of puckered lines and flat, pale marks, a lifetime of brutality carved into his skin. Dark whorls of hair dust his chest and stomach, a pattern that continues lower as he tugs his trousers off, muscles flexing as he twists. In another lifetime, under an entirely different set of circumstances, you might’ve salivated at the sight of a man like this, might’ve reached out to splay a hand against his barrel chest, reveled in how miniscule you were in comparison. In another lifetime, there wouldn’t be that ever pressing guilt, that shame that colours your vision and tightens around your neck – you might’ve admitted to wanting it.

In another lifetime, you might’ve even begged for it.

Your mind eddies at the sight of him, blood rushing so startlingly through your veins you have to slump back into the sheets, dizzy and daunted. You’re stunned into silence, throat too dry to string together any sounds beyond a strangled whimper.

He’s thick, head an angry, dark colour that you can’t make out in the low light, weeping. As if caught in a dream, you watch a bead of pre-cum slip down his length, the light gleaming over the trail it leaves on his skin. When you raise your eyes, fearful, he’s already watching you, eyes sharp.

The bright green of his irises shocks you back into your body, and you begin to shake your head anew, struggling to push yourself away, back hitting the headboard.

“No, Jason, no.” You begin to weep, hands coming to pound weakly at his chest when he hovers over you once more and he dips his head, nosing along your cheek. Your tears do little to stop him. If anything, it only spurs him on, pupils dilated at the sight of you like this and breathing growing ragged. A rough hand skims along your ankle and pulls, until you’re flat on your back beneath him. “It’s wrong.”

“Don’t cry,” he rumbles, plaintive, lips brushing against yours clumsily, an attempt at comfort. He settles between your legs, one slung over his hip and you mewl when he tilts forward, the weight of his length sliding against your traitorously wet folds. You draw blood trying to stifle a whimper when his head nudges against your clit, a dizzying spiral of unwanted pleasure curling down your spine. His lips curve into a pout against yours, a hair’s breadth between them as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ll be good,” he promises quietly, voice pitching into a plea as he ruts against you. You squeeze your eyes tightly, trying to turn your head but a hand comes up to cup your jaw, keeping you face to face with him. “I’ll be good. I’ll–‘ll take care of you. Make you feel good.”

Clumsy, painful, intrusive. You’re wet, but it’s not enough – Jason breaches your entrance and your gasp teeters on a scream, fingernails digging into the meat of his forearm as you struggle to accommodate for his size, not nearly prepared enough for the stretch. His voice joins yours, a different kind of pain in his groans as he pushes slowly in. You curse him, drawing blood where your nails sink into his skin and gasping for breath.

It’s sweltering in the room, despite the chill of winter, Jason’s body a canopy over yours. Every inch of him that presses against you is searing, burning to the touch and threatening to flay you alive. You sob when he finally bottoms out, his teeth gritted and forehead scrunched, the last strands of his control steadily fraying.

Big fingers swipe at your under eyes, smearing your tears instead of wiping them, and then he begins to move. The first thrust winds you, pushing all the air out of your lungs and eliciting a choked sound out of your throat, one he echoes, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck and thrusting again.

Shame and guilt war within you, fear pebbling your skin as his hips cant forwards, setting a sloppy pace meant only to seek a quick release. Every second that ticks past, he draws closer and closer to the edge and shamefully – so do you. There’s a burning in your gut, the sound of your wetness loud in the room over his desperate groans, your cunt squeezing around his thick length. It’s a horrifying truth, one you don’t want to accept – it feels good. The drag of his cock against you, the slippery movements of his fingers, the overwhelming weight of his body against yours. It lights every nerve in your body alight, repulsion and longing amassing as one, a torturous cover that threads through your veins against your will.

Your sobs subside as it comes to you, pleasure pooling slowly in your gut like a leaky faucet, a puddle growing until your cries turn into whimpers, gasped breaths when he manages to find that one spot that empties your head of all thought.

No, no, no turns into muffled whines, your tears carving their own scarred paths down your face. Each thrust, every slide of his length and whisper of his fingers carves a bit of your resistance away, until all that’s left between your desire and his is the ruins of your sensibilities. The last of your defences gone, your nerves feel like spun sugar, dizzying, electrifying – wanting, needing more.

He’s highly attuned to your reactions, and you watch through blurry eyes as his gleam when he makes this realisation, thrusting forward unforgivably and pulling more screams from you. Your head tips back into the pillow, ultraviolet green burned into the back of your eyelids.

“Be good for – for you,” he gasps out, a low whine building in his throat and you weep, arms reaching up to wind around his shoulders. It’s a twisted thing, that the one inflicting this on you should bring you comfort, but you cling to him still. He tucks himself closer to you, eager to provide this cover, allowing you to hide your face in his neck – hide from yourself, as he fucks you. His hands wander, brushing, coaxing, petting your body. No longer are you the caretaker, but now the doll, almost. A pretty thing for him to cradle, to have, to do with as he pleases. And he does, driving into you hungrily, as though he’s been starved of it, unable to hold himself back any longer. He sates his appetite on you tonight, teeth, tongue, cock. All of you, his for the taking. Under his hand you are taken apart and remade, molded by rough hands and lovingly pieced together until you’re born anew, settling into your role like drifting into dreams.

Your orgasm washes over you, abrupt and unrelenting, so far gone a scream tears from your throat to bleed into his, your teeth sinking into the junction of his neck and shoulder as your leg kicks out and you fall apart on his length. Sloppy thrusts pick up the pace and he presses you further down into the sheets, grasp on your hips and waist bruising. It’s animal, the way he bucks into you, mouth open in a snarl to bare sharp canines, tongue laving against your pulse.

Too much – it’s too much. You’re still riding out the high of your orgasm, but he continues to fuck into you, head bumping against one particular spot that has your toes curling painfully, body twisting in his grasp and trying to pull away. A vain effort. Even your squealed protests fall on deaf ears, dizzying pleasure bubbling up once more in your gut, overwhelming and feverish.

Your eyes squeeze shut tight as you come again, colour exploding in your vision in vivid hues of red and orange, mouth dropping open to swallow lungfuls of air. Jason, in your ear, lets out a guttural moan that lances straight through his chest to spear yours. Warmth trickles down your body, spend and slick smeared where the two of you are connected.

You swim in and out of focus, eyelids heavy and attention spotty. Like an old radio, or as if underwater, his voice breaches your consciousness in snippets. Soft cooing and fingers stroking along your spine, you’re vaguely aware of being shifted, hefted onto a warm chest as easily as lifting a feather. Downy hairs tickle your cheek, the smell of musk and cedarwood burning beneath your nose.

Mine...so good...take care of...

There’s an ache between your hips, a fullness that has yet to retract – but when you blink drowsily up at your captor, you begin to realise in the last dregs of your consciousness: in this, and all that follows after, he has no intention of parting from you.

Cobalt blue now, half lidded eyes regard you with reverence, kiss bitten lips cooing unintelligibly, praises you barely register. Jason cranes his head to press his mouth against your temple – a mockery of your rituals to you, perhaps an homage, in his twisted mind.

The mark on his neck smarts, the beast in his chest purring in satisfaction. He looks down at you, the drying tears on your face, lashes fluttering in your sleep. He strokes a finger over the crease between your brows, dragging down to where your lips part ever so slightly. He barely manages to hold back a satisfied rumble when, at the touch of his finger, you accept him in. Precious, sweet girl. Even in sleep, you know him. He shifts on his back, careful not to jostle you too much, and once more the bite stings. In the morning, you’ll insist on tending to it, he knows. Your eyes will pool, diamantine, lips trembling tearfully at the wound you’ve left on him. You’ve claimed him as he would you, in time, but he knows it’ll take a little longer for you to see it as he does, that in the morning you’ll begin to piece back the ruins of your defences and he’ll have to work again to keep them down.

That’s okay. He’s got all the time in the world. You’ll see, soon. Out here, with only each other for company, you’ll quickly learn. He’ll take care of you.

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

um. there's a lot i wanted to include in this fic, mostly that there's something off about jason's death and his being alive - i didn't really get to explore that beyond the eyes so if you caught that i hope u know i meant for it to convey that he's a Freak.

Brahms in The Boy is entirely human but i think there's an air of supernaturalism to jason in this (and even arguably in the original source material) with how such a large man manages to move through the walls quietly and quickly, he feels a bit wraith like to me. also again with the eyes - there's something wrong with him but there's literally like 294728 other things to worry about that you don't notice until it's staring at you in the face and by then it's too late.

anyway this came to me during finals and it was driving me SO damn insane during finals, i think i've been working on this for about a month? i'm not sure - the writing program i've been using lately doesn't have a date of creation so i don't really know but finals were in early june so maybe just shy of two months? i would say a month and a half.

this is the first time i've properly dipped my toe into content of a darker nature like this and i hope i did it justice! idk i wanted to try my hand at something new, i think there's a lot that's interesting about the psychological aspect of fics like this, like the buildup and feelings leading up to and during the climax. anyway this was a bit of an experiment and i hope you enjoyed it.

#divider by anitalenia #jay my heart #jasonsmirrorball #tw dubcon #cw dubcon #tw noncon #cw noncon #<- putting the noncon tags to be safe !!#jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #x reader

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cherryberry-sugarandspice · 11 months

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Just a "lil" silly request but can I request a werewolf! Miguel with Kitsune! Reader. Probably some wholesome hcs or a story with them with their newly born children. It's up to you if you wanna add some soft lewd into it or not.

A/N: this sounds kinda cute

Werewolf!Miguel x Kitsune(fox)Reader!

When the two of you first met, you were laying in the middle of the forest, injured. You were in fox form and had gotten into a hunter's trap. You managed to escape and ran far, entering your human form and laying against a tree trunk, nursing your injured ankle.

You were suspectable to predators, considering you were a bit smaller and hardly know how to defend yourself. You bring leaves to surround yourself to mask the scent of your blood, hoping it'll work. It worked for awhile as you tended to your ankle, turning into your fox form to lick your wound and whimper. Unfortunately, there was one nose that had a good sense of smell. A wolf.

You could smell the strong scent from nearly a smile away, and it was closing in quick. You attempted to run out of sheer panic, but your injured foot slowed you down. Soon, you came face to face with the large predator. He loomed over you, wind rustling his blue fur, red eyes fixated on you. You cowered to the ground, ears flat against your head, making noise of distress as he inched closer.

You shut your eyes when his wet nose sniffed you, and yelped when his teeth dug gently into your scruff and lifted you up off the ground. He carried you to his den, and you noticed he was a lone wolf. You kept trembling, whimpering, scared that these were your last moments. Up until he laid you down on his nest and shifted into his human form.

The wolf stood at 6'9, body hairy and muscles rippling. "It's okay," he said gently, squatting down, reaching out a hand to scratch the spot behind your ear, "I'm not going to hurt you."

He's a wolf. A lone wolf at that. He could hurt you. But his eyes were gentle, even if his expression remained neutral. So, you shifted back into your human form, covering your bare breasts. That night, the wolf-named Miguel-tended your foot and brought you bird to eat.

From there, a relationship blossomed.

In fox form, you laid on his back as he trudged through the thick brush of the forest, hunting down meek prey or going to a lake to bathe. You quite enjoyed relaxing on his huge body in both animal form and human form. He was big, warm, and inviting. He never minded the company either. He quite enjoyed having you around.

Miguel one day brought you the pelt of a elk, presenting it as a gift, as a way of asking for you to me his mate. Which you accepted and worn it in your human form.

Miguel became extra protective once you became his mate. He growled if anything came near the cave or walked too close to you, looking out for any threats.

As humans, he hugged you close, littering you in kisses, adoring you.

The sex? Holy fuck. You two only fucked in human form, and boy, did Miguel go crazy. Especially when he fell into a rut. He fucked you for hours, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, and once he's knotted, he'll calm own long enough to tend to you, right before his mind is overrun in lust and he obliterates your pussy.

He always took care of you after, especially after his ruts. Miguel felt bad for putting you through that, but you enjoyed it. Told him he had no reason to worry, but he always worried. You were precious to him, and he the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.

Then you fell pregnant and he was all over you. Making sure you ate enough food, brought you enough water, stood guard at the entrance of the cave and scaring anything away. You gave birth to two kids, a boy and a girl, and you loved them so much. They were hybrids, a mix of a fox and wolf.

Miguel praised you for doing a wonderful job for the labor, and made sure you recovered from the long labor. He took good care of his family, even deciding to merge into human society. The kids had to get used to staying in human form and going to school, and you staying at home to be a dutiful house wife, and Miguel getting a job.

It was a rough transition, but you guys managed.

Sometimes you wondered how that day would've gone differently. The day you were injured. If Miguel either ate you or never found you, or if you never got injured. Would life be the same? Different? So many possibilities, but as you did dishes, staring out the window to watch the children play, you smile.

Miguel comes up behind you and hugs you, kissing your neck. "What are you thinking about, my love?"

You turn around and hug him, sighing softly. "Nothing, my love." You squeal when he spins you around and drowns you in kisses, swatting at his chest when you got water on your brand new clothes.

Yeah, life is great.

#miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara smut #just like slightly tbh #spiderman 2099 #cherryberry answers #across the spiderverse #across the spider verse #miguel ohara fanficiton #miguel o'hara fanfiction

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littlespacereader · 6 months

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I haven’t regressed for a while because you know, life sometimes gets in the way. But I finally got a moment after class to have the rest of the evening off and just regress. At first I was worried I wouldn’t be able to regress after a stressful day at college. Then I literally was two second into a Blue’s Clues episode with Steve and suddenly I’m a baby😂 Steve just had the magic touch🥹💞

I felt inspired to write a cute fic with him and a little reader. I’m actually thinking of making a mini series of fics with a little reader in a kids show. What do you think? Would you guys like something like that? Let me know😄

So please enjoy another “side quest fic” I didn’t plan on writing😂💞

Looking for Blue’s Clues🐾

Caregiver!Steve Burns & GN Little!Reader

Tags - scavenger hunt, Steve is the most gentle and patient CG ever, hand holding, hugs

I held my head up high as I walked through the woods, stuffie in hand, backpack on my shoulders, wandering around on my own little adventure. I needed this, just some time away from the busy and hectic working world. I just needed some time outdoors to regress in peace.

And that’s what I did. All my supplies shoved into my backpack, my favorite stuffie in hand, I am ready to go! I started on a trail, following the winding trail through the thick woods. I’ve been on this trail before, it’s calm, quiet and peaceful. Perfect for a regression day.

As I kept walking I noticed something with my usual trail. The trail split into two pathways. One, the usual path, went right and down towards a river. But now there’s a left path, a path that’s never existed before. Maybe the parks department decided to make a new path for everyone?

There was something deep down inside of me that filled with excitement for the new adventure. I looked to my stuffie in hand, “What do you think (stuffie name)?”

Though they didn’t outright say it, I knew my stuffie wanted me to go forward towards the adventure.

“You’re so right! New trail it is!”

The path wasn’t very different than the other trail, though it did go deeper into the woods. But there was a clearing up ahead, I could see there was a colorful neighborhood with a yellow house.

A blue dog ran infront of me, stopping me in my tracks. She began talking to me before she skipped away. I smiled to myself, a blue dog?! That’s a first!

Suddenly out of the corner of my eyes I spotted something. On one of the tall trees next to me is a blue paw print. I walked over and looked at the print and smiled. Why would there be a blue paw print here? Did that dog leave it behind?

“A clue!”

I quickly turned around to be greeted by a man in a stripped green shirt. He smiled, happy to see me as if he knew me his whole life.

“You found a clue!”

“A clue?” I pointed to the blue print.

“A blue’s clue! Great job! You’re very smart.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the praise. “Thank you, but I wasn’t even trying.”

“You weren’t trying to find blue’s clue and you found it anyway? You’re better at this than me! Wow!” Again, the stranger glowed with praise.

“I’m Steve, it’s so nice to meet you.” He put his hand out to shake.

“I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you too.” I gladly shook his hand.

“Now that we have our first clue, we gotta put it in our handy dandy notebook!” Steve pulled out his notebook from his back pocket, popping the crayon out from the top and flipping to the first page.

He stood along side me so I could see what he was drawing. “So our first clue is a tree. We’ll start with two big lines for the trunk of the tree, then we’ll draw smaller lines on the top for the branches, then we’ll make this curly lines for the leafs at the top of the tree. There, a tree.” He looked up from his drawing to smile back at me.

“Our first clue is a tree. So what could Blue want to do tonight after dinner with…a tree?” He asked me.

I began thinking of all the possibilities a tree could mean. What does his dog want to do tonight? “Maybe she wants to play fetch with one of the branches of the tree?”

Steve hummed in agreement, “Good idea, maybe she does watch to play fetch. But we have to find the other clues to be sure.”

I nod my head in agreement but I can’t help but ask. “How many clues are there?”

“There are three clues. Once we find all three clues we sit in our thinking chair and think, think, think. Because when we use our minds, we take a step out of time and we can do anything that we want to do.” His smile is utterly contagious because I smile just as big as him.

“I’m really going to need your help to find the other two clues. Will you help me find them?”

“Yeah!” I practically jump saying.

“Really? Thank you! You’re the best! Now, this second clue must be around here somewhere…Lets go this way.” He hold his hand out to me as a silent offer.

I appreciate him not being pushy or just grabbing my hand. It was an invitation if I wanted it, so I took his hand in mine. Together we walked to the yellow house I saw earlier.

Steve opened the door and lead the way into his house. It’s beautiful with its peach tone wallpaper and big red chair in the living room.

“That’s the thinking chair,” Steve pointed out, “Once we’ve got all three clues we’ll sit there and think.”

Then it was off to the kitchen to further find a clue. Inside on the counter top is a family different spices.

“Y/N,” he squeezed my hand, “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper and their children Cinnamon and Paprika.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes as the Salt and Pepper shaker waved and talked to me.

“Bonjour Y/N! Welcome to our home!” Mr. Salt waved.

“So wonderful to have you here.” Mrs. Pepper added.

“So nice to meet you both.” I smiled back.

But then my eyes caught it, across the kitchen on another counter top sat a bag of marshmallows. And on the bag? A big blue paw print!

“Steve! A clue! A clue!!” I squeezed his hand back and was jumping out and down.

“The flu? You don’t look sick to me. Here let me check.” He held his hand to my forehead. “No, you don’t have a temperature.”

I couldn’t help but giggle to Steve. “No! A clue! Over there!” I pointed to the paw print.

Steve gasped and quickly the two of us ran over to the bag of marshmallows. “So our second clue is…marshmallows. You know what we gotta do. We gotta put this clue in our handy dandy…”

“Notebook!”

“That’s right! Our notebook! Now, a marshmallow. We’ll make two round lines on the side and an oval on the top. At the bottom we’ll make half a circle to connect the sides. There! A marshmallow! But what could Blue want to do tonight after dinner with…a tree and a marshmallow?”

The two of us stopped and started to think about the clues. There were pretty different from one another. It would be hard to tell what they meant together.

“Maybe she wants to play fetch then eat some marshmallows?” I suggested.

Steve gasped and nodded his head, “Maybe! But I think we should find our last clue before we decide.” I nodded in agreement.

Mail time, mail time mmmmaaaaaiiilllll ttttiiimmmmeeee

“Oh! The mail is here!” Steve grabbed my hand and together we ran into the living room. Blue and him started dancing around happy for the mails arrival. After a minute I started to join in the fun.

“Here’s the mail, it never fails. It makes me want to wag my tail. When it comes I want to wail, MMMMMAAAAAIIIIILLLLL!!!”

Steve plopped down into his thinking chair and held his hand out for me to sit as well. “You’re more than welcome to sit on my lap or on the arm of the chair. Whichever is more comfortable for you Y/N.”

After a moment of consideration, I chose to sit on the arm of the chair next to Steve. The mailbox stretched into the room and over to our chair. “Mails here! Mails here!”

“Mailbox! I’d like you to meet my friend Y/N. Y/N, this is Mailbox.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I smiled to the purple mailbox.

“It’s nice to meet you too! Infact this letter is for you.”

“It’s for me?”

“Yup! Here you go!” Mailbox opens his lid and Steve grabbed the letter for me.

“We just got a letter, we just got a letter, we just got a letter, wonder who it’s from.” He went to open the letter but paused and looked to me. “Y/N this is your mail. Would you rather open it or would you like me to?”

“Could you open and read it?” I asked a bit shy. But Steve brought me back to feeling comfortable with his warm smile and nod.

“Of course I can. Now let’s see, oh! It appears that this letter is from a (stuffie name here).”

I gasped and looked down at my stuffie. “It’s from (stuffie name here)?!”

“Uh-huh. That what it says. The letter goes,

Dear Y/N,

Thank you for always taking such great care of me. Thank you for always coming to me whenever you need extra love and comfort. Always know I will forever be with you even when you have to go to school or work. There’s always a piece of me inside of you just as there a piece of you inside of me.

Love you always,

(Stuffie name).”

Tears started to fall down from my eyes as I looked at my stuffie in hand. They looked back up at me with a smile and a wink.

“What a beautiful letter! Your stuffie is very grateful for you Y/N, just as I’m sure you are for them. Oh, I don’t think we were introduced. It’s nice to meet you (stuffie name).” Steve leaned over and shook the stuffie’s (hand, paw, fin, ect.)

“They said it’s nice to meet you too.” I add back to Steve, wiping the happy tears from my eyes.

“Are you okay?”

I hum in agreement. “My stuffie was just so nice.”

“They seem great! You’re perfectly matched because you’re great and they’re great too.” Steve smiled. “Now, would you like to take a moment here or would you like to go find the last clue?”

“The last clue!!”

“Alright!” He stood up and offered his hand again. I jumped off the chair and took his hand in mine again. “Off we go looking for clues…but ummm…where do you think we should go?”

I looked outside and saw the sunsetting. It might be nice to get some fresh air again. “Maybe outside?” I offered.

“Great idea! Follow me.” Steve led the way as we ventured back outside.

Outside we started to walk around the town. Steve showed me the eye doctor where Blue’s friend Magenta got her new glasses, then there was the present shop where his brother Joe works and another house down the block where his cousin Josh lives. The town seemed so nice and peaceful.

Since we didn’t see anymore of Blue’s clues we ventured back to Steve’s house and into the back yard. There it seemed all of his friends were handing out around a picnic blanket, tree and a fire pit. WAIT A MINUTE! THE FIRE PIT!

“Steve!! A clue!! Another clue!!” I pointed out again.

“Really?! Where?”

“There by the fire pit! The final clue!”

Steve gasped and looked at the fire pit. There, at the base of it was the clue.

“A clue!! Our final clue! And it’s on the fire pit. You know where we need to put this, in our handy dandy…”

“NOTEBOOK!”

Steve grabbed his notebook from his back pocket and began drawing. “So our last clue is…a fire pit. We’ll start by making a cylinder for the fire pit. Then spark points for the fire inside of it. There, a fire pit!”

He closed the notebook then looked at me just as excited. “We have all three clues! We have to sit in our-.”

“Think chair!!”

“Yes! Come on!”

The two of us raced back inside the house and over to the thinking chair. Steve sat in his usual spot and I opted for the arm of the chair again. Blue ran over and joined us, to see if we got it right.

“So now that we’re in our thinking chair, let’s think. So what could Blue want to do tonight after dinner? What’s our first clue?”

“A tree.”

“That’s right! A branch! Good job remembering. So our first clue is a branch. But what was our second?”

“Marshmallows!”

“You’re right it’s marshmallows! You have an amazing memory.” He smiled.

“Finally our last clue is a fire pit. So what could Blue want to do tonight after dinner, with a tree, marshmallows and a fire pit?”

The two of sat in the chair together and think, think, think. They did seem random at first but they meant to go together. Then suddenly it hit me!

“Steve! I’ve got it! I’ve got it!!”

“What is it Y/N?”

“Blue wants to use the wood from the tree to make a fire so that she can roast marshmallows!”

Steve’s face lights up to the idea. He looks to Blue who start jumping around the room happily. “You did it Y/N! You figure out Blue’s Clues!”

Steve jumps up and put his arms open to me. I immediately run into them, getting a big hug from him. “You are so smart! I am so proud of you!”

Tears build up in my eyes hearing the admission. He’s treated me so sweet for hardly knowing me. I haven’t felt this safe and happy in such a long time.

“Come on, let’s go outside and get ourselves a marshmallow.” Steve says as we break apart.

The two of us join the rest of the neighborhood outside to roast some marshmallows. There I meet Joe and Josh as well as the rest of the family including Magenta, Sidetable, and more.

I sat next to Steve as the evening turned to night. We looked up at the stars above as we ate our marshmallows.

“You know, you could stay if you wanted?” Steve said after a moment. I looked at him shocked at first. “It’s just that, you did such a good job finding all the clues. And Blue and I loved having you here. Plus, I could look after you and show you the rest of the town and-.”

He stopped himself. “Sorry, what I’m trying to say is. If you like to stay you’re more than welcome to. I’d love to have you here. And before you say anything, I don’t mind your regression. I’d love to help take care of you and maybe even possible be your Caregiver. So what do you think?”

I immediately began to tear up again. “I’d love to stay and I’d love to have you as my Caregiver.”

Steve’s nervousness turned immediately to happiness as he put his arms out again. I didn’t waste any time as I joined him in a hug.

“I’m so happy to hear that Y/N. I think you’re going to be the best person for this town. I couldn’t be more happy to have you here Y/N.” Steve added as we broke apart.

“I couldn’t be more happy to be here.” I smiled back.

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leaentries · 7 months

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the moon & its stars | luke hughes

summary: luke “knows a spot” hughes

a/n: i’m so so so so soft for luke right, it’s not even funny. also im sorry if this is inaccurate, i don’t know the geography of new jersey and i don’t want to look it up

The car ride was bumpy and long. And you were getting frustrated.

Your night began early, since the Devils had a couple days off from their normal activities. Luke and yourself had every intention of staying cooped up in his apartment, wrapped in blankets..or the more appealing option: each other.

However, this didn’t last long as Jack bursted through the door with some of the guys claiming that he had called dibs on the apartment for the night. Luke tried his best to reason, more like argue, with Jack, but to no avail. Instead of sticking around the loud environment, Luke simply grabbed your hand and his keys and walked the both of you to his car.

“Where are we going, Lukey?” Your voice echoed through the empty parking garage.

“Don’t worry, I know a spot.”

You rolled your eyes at his response, “Luke, I’m serious. This is kidnapping.”

He turned to face you as he stood by the black car, “I can’t kidnap you if you’re not a kid, angel.”

“Then this is abduction.” You huffed.

Luke just smiled before placing a kiss on your cheek and ushering you inside the car.

❥.

Soft country music lulled in the background as Luke’s hand rested on your thigh comfortably. You watched as the buildings of Newark got smaller, your brows furrowed. Looking at the clock, you noticed you had been driving for at least an hour.

Breaking the peaceful atmosphere, you try to wear down Luke’s resolve.

“Lukey, can you please tell me where we are going. We are completely out of the city at this point.”

Luke laughed, squeezing your thigh lightly, “I promise we’re almost there, angel. Just a few more minutes.”

You groaned, going back to looking out of your window.

Another few minutes passed before Luke pulled up to an empty clearing. You looked around suspiciously.

“Oh my god, you actually fucking abducted me.”

Luke let out a breath, “Would you stop with that, woman. Get out of the car.”

You have him a dumbfounded look, “Out there?” You gestured towards the unknown territory, “I’ll die.”

“Oh for heavens sake, y/n. Come on.” Luke took it upon himself to open your door and help guide you into the outdoors. He walked over to the back of the car and popped open his trunk.

“I found this place one night with Nemo and Holtzy. We were bored and just started driving around. It was actually sort of traumatic.”

He grabbed a red and white blanket out of the car, “Holtz had google maps pulled up, but somehow got it turned around and going the wrong way. Next thing we know my tires’ blown out and we had to pull over here.”

You helped close the car door as you followed him further into the clearing, “How come you’ve never told me this story?”

He shrugged, “Don’t know, I guess I wanted to surprise you one day.”

You smiled at his confession. Even the little things he does is enough to make your insides all warm.

Luke continued a for a short while, before laying the blanket down and plopping himself right on top. He looked up at you expectingly, patting the spot next to him.

“C’mon, angel. I won’t bite.” He smirked at you.

“That,” You laid out next to him, “Is a lie. You have bit me before.”

Luke shrugged once more, brushing off your statement, “The past is the past, baby. Let’s focus on the present.”

“I genuinely dislike you.”

Luke gave you a cheeky smile in return.

He moved to lie on his back, gently pulling your body to lie on-top of him. You snuggled closer to his warmth, taking in the sound of his steady heartbeat and the smell of his cologne.

You closed your eyes for a moment, before you felt Luke’s nose nudge into your hair.

“Hmm?” You hummed out to him.

“Look up at the sky, angel.”

Peeking your eyes open, you looked up. You felt your breath disappear as millions of stars shone back at you in their blazing glory. It was very rare to see a sky full of brightness like this back in the city. You wished you could take a picture, to be able to frame this moment forever. But you knew nothing could bet do it justice.

You were speechless. Nothing you could say or do would be able to show how happy you were in the moment.

“You’re my moon, ya know?” Luke’s voice came out in a hushed whisper, “Something that brings light to the darkness. And helps guide me through the night.”

You sat up as he continued talking.

“I always feel connected to you when I look at the moon. Even when we are apart. Sometimes when I’m back in Michigan, I’ll look up at the moon when I miss you.”

Your chest clenched at his vulnerability. You don’t think you could ever love someone as much as you loved the boy in front of you.

“If i’m your moon, then you’re my stars.” You smiled at him, “Because one is never without the other.”

Luke felt his throat tighten with emotion, quickly pulling your face down to his. The both of you remained there until early into the morning, relishing in each other and the night sky.

The drive home was soft and warm, the glow of the early sun kissing your face. What the night brought had been changing for you and Luke, feeling closer to each other than you ever thought possible.

But, after-all, the moon is never without its stars.

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes blurb #luke hughes imagine #leawrites💋

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gojhoes · 8 months

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Stay With Me

- pairings: megumi x reader - contents: childhood friends to lovers, unrequited love, fluff, high school au, no curse au - wc: 1.4k

Megumi had always been a quiet child. He was an observer, someone who sat back and didn't get caught up in the petty things.

And you were anything but that. You always had been. On the first day of primary school, you bursted into the classroom with a giant blue backpack and a lollipop in hand despite the 'no food in class' rule. Your voice rang high and clear without a trace of anxiety, "good morning!", successfully turning the heads of every kid in the room.

Megumi had been horrified, absolutely stunned by such boisterousness. And he was even more horrified as you sashayed directly over to him and sat in the seat at his left. Megumi gaped at you while you began to unpack your things without batting an eye.

"Hi," you said. "What's your name?"

Almost inaudibly, from both shyness and reservation, Megumi murmured his response.

Your voice was muffled slightly by the sucker in your mouth, but loud and clear you asked, "Isn't that a girl's name?".

And Megumi scowled at you, mad all over again about the stupid femininity of his given name. "So?"

But you were unfazed by his gruff attitude, which only increased as he got older. And ever since then, the two of you had been inseparable. It was more that you led and he followed, but there was something about you that Megumi liked. You were so unafraid to voice any thoughts you had, even when it landed you multiple detentions each week. You moved with confidence and intention in every step, bending to no one's will but your own. It scared him half to death when you'd force him to sneak out with you, agreeing to run off to the bridge at midnight just to sit and talk under the stars.

Throughout primary and secondary school, you and Megumi always ended up in the same class. Where there was one of you, there would be the other, walking side by side, sharing a clementine, or leaning on each other with your backs against a tree trunk.

You spent so much time at each other's houses that you both had a set of clothes and a toothbrush there. On weekends, Megumi's dad would let you stay up late to watch terrible soapy comedies and eat the candy your mom never let you have. And you would eventually drift off, always being the first to fall asleep, until Megumi would gently shake you awake to guide you to his bed. And you would curl into his side as you slept, the strands of your hair tickling his nose, but he never minded. He'd watch the passive rise and fall of your chest, letting your soft breaths lull him to sleep with the image of your face behind his eyelids.

That was the way it was, the way it had always been, and Megumi was happy. Because you were happy, you were close to him, because the two of you were inseparable. Best friends.

Until the first year of upper secondary school, when you alone were put into a higher-level preparatory class on the other side of campus.

"I'm gonna transfer out," you said over the phone. "This is bullshit."

Megumi agreed, humming as he listened to you rant. This was typically how your conversations unfolded; you would call first, ask him how his day was, then you'd launch into an attempt at one story that turned into several smaller ones. And he would listen to every word, murmuring validations as you prattled on and on. The reality was that he could listen to you talk all day. In his mind's eye, he could see your animated expressions as you talked with your hands.

Megumi knew it would be selfish of him to encourage you to transfer. You were on a path to greatness. Your bold personality came equipped with a ruthless ambition; you had to be the best, had to win at every game you ever played. Not to mention the nightmare it was to play you in Scrabble. You were the brightest in your year- you belonged in the preparatory class.

However, despite all the desperate denying he'd been engaging in recently, there was a small voice itching at the back of his mind: you belonged with him.

But Megumi would never, could never voice it. You had been best friends for nearly your entire lives. He wasn't sure exactly when it had happened, but one day when he'd overheard your name whispered by a group of male classmates, he realized that it bothered him to know other people thought about you like that. You were his, his one and only. Didn't everyone know that? Didn't you know that?

And you were popular- of course you were, with your charm and captivating extraverted personality. Everyone knew who you were. You were kind, smart, funny; it was impossible not to love you. And Megumi was just...Megumi, a quiet kid who had been lucky enough to get swooped up under the wing of someone like you. Where you were the sun, he was the moon, and he would never do anything that might eclipse your radiance.

You'd come over to stay the night with him before the first day of the new school year- the first year without you sitting in the desk next to his. Anxiety often got the better of you since starting secondary school, sometimes keeping you up into the small hours of the morning. It was already well past midnight when the two of you laid propped up in his bed watching youtube videos of video games on your laptop.

The side of your body was pressed shamelessly against his under the comforter. Megumi was trying desperately to focus on the video in front of him, but the feeling of your unadulterated warmth was dizzying. He could smell the remnants of the sweet floral perfume you'd started wearing last summer, a scent that nearly took his breath away each time he caught it.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?"

You pressed the spacebar, pausing the video and engulfing the room in silence. Megumi saw you hesitate as he took in the shape of your face. There were shadows under your eyes from an increase in frequency of sleepless nights. You had this idiotic notion that you had to face all of your problems alone. Regardless of the conviction in your voice when you assured him you were fine, Megumi could always tell when you were lying.

You sighed. "I'm just sad we won't be together anymore."

He was right there with you. You closed the laptop and pushed it to the end of the bed past your feet before nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. Your breath warmed his skin and he froze as he felt your lips brush against it as you spoke. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his hands from shaking as his pulse jumped.

"We'll still hang out," Megumi said reassuringly. "At least we're at the same school."

But it wouldn't be the same and both of you knew it. Maybe if Megumi had applied himself and actually listened when you tried to tutor him then none of this would be happening. He'd be next to you with all the other smart kids, wouldn't have to leave you alone with all the boys who thought you owed them something. And then a horrifying thought crossed his mind, one that he'd been having since your classes were assigned. What if you ended up liking one of them? How could he sit back and watch while some idiot tried to take what was his?

But he couldn't tell you how he felt, couldn't voice the potential cataclysm that was his emotions. So, he laid with you, sliding his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him snugly as he'd done for the last eight years. Your legs were tangled with his, your bare skin tickling the hair that had started growing in more thickly. One of your hands rested on his chest, the other squished between his arm and your own head.

Your head turned, and you were peering into his eyes with soul-shattering intensity. "Promise you won't forget about me?"

And a small smile tugged at Megumi's lips, the only kind he was capable of, for the only person who could pull one from him. "I could never do that."

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #friends to lovers #no curse au #childhood friends #megumi x you #megumi fluff #jjk fanfic

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jjungkookislife · 8 months

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Lonely Night

♡ pairing: hfth!jungkook x f. reader

♡ genre: established relationship, fluff, [18+]

♡ summary: It's your first night alone without Jungkook at your side.

♡ wc: 2.2k

♡ warnings: food mention, mention of spiraling

♡ date: January 26, 2024

♡ series masterlist

Winter break ends faster than you realize. Jungkook and you hadn’t had a chance to see the house Grandmother Jeon had gifted him.

“Mom!” Jungkook whines with a pout on his pretty pink lips.

You giggle as you take the second large bag of food she hands you.

“We have more than enough,” Jungkook insists as a third, smaller bag was pressed to his chest.

“You can never have enough,” Aera insists as she walks you to the door, where Seokjin and Jimin wait in the car.

“Share with your friends,” Aera waves as Jimin takes the bag from you while Jungkook hugs his mother tightly. “And call me when you get there.”

“I will, Mom. I’ll see you as soon as I can, okay?” Jungkook kisses his mother’s cheek and takes a step back as you approach.

“Oh, sweetheart! It was so nice meeting you,” Aera is nearly in tears as she wraps you up in a tight hug. “Call any time! Come visit whenever.”

“I will. I promise,” you say as she gives you one more squeeze. Dae stands on the porch, waving at the two of you as Aera cries.

“Honey, the kids will be back before long,” Dae comforts her, rubbing her back as she places her head on his chest.

“Momma Jeon,” Jimin hollers. “We love you!”

Aera laughs wetly through her tears, waving at Jimin and Seokjin as you and Jungkook climb in the car. Seokjin has his playlist loaded, and ready to go and Jungkook is quick to hand you an earbud the moment your seatbelt clicks.

When Seokjin pulls out of the Jeon’s driveway, he starts belting Christmas carols again.

“Just because the holidays ended, doesn’t mean the spirit has passed,” Seokjin states firmly as he keeps his gaze on the road.

Jimin slumps in his seat, his noise-canceling headphones doing their job, a present from you and Jungkook.

In the car in front of you, Taehyung, Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hoseok pass around snacks from their parents. Mrs. Park and Mrs. Jeon made them a special batch for the trip back home and the men were digging in greedily.

“Next time I’ll drive us up here,” Jungkook assures you as he laces his fingers with yours.

“We carpool!” Seokjin interrupts, his eyes locked on Jungkook’s in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, sir!” Jungkook responds before giggling beside you. Seokjin rolls his eyes but smiles fondly as he catches your gaze. He winks at you before his eyes return to the road, and he belts out a high note rivaling Mariah Carey’s.

Impressive.

“Are you sure I can’t take you home?” Seokjin asks for the third time as he helps Jungkook unload the trunk.

Jimin got dropped off first a few minutes ago, and now Seokjin was at Jungkook’s apartment.

“It’s no big deal,” Seokjin assures you, but you shake your head.

“Jungkook and I are gonna split Momma Jeon’s food,” you grin as Jungkook takes his luggage to the porch and returns for yours.

“Alright,” Seokjin nods as he hugs you. “I’ll text when I get home.”

You return his hug before Jungkook joins in, squeezing the both of you before Seokjin licks Jungkook’s cheek.

“Ugh!” Jungkook wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. “Must you?”

Seokjin shrugs. “I brushed.”

You laugh as Seokjin gets in his car and drives away. Jungkook flips him off before turning to you.

“I call dibs on the brownie bites,” he smirks.

“Hey! Seojun made those for me!” You exclaim but Jungkook is already running to the front door to claim his prize while you run after him, laughing into the home.

Jungkook clings to you as you head for the door. A pout on his lips as he snuggles into your shoulder.

“Are you sure you have to go?” He asks for the third time in five minutes.

You’ve divided the brownie bites, most of the leftovers, and stolen two of his sweatshirts that you stuffed in your suitcase.

“I have to get back to my dorm room,” you remind him as he kisses your cheek.

The last time you were in his apartment you were still fake dating. Now that you were dating for real, it felt more comfortable for you to laze around with him. Plus, you got to cuddle in his bed with him for a little while, but now you had to head back to the dorm.

Laundry was calling, and you had to prepare for the start of the semester in a few days.

“I know,” Jungkook sighs in resignation as he takes your suitcase and wheels it onto the porch. You slide your shoes on while he pockets his keys and helps you out of his apartment.

A few minutes later, he rolls your suitcase to your dorm. You thank him with a kiss on his lips.

“I’ll let you get settled, baby,” Jungkook smiles as he hugs you again. “I’ll text when I’m home. We can have breakfast tomorrow.”

“I’d love that,” you grin as you kiss his lips again before he leaves you be.

You get in the shower minutes later. However, it’s not until you’re getting dressed in one of Jungkook’s sweaters and a pair of comfy pajama pants that the realization hits you.

You miss him.

You spent nearly three weeks sleeping in his arms, and now you were in your bed alone, staring at the ceiling. The semester hasn’t even started yet. How would you get through it?

Sighing, you do your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you’re still tossing and turning. You’re miserable as you huff and stare blankly at the ceiling. You didn’t think it would be this difficult to sleep without Jungkook beside you. Even his snoring would lull you to bed tonight.

You love the way he looked when he slept. His cute lips were still in a pout as he snored beside you. His body was like a furnace when he wrapped around you, always snuggled into your side for warmth and comfort.

How long would it take you to fall asleep without him? How long could you go without him at your side?

This was something you’d have to get used to though. You were still early into your relationship, and your dorm room was yours for the semester. You couldn’t abandon it to run to Jungkook’s arms every night. You didn’t want to rush but you also missed being around him day in and day out.

Your phone rings on the nightstand where you left it to charge before you showered. You turn on your side and reach for it, not surprised to see your boyfriend calling.

“Hey baby,” he says softly once you answer. He’s in bed with the covers up to his shoulder, but you can see a bit of skin when he pulls his pillow closer.

“Hey,” you greet him, ignoring the sadness in your chest.

“In bed already?” He asks with a teasing smile.

“It’s cold,” you laugh as you pull the covers closer.

“Is that my sweater?” He laughs when he spots the logo on your chest. You rush to cover it with your blanket, and Jungkook laughs harder.

“I may have borrowed it,” you explain. “Without asking.”

“It looks better on you anyway,” Jungkook smiles as he takes in your soft smile and the way your eyes sparkle even in the dim light of your dorm room.

“I think so too,” you stick your tongue out at him, and he does the same. Your heart flutters and your stomach fills with butterflies. He was your boyfriend now. Yours. The thought makes you nearly swoon but then the sadness seeps in. Slowly first, and then it seems to seep into your bones until it fills your very core.

Suddenly, your throat burns like an inferno as you try to swallow the sickly feeling of loneliness. Were you being ridiculous missing him so soon? Was this too much too fast?

“Darling?” Jungkook whispers with concern etched on his forehead in between his furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lie, clearing your throat.

Jungkook can tell from your tone and your sudden change in demeanor that you’re lying.

“Talk to me, baby,” he encourages gently.

“It’s dumb,” you try once more to wave off his concern as you sniffle. Dammit.

Jungkook frowns. “Nothing you could ever say is dumb. You don’t have to tell me if you truly don’t want to, but I am here for you if you wanna talk.”

You nod, biting your lower lip as you debate telling him.

A heavy sigh slips past your lips. “I miss you.”

Jungkook’s taken aback. That’s not what he expected you to say, but only because he was sure you were ending things between you now that you were home. Okay, maybe he had been spiraling a little before he called you but only because he missed you desperately. His empty bed wasn’t the same without you in it and he didn’t want to overstep by asking you to stay the night or a few nights at his side.

Hell, he’d ask you to move in if he was sure he wouldn’t get shut down.

“I miss you too, darling. That’s actually why I called,” he admits bashfully.

“Oh?”

Jungkook nods, his hair falling over his eyes. You smile at him through your phone.

“I was wondering if you could sleep at my place tonight,” he pauses. “O-or I could go to your dorm.”

You remain silent as the fluttering in your chest grows rapidly.

“Or not, if you’re not comfortable,” Jungkook rushes when you don’t respond immediately. “We could just forget I said anything.”

“Jungkook,” you say his name softly with a smile.

“Come pick me up in ten minutes, okay?”

Jungkook nods excitedly with a smile. “Yeah! Totally! I’ll be right over, babe.”

“Drive safe, Koo. I’ll grab a bag of my things and wait for you, okay?”

“Yes, baby. I’ll see you in a bit,” Jungkook blows you a kiss before he hangs up.

You kick the covers off of you as you grab a duffel bag and pack your things.

A second later your phone dings.

[Kookie 🖤🍪🖤] babe, pack some extra clothes

[Kookie 🖤🍪🖤] I cleared a drawer for you in my room 🥺

You squeal in excitement! Why was your boyfriend the cutest? You want to laugh and cry at the same time but you sniffle and respond to his text before running around your room to pack your bag.

Ten minutes later, you meet Jungkook at the entrance of your dorm. He smiles brightly when he sees you.

“Hi, baby,” he greets you with a kiss on your cheek before he takes your bag and slings it over his left shoulder. His tattooed hand reaches for yours as you greet him.

“Sorry for getting you out of bed so late, darling,” Jungkook apologizes as he opens the car door for you and waits until you’re buckled in to shut it. He opens the back door and places your bag on the seat before shutting the door and jogging to the driver’s side.

“Jungkook,” you grab his hand before he starts the car. You wait until he meets your gaze. “I missed you. I don’t think I could have slept without you beside me and I’m glad you called. I’m glad you came to get me. Don’t apologize.”

The smile on Jungkook’s face makes your heart flutter as he cups your face and leans forward to capture your lips with his. The kiss is slow, unrushed, and passionate as he deepens it and his hand grips your thigh. You moan softly when he tugs lightly on your bottom lip before releasing it and ending the kiss.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers with one last peck to your lips.

Jungkook folds your clothes as you get ready for bed. He places them in the drawer he’s cleared for you with a smile and a flutter of his heart. He’s got a purple toothbrush in the bathroom for you beside his black one.

When you climb into his bed, he lets you cuddle your favorite stuffed animal of his.

“Good night, baby,” you whisper as he wraps his arm around your waist and the purple bat you’ve chosen to cuddle in front of you.

Jungkook kisses your shoulder, his hand gently rubbing your hip.

“Good night, darling,” he replies. And it is a good night. A very good night as he sleeps soundly beside you.

In the morning he’ll wake up well-rested with you snuggled in his chest, your leg twined with his and he’ll watch you sleep for a while. His fingers will gently brush your hair out of the way, and he’ll trace the curve of your lips with his thumb.

Jungkook will wonder how he’ll sleep tonight without you at his side, how he’ll sleep this peacefully with you nestled in your dorm room.

However, one day he’ll wake beside you and know the two of you never have to part again.

For now, he’ll focus on your time spent together in bed, on your soft breaths and cute face pressed into his chest. He’ll rub your back gently, and picture the rest of your lives together.

#fic: home for the holidays #fic: hfth #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook drabble #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x reader insert #jungkook x y/n #bts christmas #bf!jungkook

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beforetimes · 1 month

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something or other about logan being soft on kids. being the first to step away from violence in origins: wolverine when it looked like they'd have to slaughter an innocent village for stryker. making sure to send someone off to ensure the kids held on strkyer's island would get away safe and unharmed. making sure again (this time without memories of who he was) that the kids in the x mansion were safe when suddenly getting raided in x2. smaller thing but being the only one to thank peter after he broke erik out of jail and saved them from certain death by plastic bullets. finding rogue in his trunk and not having the heart to abandon her. being a flight risk but constantly coming back to the x mansion to check on her and leaving her his dog tags so she knows he has a reason to come back and to drive the point home to her that logan isn't abandoning her and he wouldn't abandon rogue and fighting as hard as he could to keep her alive even at the risk of his own death (in x-men (2000)). i think it's a veryyyy important part of his character in the x-men movies that he acts tough but has more bark than bite when it comes to keeping the kids safe. especially when he's boiled down to being nothing but an animal by himself and the enemies around him. very important to me that he retains softness he can't hide around the kids

#x men #x men original trilogy #x men origins: wolverine #x men days of future past #james howlett #logan howlett #wolverine #rogue #rogue and logan #i haven't seen the movie logan yet #but from what i've seen it'll probably make me feel this even harder #i just really like it when characters i like are soft on kids #it's sweet to see someone declared so wild and violent soften themselves for younger more vulnerable people #and the knowledge that he has a soft spot: in all his years alive and through all the trauma he's suffered he still cares! so much!#x men movies

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sapphic-coded · 1 year

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I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and did not choose her codename. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 5.3k

Author's Note: When writer ADHD hits, it hits. Sorry for the wait friends. Been working on this for a comically long time. Thank you for all the love and support for this series. I love that you love this. Enjoy!

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox

Chapter Seven: You Don't Know Me

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993

You counted the small rocks in your black gloved hand. Neither one looked the same. All were varying shades of gray. A few were smooth and round while others were rough with sharper edges. It was the best of what you could find around the neighborhood. You looked up when you heard the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow.

The ends of Nat’s blue hair spilled out of her dark gray knitted hat. Her black puffy jacket swallowed up most of her body. In her white gloved hands was a single stick. It wasn’t very long. Hardly more than four inches. Some pine needles still hung off of it. You watched as she approached while the chill that hung in the air after the first snowfall stabbed at your cheeks.

“Aren’t we supposed to use a carrot?” you asked as she came to stand next to you. You were also pretty sure that you were supposed to use coal instead of rocks.

“My mom already cut up the one we have,” Nat replied.

You certainly didn’t have any carrots lying around at home. Your refrigerator and Nat’s were so different that it was jarring the first time you saw it. You hadn’t realized how much food one refrigerator could hold when you didn’t have to make room for your father’s weekly experiments.

You looked at the headless snowman in front of you. You had spent the better part of the last two hours alongside Nat and her younger sister building the snowman in front of their house. The snowman’s base was large, round, and a bit lopsided. But it supported the slightly smaller packed ball of snow on top of it. You and Nat had done your best to brush off any dirt or blades of grass that stuck to the snow. Now you waited for Yelena to return with the snowman’s head.

You heard Nat shift next to you while you stared at the empty spot where the snowman’s head will go. You wondered what kind of person this snowman would be. It was a shame when your brother told you years ago that snowmen don’t actually come to life after they are built. There’s no singing or dancing. It was as your father put it when he overheard your conversation:

“It is a byproduct of man’s lust for godhood.”

But maybe they did come to life. In secret. Perhaps at night. You read about all kinds of supposedly fake creatures coming to life in secret in your sister’s books. If it was possible, would this snowman end up being a good person or a bad one? Would the lack of a carrot make a difference?

“Are you going somewhere?” Nat asked.

You looked at her and found her looking across the street. You followed her gaze. Outside on your driveway was your father. The trunk of his station wagon hung open while he shoved a couple large bags into it. His back remained toward you and you hoped it would stay that way. The freshly plowed street put enough distance between him and you that you felt like you could breathe normally without him noticing.

Your gaze landed back on Nat. “My father is attending a convention. It’s a tradition.”

“What kind of convention?” she asked.

You shrugged. “One for people like him.”

He would come back giddy from talking with his fellow scholars. You knew that when he returned you and your siblings would be forced to spend at least three hours trapped at the kitchen table with nothing to eat but plenty to listen to. If something particularly interesting happened, you would definitely be trapped at the table for five hours.

“You’re not going with him?” she asked.

You heard the trunk of your father’s station wagon slam shut. You looked over your shoulder and watched as your father started back up the driveway. You looked at Nat and shook your head. “Kids aren’t allowed.”

Yelena hurried around the house from the backyard carrying a mostly round snowman sized head. It was pretty impressive when she reached you guys. Since you both were taller, you and Nat carefully took the soon to be snowman head and set it on top of its cold, round body. You pushed one smooth light gray rock into the snowman’s left eye socket and then pushed a square black rock into its right. You let Yelena help you set the rest of the rocks into a wide smile. Nat pushed the stick into the middle of the snowman’s face. Then, all three of you stepped back to admire your work.

“We should give him a name,” Yelena said.

You tried to imagine the snowman’s rock eyes blinking. You imagined puffs of white mists slipping from between his rocky lips. You tried to imagine him with a carrot for a nose. “He looks like an Ian.”

You heard Yelena giggle and when you looked at Nat you saw the beginnings of a smile curling her lips.

Triskelion, Washington D.C. – 2012

Being part of a team sucks. There are rules you have to follow. Sure, there were rules back when you were working for your father. But those rules were different. You could bend and shape them into whatever you needed. As long as the job was done, your father was content. Maybe he’d nitpick if the job got messy. But you had the freedom of choice. There were so many ways to kill people. Some days your imagination would run wild with new possibilities. You had yet to surprise a target in their bathroom and drop a toaster into their bathtub while they were bathing. Then there was the old classic you had yet to try. This idea demanded the perfect costume, but tying a target to train tracks and watching a high speed train obliterate their body into nothing more but tiny bloody chunks would be great fun.

You loved that part of the job almost as much as you loved watching your target’s life drain from their eyes. But now that freedom is gone. You don’t get to decide how you are going to do your job. You are told. Ordered. The worst is when you’re not even allowed to kill your target. You remember the first time you were given that bizarre job. You remember how punchable your target’s face was. You remember how easy it would have been to just push the ridiculous man over the edge. No one would have known. But you couldn’t. You watched that opportunity pass you by and you wanted to scream.

You did scream. At Rumlow. You cornered him and demanded to know why. Why did they keep fucking with your head?

He reminded you of your role. The chains that kept you bound to these nonsensical rules. You work for SHIELD. You don’t kill targets unless SHIELD wants you to kill them. You keep to your role and you don’t raise suspicions. You live out the story Rumlow crafted for you. He found you on one of his missions. He saw your potential and peeled you up off the ground like some frozen, sick, dying, abandoned mutt. He molded you into the weapon you are now. A weapon he happily handed to SHIELD.

You hate that story. You hate it more than the stupid suit he forces you to wear. The black tactical suit covers every inch of your body from your neck down to your feet. It had taken a while to get used to the added weight of the black body armor attached to the suit. You still don’t like it. It makes you feel as if you are a child running around with pillows tied to your chest and a foam sword in your hand. But it’s the mask that feels the most suffocating. Despite being able to hear clearly from within the black helmet, you feel cut off from the world. The black tinted visor that conceals your face is full of fancy technology that often gets in the way when you are just trying to watch your target die. You hate the stupid suit. You hate that you can’t do anything without having to wear it. The only time you can strip the stupid costume off and breathe in lungfuls of air conditioned air is in your bunk buried beneath all the levels of SHIELD and fake SHIELD and real HYDRA.

But if you could choose, you’d stick with the stupid suit if you could craft a different story. Preferably one that didn’t include anyone molding you into anything. But that freedom is gone, and all you have is a boatload of memories to distract you from how angry you are. That anger burns deep inside you. It fuels your every step as you walk alongside Rumlow down a bright, busy hallway. You ignore all the data that blinks across the inside of your visor screen with every SHIELD agent that hurries by. In the beginning you had been curious, but now all the data was familiar and boring. Mostly low level clearance agents with spotless records because they never did anything but sit at their desks or hurry around places looking busy.

You walk out into a large hangar and board one of the waiting Quinjets. You spy two empty seats in the cockpit and a black duffel bag resting on one of the seats in the cargo bay. Rumlow hands you a small, black flash drive. You roll your eyes despite knowing that he can’t see your face. If he let you take off the damn helmet you could read the mission briefings perfectly fine. You didn’t need to clog up your visor’s hub with all the unnecessary tidbits of information on your targets. You hate this role.

“This one is routine,” Rumlow begins as you insert the flash drive into the slot along the backside of your helmet. Almost instantly, information clogs up your interior visor screen. “Your target is Tomek Sikora. He’s an arms dealer that SHIELD has kept an eye on.” The picture of your target fills up your visor. Tall, muscular build. Short, dirty blonde hair. Blue eyes. Mid thirties. “We have good intel that he’s operating out of an abandoned storefront in Bardstown, Kentucky. His main clientele is HYDRA.”

Your visor floods with images of your target standing with or shaking hands with other important looking men and women. A few of the faces look familiar, but the images scroll too quickly across your visor for you to be certain.

“Your objective is to shut down Sikora’s operation,” Rumlow says. “SHIELD would prefer Sikora alive, but if you have no choice, do what is necessary.”

The coded orders hidden behind his words brings a small hint of relief. A nice simple kill. You know that if you read more into the file scrolling across your visor that you could piece together why real HYDRA wants Sikora dead. But you don’t care. All you care about is watching your target die. All you care about at this moment is that you won’t be forced to watch your target walk away breathing. A straightforward mission is exactly what you need. Something easy. Sikora will probably put up some kind of fight. You’ll engage and end it when it feels right.

You pull the flash drive from the slot at the back of your helmet. Your visor clears.

“Rollins will accompany you on this mission,” Rumlow says.

Eh. It could be wors–

“Slight change of plan.”

Both you and Rumlow turn towards the open cargo bay door. You see her clearly through your visor screen. You feel the chains of your boredom lift. That familiar energy that buzzes right beneath your skin awakens. You haven’t seen her since you put a bullet through Erik’s head. Even then, you can’t count that as your official last parting. You were buried beneath your costume. She didn’t know you were there. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have let you go like that.

The weight of the costume you wear now feels heavier as you watch her ascend up the Quinjet’s ramp. She’s dressed in civilian clothes. You love the black, leather jacket that she wears over her red shirt. Dark denim jeans cover the length of her legs, and a gun sits in a black holster strapped to her right thigh. You’re envious of her clothes. You want to look into her wardrobe. You want to strip out of this stupid suit and wear anything else.

“Agent Romanoff,” Rumlow greets.

Nat. Your teeth bite into your lower lip. You know you can’t say anything. The rules of your role have been drilled into your head. You don’t speak. You only act. If anyone asks questions, Rumlow has your pathetic sob story ready to share. You know all this. You know you must comply. But you really want to say something.

Her olive green eyes settle on you as she steps into the cargo bay. You instantly miss the recognition as she looks at you. Her eyes travel up and down the length of your body, taking in your forced getup. You want her to see right through it. You want her to say your name and rip the damn mask from your face so the chase can resume.

“What’s the update?” Rumlow asks.

Her attention shifts to him. “Rollins can’t make it. He’s in medical. I’m filling in.”

Now you really really want to say something. You watch as she walks over to where the black duffel bag sits. A smile stretches across your face. You had wanted to start slow. A coffee date scheduled on a day that neither one of you needed to even think about work. But if you can’t have that, then you will happily take this.

“That’s not necessary,” Rumlow replies.

Your smile drops away, and you turn your head to give Rumlow the most threatening glare he will never see. He ignores you as Nat zips up her duffel bag and looks over at him.

“I’ll get one of the other guys to fill in for Rollins,” Rumlow continues. “It’s a routine operation, and you’re needed for more Avenger missions.”

You wonder what would happen if you punched Rumlow in the face. If you swing hard enough, there is a good chance you could knock him out. That would give you a couple seconds to say something to Nat before all hell breaks loose. You’d definitely apologize for the stupid thing you said before. And if Rumlow didn’t go down in one punch, you could always follow it up with a solid kick.

“Fury disagrees,” Nat replies.

The name sparks two recent memories of the Director of SHIELD. Both memories consisted of you standing in this stupid suit and staring at the bald man with an eyepatch while he interrogated Rumlow about you. You played the part of a lost puppy well enough despite wanting to smash your head into the closest wall.

“Besides,” Nat looks first at you and then back to Rumlow, “I’ve been dying to meet your new sidekick.”

Oh god. That one hurt.

“They’re not much of a talker,” Rumlow says.

You have so much to say.

“We’ll figure it out,” Nat replies.

Rumlow shakes his head, but finally relents. He looks at you. “Stay focused. I expect results.”

You watch as he steps out of the cargo bay and descends down the jet’s ramp. For a moment, you can’t believe your luck. You thought that Rumlow would have done just about anything to rip you away from Nat. He had made sure to keep you as far away from her as possible. But the reality of your amazing luck settles when Nat comes to stand next to you.

“Has he taught you how to fly one of these?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll fly. You fill me in on the mission.”

This is the greatest day of your life.

The Quinjet, Kentucky Sky – A Short Time Later

You pull the flash drive free from the tablet’s port. The tablet’s screen goes blank while the hub screen built into your interior helmet visor lights up with a selection of unnecessary data about the tablet. Battery at 68%. No security update needed. Software version 3.8.27. You don’t understand why you are forced to tolerate the random extra tech. Rumlow told you it was to make your story more realistic. You still didn’t understand how something only you see makes others believe you more.

You look up from the tablet, and the extra data clears. Bright sunlight floods the cockpit. The sky outside is so blue that it is almost painful to look at. You are sitting in the co-pilot seat. The various buttons and screens stretched across the dashboard mean nothing to you. Nat has been doing all the flying. All you’ve done is find a SHIELD issued tablet and plugged in the flash drive so Nat could review the details of your mission. So far she’s asked you easy questions about the mission. Your answers are simple nods or a shake of your head. You want to say more. You need to say more. But you stay quiet. You comply with your role.

But there is sweet happiness in your forced silence. You look over to the empty pilot seat next to you. Nat left a few minutes ago to change after switching on the autopilot. You are tempted to lift up your helmet and sniff the pilot seat. You want to know what she smells like. You want to peel your black gloves off and touch the cushions of the seat. Feel the warmth left behind by her touch. A couple different scenarios float through your head and each one is far more entertaining than sitting in silence. But at least you get to be near her. You don’t have to hurry off and leave her. Despite all these stupid rules, you’ve discovered a piece of freedom that kept eluding you before.

You turn your gaze forward when you hear Nat emerge from the tiny bathroom directly behind the cockpit. She settles back into the pilot’s seat. Her casual clothes are gone. You miss the leather jacket, but the black catsuit is a warm familiar memory. You tuck the flash drive into one of your suit’s many pockets.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” she comments as her green eyes dart across the various screens and lit buttons. “About fifteen minutes out.”

There’s a moment when you taste that bitterness of disappointment. You don’t want this to end. The two of you up in the sky without anyone else to distract you. But that moment ends when you remember what’s to come. For the first time you won’t be on opposing sides. Sort of. Not exactly. But it sends a thrill through you.

“So,” she looks over at you, “Silent Type.”

You frown at the stupid codename. You know she can’t see your face, but she sees something because she starts to smile. The tablet’s screen comes back to life as you navigate to the application you need. A virtual keyboard pops up along the lower half of the tablet. Your gloved fingers are quick as you type your message. You turn the tablet around so she can read it.

Rumlow’s idea. Not mine.

Your answer seems to amuse her more as she nods.

“That does sound like a name he would come up with,” she says.

You turn the tablet to face you again and delete what you wrote. Your fingers are quick to tap out another message.

Did you choose your codename?

Her smile falls a bit as she reads your question. “What did Rumlow tell you about me?”

It doesn’t take you long to delete your question and type out your reply.

Avenger.

“That’s it?” she asks.

You lower the tablet and nod. It’s not entirely a lie. Rumlow had spent most of his time preparing you for this stupid role. That meant filling your head with a bunch of random bullshit about fake SHIELD and real HYDRA. He trained you to remember your story. He did his best to polish off the grime of freelance and make you seem more refined. He rarely brought up Nat. And when he did, he never let you think about her for long.

“I guess we’ll need to get to know each other better after this mission,” she says.

More time with Nat? This day just gets better and better. Your fingers tap against the tablet’s digital keyboard again. When you lift up the tablet, you are very interested in her answer.

What did Rumlow say about me?

“You’re his pet project,” she says as her smile returns.

You frown. You want to somehow clarify that you are nobody’s pet project, but one of the buttons on the dash lights up and steals Nat’s attention. You watch as she turns off the autopilot and takes control of the Quinjet.

“We’re approaching our target,” she reaches up and flips a switch. “I’ll set us down somewhere close. With our stealth systems engaged, they shouldn’t be able to spot us.”

You turn your head and look out at the bright blue sky. While you love the quality time with Nat, you also need to come up with a plan for this mission. Rumlow’s coded orders had been clear. Kill Sikora. If Rollins had joined you on this mission, you wouldn’t have needed to do much thinking beyond when to kill your target. But Nat’s fantastic presence complicated things. You doubt that she’s part of fake SHIELD. Which meant putting a bullet in Sikora’s head outright wouldn’t go over well. Especially if your target decides to surrender.

Your plan starts to take shape within your mind as Nat guides the concealed Quinjet towards the ground. It’s a simple plan. Draw your target away from Nat and kill him where it is just you and him. It would ruin the foreplay. You probably wouldn’t have much time and would need to kill Sikora quickly. But you’d get to talk to Nat later which seemed like a generous trade.

The bright onslaught on sunlight fades as Nat sets the Quinjet down in a clearing surrounded by eastern white pine trees. Based on the data you had skimmed earlier, the abandoned storefront your target is operating out of is just north of your location. When the Quinjet’s engines fall quiet, you stand. You leave the tablet on your seat as you head for the cargo bay. You approach a metallic box bolted onto one of the walls. Your gloved fingers type in a code on the keypad fixed to the front of the box. The front panel unlocks and opens to reveal a small armory.

Smaller than usual. No fancy explosives. Your usual selection of guns has been paired down to one: a single black Glock. You suspect your limited selection is thanks to Rumlow. You figure this has something to do with your training, but you don’t really care. You’re more disappointed in how the gun feels in your hand. You miss your Beretta. You don’t feel the same without it.

You slide the Glock into the empty holster at your right hip and turn when you hear Nat enter the cargo bay. She holds the tablet you left behind. Her finger slides across the tablet’s screen, and you watch the way her head tilts slightly as she reviews the mission data. You imagine that she looked exactly like that whenever information on you ended up in her hands. Your smile starts to return as you grab the tactical knife left in the armory and slide it into place on your belt.

She turns off the tablet and sets it down next to her black duffel bag. She lifts her hand and speaks into her wrist. “Comms check.”

You hear her voice flood your helmet and you don’t want it to stop. When she looks over at you, you nod. Her smile threatens to break you. You want so desperately to say something. You want her to look at you like she knows you. Like she did before whenever she appeared on one of your jobs. But your mouth stays shut. You comply.

It’s quiet when you both exit the Quinjet. As you make your way through the cluster of trees, you can’t help but think back to your last freelance job in the middle of nowhere. The sound of gunshots ripping apart tree bark. The smell of sweat and blood on your target’s body. The feeling of her hand around your wrist.

You stop when you reach the treeline. Roughly fifty yards ahead of you is the bland backside of the abandoned storefront. The back door is unguarded. You don’t see any cameras either. It’s no wonder why HYDRA wants Sikora gone. The lack of security is almost offensive. It’s as if your target is inviting you inside.

“We’ll split up and sweep the area,” her voice is low and when you look at her, you nod.

Perfect. As long as you find Sikora first, this mission should be easy.

“I’ll take the upper floor while you secure the lower,” she says.

As you nod, you hope that you’ll find Sikora in the storefront’s basement. If you don’t, you don’t know exactly how you’ll get your target far enough away from Nat.

You both step out of the treeline and make your way towards the storefront’s back entrance. By the time you reach the back door and press your back against the wall, you notice that both you and Nat have drawn your guns. You bite your tongue to hold back a laugh at the thought that instantly springs to life within your mind. This must be the first time you both have a gun in your hand and you’re not pointing them at each other. Now would be a great time to take your helmet off.

Nat reaches for the door handle, and it’s unlocked. You decide that it’s your target’s inflated ego that left the door unlocked and not stupidity. Or a trap. You try not to let that last thought get you too excited as you follow Nat through the backdoor.

You enter a narrow hallway. Directly ahead of you is a wide open doorway that reveals a large empty room. Remains of what was clearly a counter mark the worn looking floorboards. Dark colored wallpaper peels from the walls. The room itself is lit only by the light that spills out from the hallway. Large, thin boards are nailed across the windows. Littered about the floorboards is trash, random dark wet spots, and the occasional clothing hanger.

To your right is a set of stairs leading to the upper floor. To your left is the remains of another door. You see the hinges, but the door that clearly once occupied the space is gone. Beyond it is another set of stairs leading down towards the basement. You turn to your left and start to descend the stairs. You hear Nat ascending the stairs behind you. You force yourself not to look back as you lift your gun and keep going.

Your footsteps are quiet on the stairs. When you reach the bottom, you find yourself alone in an empty room. The lights are on. Boxes and crates are stacked against one of the walls. On the other side of the room is another doorway, but this one still has a door attached to it. As you walk further into the room, you hear a loud thud shake the low ceiling. You feel a tiny spike of jealousy that Nat found her targets while you are alone in a basement. Another loud thud shakes the ceiling again. That lingering spike of jealousy flees when the door on the other side of the room opens.

You pull the trigger the second you see someone fill up the space in the doorway. You see the person drop and no one else comes out. You move towards the open door. One quick look down at the man dying on the basement floor at your feet confirms that they are not your target. You step over the dying man and into the room. It’s a small break room with a fold out plastic table that eats up most of the space. Sitting on the table, directly in the middle, is a small, square television. It’s on and playing an old western.

When you return to the dying man laying in the doorway, you find him dead. The man’s lifeless eyes stare up at you. His mouth is slightly parted. His hair looks greasy. He looks about as old as any average college student. The sounds of the western playing on the television fills up the quiet as you stare down at the dead man. The sounds of shouting pulls you out of your odd stupor.

You step over the dead man and hurry back towards the stairs. You quickly climb back up into the narrow hallway and start towards the stairs that would take you up to the upper floor when you see it. You are standing at the base of the stairs when you see a body falling. You see their arms first as they come up, and you see how their legs trip over each other. You notice a mop of dirty blonde hair right before it smashes into the first uppermost step. The body falls hard down the stairs with a series of sickening crunches. You take a few steps back when you notice the body picking up some speed. When the body finally reaches the bottom of the stairs, it rolls over once and stops.

Sikora lays at your feet. His neck is bent at a terrible angle. His blue eyes are wide open. You see a piece of bone poking out from his forearm. Your gun lowers at the sight of your target’s still body. You feel numb at the sight of it. No satisfaction. No sense of pride. Not even relief. You don’t know how to feel when you step over your target’s body and ascend the stairs. That strange feeling persists as you find Nat standing near a table. Littered across the floor are six bodies. You can’t tell if some are alive or not, but you feel the corners of your lips curl into a smile. Nat doesn’t have a scratch on her. None of the bodies scattered across the room were a challenge for her and you just want to run up to her and kiss her and hug her tight because it makes sense. One piece of your life hasn’t changed. She’s still your friend even if you can’t act like hers.

As you walk further into the room, carefully stepping over fallen bodies, Nat closes up a black laptop that is sitting on the table. Her smile melts away any lingering numbness hanging on from seeing your target’s body.

“Good work,” she says. “SHIELD will be here in ten to clean up.”

You savor her praise before looking at the laptop again.

“Just a little side project,” she says after following your gaze. She picks up the black laptop and moves towards you. “You ever have bourbon from here?”

You shake your head.

“Then we’re making a quick pit stop before we head back,” she says.

You follow her, and you can’t help feeling like you are back in Ohio. It’s as if school is finally letting out and you two have the rest of the day ahead of you. You want this day to last forever. You’d rather her know it’s you, but if this is all you can have, then you’ll take it.

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