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envy-of-the-apple · 4 months ago

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The Monster You Know

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Synopsis: For your own safety, the strongest sorcerer of today kidnaps you.

Word Count: 6.9k

(Warnings: implied masturbation, implied nsfw, implied noncon recording, death of a minor character.....im pretty sure i missed a warning so lemme know any pls)

Instead of waking up in a bed, you find yourself on the floor.

It's not a comfortable spot to sleep in. The carpet is clean, but it's odd because you don't have this type of carpet in your room. Actually, this isn't your room at all.

But the panic doesn't really set in until you realize your arms are bound.

You don't notice him until he speaks. You're too busy yanking on the metal, pulling your hand as hard as you could. The cuffs don't even budge.

"If you keep yanking your arms like that, you might break 'em."

He's tall, rivaling the door he just walked through. He looks a couple of years older than you, but his white hair can't be natural, not at his age. His blue eyes are lax. The worst part is how relaxed he looks. He has an eased posture and a pretty smile. He's amused, watching you like you’re a pesky mouse trapped in a bucket.

You don’t know him. You’re stuck in an unfamiliar room, chained to the floor, and you don’t know this man.

Escape isn’t possible. So you resort to the next best thing: you plead.

“Who are you?” Your voice is light and wavers on every syllable. “Where-Where am I? Did you bring me here? Please don’t-“

”You always this talkative in the morning?” He dodges your question with a lax grin. “Anyway, uh, sorry about this-“ he gestures to your tied-up form “-I would've used a talisman, but those won’t work on you for obvious reasons. The handcuffs aren’t too tight, are they?”

He steps closer, and you scream. It’s shrill, filled with a type of fear that makes your blood freeze because you don’t know this man, you don’t know where you are, and he’s getting closer.

“Okay okay, I get it!” He manages to say over your pleas for help, but he steps back, and it’s enough to quiet your fear. “Obviously, you need some more time alone, so I’m gonna give you a couple more hours. Feel free to take a mint!” He cheerily points to the nightstand.

He leaves as quickly as he enters. The door shuts but doesn’t lock. You’d be relieved if you weren’t still incapacitated.

You look around the room. Nothing of value, nothing that you could reach and grab. Apart from a chair, the only other pieces of furniture were a heavy-looking bed and a bolted-down nightstand. Your kidnapper was certainly meticulous.

The restraints have just enough slack for you to lean over. You peer at the nightstand. A plastic bowl, too flimsy to be made into a weapon. It contains wrapped-white candies. You gingerly pick one up.

They’re sugar-free.

He returns to the mints scattered all over the floor.

“Okay.” He notes, gracefully stepping over the mess. “Clearly, you aren’t a fan of peppermint. 'you a wintergreen kinda’ person?”

You don’t look at him. You’ve been in the same position you had been in for hours, sitting curled on the floor. By then, your desperation was starting to show through.

“Please just let me go.” You mutter, your voice so low, it’s a miracle he can hear you. “I don’t have any money. I have nothing to offer.”

”Well, that’s good because I don’t want your money.” He says. “I know this looks pretty bad, but this is for your sake more than mine.”

You look at him just as he squats down to your height. You shift away. he smiles.

”Do you know what sorcerer's are?”

You blink.

“It’s fine if you don’t; we all start somewhere, right? A sorcerer is someone who can manipulate cursed energy. I’m a sorcerer! I don’t wanna brag too much, but I’m pretty good at it.”

He laughs like he’s telling a joke, and you suddenly realize that you were kidnapped by someone who believes he’s a wizard.

“Guess you’re still lost, huh? How about I just show you instead?” He points to an ironed-out shirt hanging on a rack. You follow his finger.

He didn't move. There was no machinery. The shirt just crinkled by itself before it dropped to the floor.

You gape. The man grins.

"Pretty amazing, right? That's cursed energy, or, my power if you wanna be less technical."

"Cursed energy." You whisper, a repetition of his words rather than any actual understanding. He beams regardless.

"Yeah! Well, it's a little more complicated than that, but let's just start with the basics for now. Baby steps."

Your dread doesn't fade. Earlier, you feared what a man could do to you, tied and defenseless. Now, you wondered what this man wouldn't do to you.

"Okay, then....why?" You warily ask him. "Why tell me any of this? What's the point?"

"An excellent question!" He commends you, as though he were your teacher and not your jailor. "See, cursed energy is a bit complicated, but it's extremely effective. In almost every case, it's the solution. Except for you."

You shrink back.

"What-what does that mean?"

His grin turns feline. He's enjoying this; seeing you shake, waver beneath his eyes.

"Exactly what I said: you aren't affected by cursed energy. A sorcerer could use their technique on you, and there won't even be a scratch on your body. You're basically the Eraserhead of the Jujutsu World."

You stare at him. He hums, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

"I'm not great at explanations. How about we just have a hands-on experience?"

He extends his hands. A purple orb crackles to life, slowly gaining mass.

"Not too big," he says, though it's clear he isn't speaking to you, "don't wanna wreck the room."

He adjusts his angle so it's facing you. Your eyes widen, and the desperation to wrangle yourself out of the handcuffs grows stronger.

"Wait, stop!" You pleads fall on deaf ears. "Okay okay. I believe you. I believe you-" He flicks his fingers. You close your eyes just before impact.

You expected something. Electricity, a shock. Pain. Your body being eviscerated in milliseconds.

Nothing. Not even a gust of wind.

When your eyes open, he's grinning at you.

"See?" He says, "Not even a scratch."

He's right. Your clothes aren't even rustled, but the evidence is there. The carpet below you is shaved and cleaned off. And the wall closest to you has cracks on it.

You look back up at him.

"I said I believed you."

He shrugs. "Doesn't hurt to make sure we're on the same page." His smile is starting to look less scary and more annoying.

Your mind still struggles to keep up with all the information you've been given. The typhoon of anxiety is coursing through you.

"So, then....why this?" You mention to the handcuffs.

"Just a little confirmation you won't go crazy and destroy the place." He supplies happily. "If jujutsu doesn't work on you, then bindings and talismans definitely won't do a thing. Looking back, abduction probably wasn't the greatest idea in the world. I would've figured something else out, but time wasn't on our side in this case. Especially if we wanted you alive."

You pale at that. He notices.

"What, you thought I'd be the only person who noticed you? You're an anomaly. In our world, that's dangerous. Also, the bounty on your head is a pretty nice incentive for people to get the job done."

"A bounty?"

He grins, and the number he gives makes your mouth hang open.

"Yup, pretty crazy, right? Anyway, until everything settles down, you and I are roomies!" He claps. "Isn't that exciting!?"

You glance at him. Then, in the room. Then, at your cuffs. Everything was going so fast. The only constant was him.

"So, I'm not really a prisoner?" You ask. "I could just...leave, right?"

"Sure you could. If you hear all that and still wanna go, I won't stop you. Promise." He nods. "But you'd be dead as soon as you step out of the apartment."

It's not a threat. It's a promise. And not from him. That makes it worse.

This is insane. All of this is insane; who'd believe any of it? But his powers....that can't be faked. As well as everything that he told you. Why would he lie? What reason could he have to deceive you?

"Okay," you say hesitantly, "just one more thing."

The man leans in.

"What's your name?"

He smiles.

Becoming Gojo's roommate was an easy transition.

You’ve always been someone who goes with the flow. Becoming someone's consenting captive isn't a struggle once you get used to it. A few days in and you and your 'captor' have fallen into an easy rhythm. It's easy to grow trusting of him, especially when there are others who can vouch for him.

"You should be arrested." Ieiri mumbles, checking your wrists.

"What? I can't believe you're upset with me." Gojo responds though he doesn't sound very panicked. "I was desperate!"

Ieiri shakes her head, continuing wrapping your wrists. Amid your panic during the first few hours in Gojo's apartment, you managed to sprain your wrists, trying to yank yourself out of the handcuffs. You wince when she presses on your bruised skin.

"Sorry," she says, voice flat. You smile anyway.

Ieiri was also a sorcerer, but she had a different technique. Instead of Gojo's destruction, hers revolved around healing. You've never really seen it in action ("My technique won't work on you; even then, it's a sprained wrist. You'll live."), but it sounded pretty powerful.

"I'm not upset." Ieiri continues. "But I'm surprised you're going along with all this." That sentence is directed at you.

You shrug while trying to keep still for her. "He was pretty convincing."

Ieiri raises a brow, before ultimately deciding she doesn't care.

"Again, I'm very sorry about all this." Ijichi pipes up. Ever since he entered Gojo's flat, he's been doing nothing but begging for your forgiveness for Gojo's abrupt actions. Apologetic, but not very shocked. You're assuming this isn't the first time Gojo has done something like this.

Gojo's allies were very different from each other, you ultimately decided.

“We thought we’d have more time to approach you,” he continues with a nervous smile, “we never expected the clans to move so quickly.”

“Clans?” You ask, “What clans?”

Ijichi gives Gojo a look. Gojo looks away, whistling. Eventually, Ijichi’s shoulders drop.

“Some minor clans with dwindling jujitsu sorcerers.” He gives. “And then the bounty happened and well…” he trails off.

You nod. “So, when will everything go back to normal?”

Gojo grins. Ieiri sighs. It’s Ijichi who gives the most concrete response.

You look at the three of them. “Or will things ever go back to normal?”

”It’s hard to say,” Ijichi says, “news travels fast in the jujutsu world, but it’s not improbable. Miyashiro will let us know eventually.”

"Miyashiro?”

To answer your question, Ijichi pulls out his phone. You stare at a picture of yourself. But you know you’ve never been in that restaurant before.

“It’s his technique.” Ijichi tells you. “Flesh manipulation. For the time being, Miyashiro will pose as you and can hopefully air out any potential bounty hunters. He’s the perfect man for the job.”

You nod, a bit skeptical. “Isn’t this a bit dangerous? Aren’t people trying to kill me?”

Ijichi tucks away his phone. “Miyashiro is one our best. He'll be fine.” He assures.

Satisfied with your answers, you nod. Ieiri pulls away after she finishes wrapping your hand. Gojo claps his hands together.

“See, roomie? You’re in great hands!” He chirps. You nod, if only to seem compliant.

Apart from Gojo himself, Ieiri and Ijichi are the only ones who know about your predicament, his most trusted people. The rest of the world is unaware that there's someone posing as you, nor that you've gone into hiding. Not your friends. Not even your family. ("It's for the best," Ijichi explained when you voiced your worries, "but we promise, once the bounty is down, we'll return you back to your life. It'll be like nothing ever happened.").

Settling in barely takes a week. Gojo's nice enough to lend you his room, more than happy to set up in the living room. Despite how you two 'met', he's quickly proven to be a nice guy.

Nice. Just nice.

To be honest, you don't know all that much about Gojo. He's letting you stay in his home, but you don't see him all that much. Gojo is gone pretty much all day. Sometimes, he's gone for days on end. The apartment feels more like yours than his.

"I'm the strongest." He told you when you asked. You don't know what he means by that, so you didn't pry.

Despite the awkwardness, you don't mind the distant relationship. The man probably has his day packed with hunting down demons and this school he talked about.

The change doesn't happen until two weeks after you move in.

You weren't allowed to have a phone, nor any internet access, so you mostly spent your time doing hobbies. You've always wanted to learn to crochet, and now you finally had time to actually learn. Drawing also took some hours out of your day. And eventually, you moved onto cooking.

Ijichi was more than happy to grab you the grocery items when you asked. When you insisted on paying him back, he declined profusely. He was actually the one who organized getting your things and really moving you in. You have another thing you owe these people.

Cooking was a steep learning curve. Before, you'd only made simple sandwiches and curries, so the food starting out wasn't the best. But you enjoyed the journey more, rather than the end result. Pretty soon, you became pretty good at it.

Gojo wasn't home often these days, so you jump when the front door clicks open. He takes off that blindfold he's always wearing, blinking a couple times before his blue gaze settles on you in the kitchen.

"What's all this?" He cocks his head. He isn't smiling.

Oh no. You remembered getting permission to use his kitchen, but maybe he hadn't expected you to go this far? The kitchen is a mess. There's flour everywhere. You still hadn't washed the cutting board, nor the knives.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I-I can clean up and-"

He waves his hand. "It's fine. I'm not mad, I just..." He drifts off.

You suddenly have a feeling that you might've misread this entire situation.

"Would you like some?" You ask. "I think I made too much."

"I could eat," he says.

You smile.

A few moments later, the two of you are settled on the table. Gojo's never been so quiet before. In the short time you've known him, he's always been boisterous and playful. Now, he's silent. Staring at the food.

You hold your breath when he takes his first bite.

"It's good." He says, his mouth full. It's cute. "Really, really good. Damn."

You laugh out of nerves.

"You think so? I'm glad! It was my first time trying out this recipe and I wasn't sure if it'd turn out well and..." you're rambling, you know that. You can't help yourself.

"No, it's good. Real good," he says. It's silent again, but not as uncomfortable this time. The only thing you hear is the clanking of silverware and the hum of the lights. Outside the window, the city lights twinkle.

You're on your last bite when he speaks again.

"'been a while since I've had a homecooked meal." He starts with a slight laugh. "Kinda' forgot what it's like."

You think of the fridge. How it was only ever stacked with protein shakes and instant meals. Gojo was a sorcerer. The strongest. You think you get what that means now.

"I wouldn't mind doing this more often," you say.

He looks at you with the prettiest blue you've ever seen. The color of a bright cloudless sky.

"I think I'd like that."

Who ever said the phrase 'the quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach' was onto something. Your friendship with Gojo bloomed after that night. On the seldom nights he came home, dinner was made and sitting on the table. It took a few days for the two of you to warm up enough to talk to each other. Once Gojo got going, it was a lot harder to shut him up. He talked about his school, his work as a teacher for other jujutsu sorcerers. You liked the way he talked about his students. Nothing but pride and affection .

On the nights he didn't come home, you'd save the leftovers in the fridge. They were usually gone by the morning.

He was around a lot more after that night. Not that you minded, it was his house. You just didn't get a few things about him. For example, that blindfold of his. Why wear it when it was clear he couldn't see with it on?

You decide to bring it up the third time he nearly runs you over.

"It's part of my technique." He explains. "The six eyes. They're basically cursed energy x-rays. The blindfold just limits their strength."

You were lounged on the sofa watching TV while he was plopped right next to you. He's switched his blindfold for his glasses.

"Oh," you say when it clicks, "and since I block people's abilities you..."

"Yup! Can't see you at all!" Gojo happily fills in. "It doesn't help that you're so quiet. Maybe I should put a bell on you."

You laugh, but it doesn't sound like he was joking.

"What's it like?" You ask, turning to him, "Seeing the way, you see? What-what do you see?"

"Everything." Gojo shrugs.

You frown. "That's not very descriptive."

He laughs. "Here, wanna try?" He takes off his glasses, handing them over. "These things are real popular with the ladies."

He's avoiding the question, but you don't bother chasing him for it. Instead, you grab the lenses, pulling them over your eyes. You expect to see the secrets of the universe. Instead, you see nothing but darkness. Though, that might be the point.

"Everything, hm?" You ask, when you take them off. "That sounds exhausting."

He takes them back with a grin. "It is! My eyes hurt so so much! You should pity me and make matcha tiramisu."

You laugh, drawing back. "That's what this is about? To guilt trip me into making dessert for you?"

"Did it work?"

You think for a moment.

"Get me the ingredients, and I'll see."

He cheers but doesn't fully answer your question until the episode ends when you've bid him goodnight and are about to return to the bedroom.

"You're blurry from far away."

When you look at him, his glasses are gone, tucked under his collar. It's night, but the sky still stares down at you. His usual smile is gone, stretched into a line you can't place.

"I can see down to molecules, atoms. Not you."

You look at him, his eyes. The beautiful curse they are.

You force yourself to take the first step. Then another. Then another. When you're right in front of him, when he's towering over you, you open to your mouth.

"What do you see, Gojo?"

"Everything." He honestly replies.

Everything. Not just cursed energy. Down to cells, molecules, atoms. You can't fathom how much that is, the essence of everything. What's that like? Being able to see the universe so much that it hurts? So much so that it makes him want to wear a blindfold and never see anything again.

But you're blurry. Gojo can't see you the way he sees others.

You reach your hands up slowly like you're approaching a wild animal. In some ways, maybe that's what Gojo is: unpredictable, able to wield the power of space—power that's useless against you.

You cover his eyes. He doesn't stop you.

"What do you see, Satoru?"

He doesn't speak, and you're afraid he's forgotten how.

"Nothing." Quiet, barely more than a whisper.

He slouches ever so slightly, leaning into your hands like some weight's been lifted. It makes you smile.

When you try to pull your hands away, his wrap around your wrist, keeping you there. So you stay—for as long as he wants.

It starts something of a tradition between the two of you. Not every night, not even most nights, but every so often, Satoru would grow quiet, shift in a particular way. You hoped it was therapeutic for him, a break rather than a glimpse of what could have been. You hoped you were helping.

And, if you were torturing him, hopefully, you won't be for long.

"How much longer do you think I have to do this?" You ask.

He hums, clearly not paying attention. You two were in the kitchen, making some sweet he saw trending on the internet. Well, you were doing all the work. Satoru kept trying to steal the batter.

"You know. Sleeping under your roof, eating all your food, stealing you bed." You urge, while whisking.

"You're acting like I've been keeping you in the attic, roomie." Satoru pouts. "C'mon, I haven't been that bad, have I?"

"I'm asking for your sake rather than mine," you tell him. "I'm sure you'll be thrilled to have your house back, and your bed. When will everything settle down?"

His blindfold is on, as it usually is. To help him out, you've taken to wearing squeaky slippers around the house. He'd offered to buy you one of those cat collars with bells. You declined.

He's looking in your direction. You know he can't see you, but you can still feel his eyes on you. It's a strange feeling.

"There's talks of taking down the bounty," Satoru finally says, losing his playful tone, "just rumors, nothing concrete. Worst comes to worst, we'll have to relocate you somewhere overseas."

Yeah, you were worried about that. Leaving everything behind, your home, your friends, your family, because your life was in danger. You hoped it wouldn't have to come to that.

"We have a couple of options, though," Satoru says, "negotiations, for one."

You perk up at that. "Negotiations?" You ask.

He nods. "Right now, you're under my protection. Unofficially. I could pull some strings, get those old geezers at the academy to take you in as some special assistant."

You tilt your head. "Like at the school that you teach, right?"

He nods. "We have a case like yours attending the school, too. I think you and him would get along."

"Your ability could be pretty useful to us. You might even get out in the field every so often." Satoru continues. "A special technique like that would be wasted down here."

Special. He's said that before. You can't remember when, but you know he's right. You're an anomaly, but you can use your abilities for good. But could you really do that? Risk your life every day? Lose pieces of yourself like that?

"I don't really feel special," you say, "I don't want to be special either." You glance at him. "Is that a bad thing?"

Even blindfolded, somehow, his eyes find yours.

"No," he says, no judgment in his voice, "it just makes you human."

Relief. You can feel it sinking through your veins. Part of you feels guilty. Satoru is right; you could do a lot. But you...you don't want to end up like him.

That makes you feel even worse, but then you catch something in his tone.

"You sound like you're not very human," you say back. You're teasing, but it falls flat.

He hums. It's not quite the response you were looking for. It takes a second for him to start up again.

"When I was younger, people used to call me creepy."

You stare at him.

"What?."

He grins, but it's not his usual one.

"It's true." He shrugs. "Mostly, it was 'cause of my eyes. They called them unnerving. Monstrous. My folks were always a creative bunch." He says it so casually, but you can hear the bite on his voice. It's phrased as a joke, but it isn't.

You put down your whisk, giving him your full attention.

"That's not true," you respond, "you know that, right? You aren't a monster. Monsters aren't as kind as you are."

"Oh?" He tilts his head. "Maybe I'm using my kindness as a lure to trap you. Guess you just fell for it, roomie. 'thought you were smarter than that." You roll your eyes.

"Okay, fine, I yield. You're a monster. But out of all the monsters in the world, I'd pick you."

For a moment, there's silence in the kitchen. Then-

"So cheesy!" Satoru laughs. He reaches over, roughly pinching your cheek. "Who knew you could say such cute things, roomie."

You slap his hands away, now extremely annoyed.

"Nevermind. I take it back," you retort. "I'd run away as far as I could from you."

"Good, you should," he replies. "I won't stop you."

You scoff.

"Maybe that's why everyone thought you were creepy." You go back to your whisking. "It's not your eyes, you just say a lot of ominous shit."

Despite how peaceful it is, making desert, cooking, and acting domestic, it can't last forever. The world was still hunting for you, and it had no problems reminding you of that.

One night, you wake up to the sounds of hushed talking.

It's coming from the living room. Multiple voices. Quiet but urgent. You're used to the noise. Satoru has this habit of blasting terrible soap operas at 2 am. You don't think that man sleeps. Over time, you've gotten used to at least one disturbance.

But this feels different. It's enough to rub the sleep out of your eyes, making you pad over to the hall.

They hear you before they see you. Satoru's apartment has creaky floorboards. Ijichi tugs on the collar of his shirt nervously. Ieiri just looks away. Satoru is leaning back against the couch, legs crossed. He's frowning. That's how you know something isn't right.

"Is everything okay?" You ask anyway.

Ijichi gives a tight grin.

"Everything's fine." He's quick to console. "We-we were just-"

"Stop." Satoru immediately cuts in. He's wearing his blindfold. You can't tell what he's thinking.

"We're not hiding it. Everyone involved should know."

Ijichi deflates. You think Ieiri sneers.

Satoru beckons you closer with long fingers. You step forward. They're sitting around a computer. You peek at the screen.

Instantly, you wish you hadn't.

There were pictures of you. Dead. Your body parts were strewn across the floor. Your hands were broken in every other way. Your legs were in pieces. Your head snapped clean off, blood oozing from your appendages like you were just a packet of liquid. One of your eyes was missing from its socket. The other was crushed. But it wasn't you, it was-

"Miyashiro. At least, what's left of him." Satoru gives.

The doppelganger, the guy who was covering for you. He was supposed to be one of their best; what happened to him?

What was going to happen to you?

They're talking again. At least, you think they are. Their words are muffled, filtered through water. You can't make out what anyone is saying. Your heart's beating too fast. It's pounding through your ears. You can only stare at the picture, what was left of him. Someone's touching you. A hand on your back.

"Roomie, hey," Satoru's voice comes.

The pounding stops. You look up at him.

Angelic. It's the only word you could think of. His snow-white hair was pretty, falling elegantly down his face. He'd taken his blindfold off. Blue eyes, sparkling, cleansing. Purifying, like the Ganges river.

How could anyone think a beautiful sight like this was monstrous?

He calls your name, your real name, and you break.

You cling to him, wrapping your arms around his waist. And you're sobbing, tears of everything flowing down your face.

Hands, hesitant, unsure, rest on your back. And then Satoru's holding you as tightly as he can.

He's warm. It's all you can think as you shake in his hold.

He's warm.

"I won't have to worry about that if I just gave in, hm?" You ask.

It was a couple of days later from your episode. Satoru had convinced you to give one of his soap operas a shot. On-screen, a woman slapped her cheating husband.

Satoru was lounging beside you, feet propped up on the coffee table. You want to tell him off, but it's his house.

"If you went to the school, you mean?" He asks. "Probably. You'd be a lot freer. Won't have to sit in a cramped apartment all day. 'sides, jujutsu tech is always on the lookout for fresh talent. The higher-ups would be ecstatic to have someone like you under their thumb."

"But I'd have to become a sorcerer." You say the unspoken.

Gojo nods. "Yeah, you would."

And you don't want that. To face curses, to face death every day. You know you can't handle that. You aren't strong, like Satoru.

"I'm sorry," you say.

He laughs. "For what?"

You shrug as the on-screen couple makes up again. "For being...a coward, I guess."

He thinks for a moment.

"It's not about bravery," he says in the end, "being a sorcerer is just...that. A sorcerer. It's a job. A title. Only a special few can do it. The crazy ones."

His tone gets a bit playful.

"No offense, roomie, but I don't think you got enough crazy in you."

"That's a compliment, actually." You correct. He ignores you.

"'sides, I like you staying here." Satoru declares, stretching his arms out on the couch. "Who'd feed me? It'd be horrible to go back to ramen again."

You roll your eyes. "Right. Who else will wake at 2 am because of your whining to make wagashi?"

"See! You get it!" Satoru grins. You can't force the smile off your face.

The husband's mistress has entered the set. The wife is confident that her husband will choose her. She's left heartbroken all over again. You don't get how she couldn't see it. The red flags were all there, and still, she was left blindsided. Never saw it coming. She trusts too easily, you decided.

"Also, I like having you here," Satoru says.

You glance at him. He's watching the screen.

"It's...nice." He admits after a bit. "To have company like this. It reminds me of back when I was younger. When the two of us lived in the dorms."

When he was a student? Who was he talking about? You don't pry. It's clear he isn't talking to you.

"I'm glad you're here," Satoru says.

Lightly, you bump shoulders with him. Infinity doesn't stop you.

"You're a sweet monster." You tell him.

He gives a secret grin.

Every once in a while, Gojo peeks into the bedroom while you're sleeping.

He's subtle about it, doesn't make too much noise. You're a light sleeper, so it takes little to nothing to wake you up.

He doesn't do anything. He stands there, shuffles here and there, hovering by the foot of the bed. You just pretend to be asleep in those cases, evening out your breaths, closing your eyes. It's always the same. He loiters around for a minute, and then he's shutting the door behind him.

It's strange, but you try not to think too much of it. He was probably looking for something. It's his room after all.

It's just...strange.

You find it when you're looking through his book shelf.

He doesn't have anything interesting to read. It's mainly just historical novels. You're perusing through one before a photograph falls out of the pages.

It's tiny, barely larger than your palm. It only takes a second to realize what you're looking at.

"Found your baby pictures." You gleefully tell Satoru when he comes back.

"What?" He tilts his head; you wave the photo in front of him. When he tries to take it, you pull back.

"Tiny Satoru!" You squeal. "Who knew you were once so small? I always thought you were born six feet over."

It's a simple photograph, a little aged, but still clear. Satoru looks about eight, standing between a man and a woman. His face is eerily blank. He stares with no emotion, not even a smile. He isn't wearing sunglasses or a blindfold. Doll-like blue eyes. You don't feel like you're looking at a child. He's too-

"Are those your parents?" You ask, letting him take the photograph from you.

"No," he says, "my caretakers."

Caretakers. Not nannies, or anything else. It felt so clinical. You lean against his shoulder, still staring at the photograph.

"You look cute." You finally say. When you peak over, a hint of a smile is twitching on his face. "But I totally agree with everyone. You look creepy. Like one of those children from the exorcist. Climbing over the walls."

"I never grew out of that phase." Satoru ponders. You laugh.

"What was it like?" You ask. "You said you're from a clan, right?"

"Exhausting." Satoru groans. "Never a break from training. I should go back and sue my folks for child abuse. I could get millions."

"I could help you with that." You pipe in. "I've never gone to law school, but I feel like I'd make a great lawyer."

"I'll keep that in mind." He promises teasingly before his smile fades.

"But that's the norm for most kids in jujutsu." He sighs. "Gotta' be perfect. Gotta' be the best, right from the beginning. There's a student I know who had a rough start, but she's the best in her class. Her clan didn't care about her potential. Those kids are all scary talented, they just need a bit of nurturing, that's all."

You stare at him. He catches you.

"What?" He asks, before his eyes widen. "Do I have a pimple?"

You shake your head. "For some reason, I feel like that's impossible for you." You tease.

"I'm just admiring you, I think. For being such a kind person."

"I thought we agreed I was a monster." Satoru points out.

This again. You roll your eyes.

"Fine, a good monster." You correct. "A monster, I know."

"The monster you know." He repeats

You want to ask him why he's so insistent on that. For some reason, you hold your voice.

Satoru's apartment had two bathrooms. Lately, the one in the bedroom has had some issues.

It's been awkward lately trying to share the only working bathroom. Satoru and you shower at around the same time, so you've opted to hold back your morning routine a little later. You still manage to catch each other. The amount of times you've accidentally caught him walking around with nothing but a towel around his waist would be too mortifying to admit.

But, so far, it's working. And you can't complain since you at least have one working bathroom. It's the little things.

Tonight, you wake up to your bladder urging you to move. And yet, your body still wants to sleep. You check the time. It's nearly 2 in the morning.

It takes a while to pull yourself up, unraveling yourself from the covers before you're trudging out the bedroom. Satoru's apartment is so dark. It's a completely different look compared to daytime. You feel your way with the walls, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. When you peek over at the living room, Satoru isn't there. He must not be coming home tonight.

The bathroom is shut, but there's a sliver of light bleeding under the door. Fuck, you did not shut the lights off last time. You need to be less careless.

At first, you think Satoru's hurt.

He looks hurt. He's hunched over, shaking shoulders, harsh breathing. You can only see his back, but he looks like he's in agony. You're about to step forward, ask what happened, and then you catch a glimpse of what he's clutching.

Pretty, blue, laced panties.

Your panties.

And you're close enough to hear his voice whispering your name. Over and over again.

"Fuck, fuck, baby, need you, just lemme-just lemme, all mine, all mine-"

He doubles over, tightening his grip on the edge of the sink. Your panties are damp.

You flinch, and in your moment of panic, you step back. Creaky floorboards.

Satoru looks up in the mirror. You don't move.

He takes his time. Placing his phone down. Adjusting his pants, washing his hands. You can only stand there, frozen. Staring. Staring until he's in front of you, looking right back.

You might have forgiven him if he had fumbled, laughed it off, became bashful. A human reaction. His face is eerily blank. He stares with no emotion, not even a smile. His eyes mirror that photograph. Doll-like, absolutely empty.

Monstrous.

Your eyes water. He turns blurry for a second.

Satoru steps aside. You wordlessly enter the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. You don't bother locking.

You don't know how long you stay there, quiet, shaking, your mind trying to piece together what you just saw. You stay there for hours. You stay there for seconds. Time stretches on like infinity itself, yet even then, it's too short.

You're alone with him. It's a thought you never even had until now. You're alone with him.

Satoru is outside. You don't look at him, staring at the floor, looking at the carpet, counting each strand. You keep your head down when you return to the bedroom.

He follows. You say nothing. You don't look. You don't look, even when the covers shift and he gets into bed behind you. You don't look, even when there's a hand on your shoulder. You don't look, even when there's a chest pressed against your back.

You shiver, you shake. You don't look. He says nothing, even when you break down completely.

You wake up alone the next morning.

You don't waste a second. You're stumbling through the room, picking up your clothes, packing everything that you need. You're so panicked that you manage to knock over an alarm clock.

It's habit to reach down and pick it up. Learned politeness to scrutinize it to make sure it isn't broken.

A black dot stares back at you.

A camera.

Horrible memories of last night come back. He was watching something on his phone.

You feel nauseous, about to give all over the floor. You need to go. You needed to get out of there.

The apartment is silent, like it always is when Satoru isn't here. You just hadn't noticed how cold it was, lifeless. It makes the pit on your stomach gap. You expect the windows to be bolted shut. They aren't. Sunlight streams through the glass. The front door is unbarred too.

It's easy to leave.

You stop anyway. One question.

Where would you go?

You can't go back home. Miyashiro's body still haunts you. His soul in your body, torn apart with such hatred and vitriol. Those people were still looking for you. The only reason you were still alive was because Miyashiro took your death bed.

You'd die if you went back home.

You can't go to jujutsu tech. You'd be expected to lay down your life, serve a maskless force that pretended to do good. You'd certainly die. Ripped apart by curses.

You'd be slaughtered if you went to the school.

Every route is treacherous, nearly impossible, full of dangers and unknowns.

At least, you know what Satoru wants.

He's made it clear since the beginning. You were just willfully ignorant. Oblivious on purpose. More than happy to ignore the red flags because you knew he was a kind person to his students, ignoring the dichotomy of his actions.

Two things can be right at once.

Satoru won't stop you if you run. He told you that himself. You could leave if you wanted, and he won't follow. But every other path is filled with an intangible value, and Satoru is the monster you know.

Your hand falls away from the doorknob.

You get started on dinner.

You're still there when Satoru comes back. You say nothing. Neither does he. Dinner is a quiet affair. He doesn't talk about his day, he doesn't talk about his students. When you wash the plates, he's quietly standing behind you. When you get out of the shower, he's waiting outside the bathroom.

You can't bring yourself to look at him until you get into bed. Your eyes trail up, past his legs, his shoulders, his neck. Looking into Satoru's crystal blue eyes.

Blank. Numb. Empty.

You think of the cameras. You think of your stolen underwear.

You think of how much his eyes must hurt right then.

You raise one hand out, grasping the sleeve of his shirt. It's barely a tug, but the monster follows like he's weightless, crawling into bed. He's too big to hold properly, but he sinks into your body anyway. His forehead rests against your chest. His eyes close. You don't feel that ice anymore.

“What do you see, Satoru?”

“Nothing.” A pause. A stilted breath.

“Nothing but you.”

He was right in the end. Satoru is a monster. There's no other word that can describe him. Inhuman, far above humanity itself. But he's the monster you'd pick, every single time.

#yandere #yandere jjk #dark jjk #dark gojo satoru #yandere gojo satoru #yandere x reader #dark gojo satoru x reader #yandere gojo satoru x reader #yandere jjk x reader #dark jjk x reader #minor character death

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acid-ixx · 3 months ago

Text

brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)

ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.

you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.

it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.

it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.

you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.

blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.

yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.

blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.

and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.

in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.

you've come to love blood, cherish it even.

especially if it's your own.

especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.

left, right, left, right.

his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.

he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.

yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.

up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.

and he'll come to regret.

you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.

because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.

he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.

as if he actually cares about you.

maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.

batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.

you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.

the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.

"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."

his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.

shit, you've never felt so happy.

it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.

blood.

you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.

you're genuinely so fucking happy.

batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.

'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'

and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.

he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.

"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—

you look at him like he means the world all throughout.

"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.

you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.

"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.

"take my mask off, please?"

crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.

you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.

when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—

all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.

no... wait, no.

it's not...

it's not his... child?

you?

your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.

batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.

he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.

bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.

this, this day marks his sin.

and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.

crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.

yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.

short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.

#🌷... yael's works #🧁... yael's misc.#series: again & again #concept: brutus #yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #yandere batman #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x female reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere angst #platonic yandere #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n

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flowersforbucky · 5 months ago

Text

oil & water

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 5.8k

prompt - "If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so."

shout out to @ellemj for her encouragement with this ♡

warnings/tags: SMUT, vaginal penetration, oral sex (female receving), face sitting, mentions of violence, description of blood & wounds, no use of y/n, reader is afab, hurt/comfort trope, bickering & banter, friends to lovers, forced close proximity trope. 18 plus only!

“Roll your window up,” Bucky snaps at you as he turns down the music you had just put on moments ago. “The last thing we need is someone noticing the blood caked all over the entire right side of your body.”

As if the lack of functioning AC in the twenty-something year old getaway car (an early 2000’s model Chevy Aveo is inconspicuous, according to Sam) wasn’t stifling enough in the south Georgia summer, the annoyance radiating from the brooding super soldier sitting next to you adds an extra ten degrees.

Sure, Sam. Inconspicuous is the right word to describe a six foot, two hundred plus pound man with a metal arm cramped behind the driver’s seat of the equivalent to a clown car. Bright fucking cherry red and all.

“It’s 103 degrees outside.” You glare at him from the passenger seat, where you’re using a tattered handkerchief found in the glove compartment to put pressure on the knife wound on your shoulder. “I’m going to have a heatstroke.”

“You’re not going to have a heatstroke,” he rolls his eyes at you. “That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” you say under your breath, reluctantly rolling up the manual window with your still bleeding arm. “I got the fucking intel, did I not?”

You remove the USB drive from its secure location in the cup of your bra and flash it at Bucky. “Though we’ll be lucky if this thing still works after being drowned in boob sweat, since you won’t let me keep the window rolled down.”

“And nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He grabs the flashdrive from you and grimaces. “We’ll be at the safehouse in less than five minutes, if you can please just refrain from stroking out or bleeding out in the meantime.”

You glance down at the once white handkerchief clutched in your hand. “I’m not making you any guarantees.”

You're welcome for saving your ass, by the way, you resist adding.

Jokes aside, the energy exerted in bringing down over a dozen HYDRA agents in combination with the July heat and the substantial blood loss from your shoulder wound has you feeling woozier by the minute. Factor in a few potentially fractured ribs and a dislocated knee and you're in pretty rough shape.

As promised, just under five minutes later Bucky parks in front of a small trailer just outside the city limits of Valdosta. It's seen better days, but you don't mind as long as it has semi-functioning air conditioning.

Bucky is opening your car door and offering you a hand up before you can take in your surroundings. You force yourself out of your seat, ignoring his outstretched hand and attempting to stand on your own, doing your best to ignore the borderline blinding pain radiating from your right knee.

“Thanks, but I think I can–”

Your vision goes fuzzy as you stumble forward, right into Bucky's chest. Your hand instinctively clutches the fabric of his shirt as you attempt to regain your balance.

“Let me guess. You're capable of stitching up your own shoulder, too?”

He gently loops his arm around your waist, slowly walking the two of you to the front door of the trailer. You try to focus on keeping pressure on the gash on your shoulder and not the feeling of his toned body pressed against you. How does he smell so good after hand to hand combat and sitting in that sauna of a car? You're sure you probably smell like a wet diaper that's been left in the sun for–

Bucky opens the door and guides you inside. The interior of the safehouse is surprisingly homey and clean. It's still uncomfortably warm, but offers a nice reprieve from the violent mid-day sun.

Bucky leads you into the small living space before maneuvering you out of his hold, where you all but collapse onto a suede sofa.

“I guess you do have some amount of good luck, after all,” you mumble, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky glances at you from over his shoulder as he flicks on the AC.

“That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck,” you quote his sarcastic comment from the car ride.

“Ha-ha-ha,” he fake laughs just as you did. He rummages through a few cabinets and drawers of the small kitchen before finding everything he’s searching for, then makes his way back to where you are on the couch.

“Drink this.” He hands you a bottle of water that you hadn't even noticed him grab. For once you don't object to his instructions, uncapping the bottle and gulping down the contents as quickly as you can.

“You're not having a heatstroke,” he assures you. “But you are going to have to let me stitch up this crater on your shoulder and pop your knee back into place.”

You sit forward, removing the now fully soaked cloth that you've been holding to your shoulder for the last half hour.

Bucky winces at the sight of it, handing you a dishrag before opening a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You might want to bite down on–”

“I know the drill.” You sigh before putting the rag between your teeth.

He hesitates for a moment before pouring the clear liquid over the wound. You groan against the rag, your eyes squint shut in pain. You've had your fair share of broken bones and black eyes working in this field, but you don't think you'll ever get used to the pain of getting stitches without the comforts of saline solution and anesthesia.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dabbing the cut dry with a paper towel.

Your heart skips a beat at the nickname. “It's part of the job. I've come out of missions worse than this before,” you shrug, squeezing the dish rag he gave you until your knuckles go white as he makes the first incision.

“Never because of me.”

You glance at him, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. His gaze doesn't leave the thread and needle that he's using to close up the gash on your arm - his normally plump pout set into a hard line.

“You know this isn't your fault, right?” You keep your eyes locked on him. “I saw that guy coming at you out of nowhere and I panicked. I wasn't watching my own back. That's my fault, not yours,” you say earnestly.

“If you say so.” He glances up for a split second, giving you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Is that why you've been such a grouch? You're blaming yourself for me not being careful enough?”

“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “Or maybe I just hate seeing you covered in blood for any reason.”

You freeze at the bluntness of his words. You and Bucky have been partners on more missions than you could count at this point - you know that he would have done the same for you if the situation had been reversed; in fact, there had been times where he had taken the brunt of the fight in order to protect you.

All of those instances suddenly flash through your mind.

The time he used himself as a human shield when there was a bomb set off during a recon mission at a warehouse in Tokyo. Or when he football tackled you out of the direct line of an incoming dagger during an operation in Portland. Not to mention the time he left a job all the way in Prague unfinished because he merely suspected you had a concussion.

You had always chalked it up to “that’s what partners do,” but the pained expression on his face as he refuses to meet your eyes has you questioning if there could possibly be more to it.

No. You’re his partner. He’d do the same for anyone else. He wouldn’t want to see anyone on his team covered in blood if he could prevent it.

The two of you sit in a thick silence while he finishes stitching you up.

“There,” he says at last, clipping the excess suture thread with scissors. “Not quite as good as your stitch work, but I think it’ll hold you together.” His voice isn’t as strained as it was moments ago, though you can't help but notice it sounds forced.

“Thank you,” you tell him, ignoring the way your cheeks warmed the tiniest bit at his compliment. “Now for the really fun part,” you add, staring at your throbbing knee.

“You’re in luck,” he says, perking up a bit. “I’ve popped my own knees back into place an embarrassing amount of times, so this should be a breeze.” He repositions himself to have better access to your leg, moving off the couch to perch on the edge of the coffee table in front of you. You attempt to pull the tight fabric of your tactical pants up enough to give him unhindered access to your knee, but it’s too restrictive, immediately causing you to wince in pain.

“Fuck,” you huff. “I’m going to have to take these off.” You pop the button at the top of your pants and begin to push them down your thighs before insecurity can get the better of you. You try not to think about the fact that Bucky's never seen you in such little clothing - pants now pushed down to your calves, only your underwear and the bra and thin tank top you wore underneath the tactical vest that you took off as soon as you were in the safety of the getaway car left to cover you.

Hesitation flashes across Bucky’s face for a brief moment before he scoots over slightly, moving directly in front of you so that he can position his hands on either side of your kneecap. You’re painfully aware of the polar opposite feeling of his right and left hand - his flesh hand is warm and so much softer than you’d expect, his metal one icy and smooth. You aren’t sure which causes the visible goosebumps that now litter your skin.

Maybe it’s not his touch at all. Maybe it’s the way his eyes haven’t left your thighs since you exposed them.

Maybe it’s the fact that if you parted your legs just a few inches, he’d be nestled between them.

Chill out, you berate yourself. He's just relocating your knee for Christ's sake.

“On the count of three,” he starts and you brace yourself. “One, two–”

“MOTHERFUCKER.” You yell out at the same moment your knee creates a loud cracking noise that echoes off the walls of the small trailer. “You said count of three!”

“Would that really have made it less painful?” He shrugs, but doesn't move from where his knees brush against yours. “I think what you mean to say is “thank you, Bucky, you're a lifesaver and I'm now in your debt.”

“In your fuckin’ dreams,” you scoff. “I'm going to wash all of this blood and sweat off of me.” You move to push yourself off of the couch, tugging your pants back up as you stand. You can feel his eyes trail up your body as you do, making you feel woozy all over again. You turn away from him, heading towards the hallway that the bathroom is likely located down.

“I could have done that through your pants, by the way.”

You freeze mid-step, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “What do you mean?” You snap at him.

“Your knee,” he clarifies, a hint of undeniable mischief in his expression. “I could have popped your knee back into place through your pants. If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so.”

Just when you thought the safehouse was starting to cool down, your entire body heats up a thousand degrees. You're racking your brain trying to think of a retort when Bucky's ringtone starts blaring from the kitchen countertop. He ignores it, his eyes not leaving yours for what feels like an eternity.

You finally break the silence. “That's most likely Sam wanting to make sure we're not dead. Should probably answer it.”

“Probably should,” he smirks, and at last gets up from the coffee table to answer the phone.

You scurry the rest of the way to the bathroom before he can look back at you again, ignoring the sharp pains that radiate from your ribcage and the now dull ache that spreads from your knee.

You turn the water to cold, and don't get out until you've started to shiver.

— — — — —

When you exit the bathroom and step back into the connected bedroom in only a towel, you see that Bucky has done you the kindness of bringing in the bags that had been stored in the backseat of the getaway car.

You dig through your backpack, pulling out a fresh t-shirt and pair of leggings. From the next room, you can smell the aroma of whatever non-perishable food that Bucky has scrounged together. Despite your growing hunger pains, you take your sweet time combing through your freshly rinsed hair. The thought of looking Bucky in the eye after your last interaction nearly makes you lose your appetite.

What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn't thinking at all, otherwise I wouldn't have just pushed my fucking pants down right in front of–

“Your five course dinner is getting cold.” Bucky raps his fingers against the bedroom door, startling you from your thoughts.

“Be right there,” you call back to him, swiping some deodorant under your arms. You take a glance at yourself in the bedroom’s small vanity mirror and immediately wish that you hadn't – you're cleaner than you were by miles, at least no longer covered in your own blood as well as the blood of HYDRA agents – but your cheekbone is lightly bruised, there's a slit on your bottom lip, and the bags under your eyes make it look like you haven't had a decent night's sleep in a month.

You take a deep breath and then walk back to the one room that makes up the kitchen, dining area and living room.

“Beef or shrimp ramen?” Bucky asks as you climb onto one of the barstools on the opposite side of the counter from where he's standing.

“Hm,” you contemplate, not meeting his stare and instead occupying yourself with another bottle of water that he's placed where you now sit.

Fucker probably wouldn't fluster me so bad if he wasn't being so damn thoughtful.

“I'll go with shrimp,” you answer, remembering that beef is his favorite.

He slides the bowl across the counter and then hands you a fork. You finally get the nerve to look up and meet his stare that feels as if it weighs two tons.

“So, what did Sam say?” You try to go for light conversation, twisting the fork around your noodles. “Are we free to get out of here once it's dark out?”

“Not…quite,” he hesitates, now seeming particularly interested in his own food. “The car battery kind of died.”

“What do you mean the car battery kind of died?”

“While you were in the shower, I tried to move the car behind the house so that anyone driving by wouldn't immediately know that someone's here. It started fine, but as I was driving it around back it just.. stopped. Had to push it the rest of the way.”

You let out a dramatic groan as he continues.

“I called Sam again and he said the earliest they can send someone to get us is in the morning.”

“Well,” you exhale, blowing a raspberry with your lips. “We can flip a coin to see who gets the bed?” You ask lightheartedly. This isn’t the first time that you and Bucky have had an overnight mission together, but it is the first overnight mission where the two of you haven’t had your own motel rooms or at least a safehouse with two beds.

He looks at you quizzically, furrowing his eyebrows. “You really think there’s a chance of me making you sleep on the couch? In your condition?”

“My condition?” you laugh. “I’ve got a few stitches, I’m not dying of cancer.”

“You don’t think I’ve noticed the way it’s uncomfortable for you to inhale and exhale? You’ve probably got a couple fractured ribs with the way you landed on that cement. If not fractured, then at least heavily bruised. You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

Between his tone and the look on his face, you know it isn’t up for debate. You throw your hands up in faux surrender.

“Serving me instant ramen and letting me take the king sized bed?” you say teasingly. “Keep it up and I'm going to think that you're soft on me.”

His gaze on you is heavy as he takes a long sip of water from his own bottle. “Wouldn't that be a shame?”

— — — — —

The rest of the afternoon is spent with you lounging in bed, resting your injuries and reading some cheesy western romance novel that you found in the drawer of the bedside table.

Bucky keeps to the living room, where you hear a violent sounding movie playing from a TV that has to be as old as you are.

You tell yourself that you're staying in the bedroom because you need to take it easy and relax, but truthfully you feel suffocated by the tension that has been escalating between you and Bucky since you arrived here.

A certain level of tension had always been there, you knew deep down. From the first time the two of you met almost two years ago.

Bucky had been formally introduced to the team just a few weeks prior, and it was his first official mission. An undercover mission - just the two of you.

Posing as an engaged couple at a party thrown at the estate of a notorious crime boss in order to obtain intel. Pretty straight forward - it was far from your first undercover mission. And then it was sprung on you at the last minute that the man who you'd only met once, less than a month ago, was to be your fiancé for the evening.

The bastard even went as far as to slip the fake engagement ring on your finger himself.

“Natasha picked this out. She said it needed to be a princess cut, because that's what you like.”

You chuckled as he went to slide the rock onto your ring finger. “What? You're not going to get down on one knee?”

The mission went shockingly smooth, you and Bucky were in and out with the needed intel in just a few hours. But those few hours replayed in the back of your mind more often than you care to admit.

The way his arm stayed wrapped securely around your shoulder or waist the entire hour that you mingled as guests. How he pulled you into a slow dance to discuss the plan for sneaking into the study on an off-limits floor. The musky smell of his aftershave and the spearmint on his breath.

And especially the way he referred to you as his “bride” when introducing yourselves to people, on more than one occasion throughout the night.

“And who is this absolutely beautiful young woman on your arm?” an elderly man with eye boogers and booze on his breath asks Bucky.

“This is my bride,” Bucky introduces you, giving him your undercover name. “She is beautiful, isn’t she? Most beautiful woman here, if I do say so myself.”

Saying that Bucky played his part well that night would have been an understatement. Saying that he played his part scarily well would be a more accurate assertion.

After grabbing the intel and fleeing the scene, neither of you ever mentioned that mission again. Not the lingering touches, smoldering stares - not even the way he shoved you up against the wall of a corridor, cupped your face in his large hands, and kissed you senseless for half a minute when you came close to getting caught sneaking into the private office by security at the very end of the evening.

“Do you think that was believable?” he asks nervously, his hands still clutching your face as he looks around the hallway for any lingering guards.

“Ye-yeah,” you stutter breathily. “As believable as it possibly could be.”

There’s a light knock on the partially open bedroom door that draws you back to the reality of the safehouse. You realize that you’ve been staring at the same paragraph in your book for the last half hour.

"Yeah?” you answer, bringing yourself to a sitting position.

Bucky peaks his head around the door, opening it further so that you can see what he is carrying.

“I’m tired of watching old James Bond movies,” he sighs, glancing between you and the stack of board games in his arms. “I found these in the TV stand.”

“I kicked your ass in Battleship last time we played,” you remind him. “Do you really want a rematch of that?”

“How about we make a bet?”

— — — — —

Half an hour later, you've eaten your own words, now owing Bucky a large meat lovers pizza from his favorite parlor in Brooklyn and two weeks worth of laundry duty when you return to the compound.

“How'd you get so good?” you demand as he makes the winning attack. “You were so lame at this last time.”

“Maybe I just let you win last time,” he shrugs with a shit-eating grin.

You just shake your head in defeat, wincing as you stand up from where you had been playing on the shag area rug in the living room.

“No,” you declare firmly. “No, I don't believe that. There's no way you'd willingly let me win anything. I've learned that the hard way during hand to hand combat training way too many times.”

Bucky belly laughs from where he still sits on the floor, his gaze trailing after you.

You walk over to where he has piled the board games on the coffee table, trying to find something you were confident you could win.

Monopoly isn't fun with only two players, Risk takes too long —

Your eyes lock onto a card game peeking out from underneath the Sorry! box.

You pick it up, turning back to face him with a growing smile on your face.

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “I'm over a hundred years old–”

“What does age have to do with truth or dare?!” You exclaim, sitting back down on the floor once more.

“I haven't been roped into a game of truth or dare since the 1930's,” he groans.

“Scared of what you might have to do?” You tease, unboxing the cards. “Or what you might have to admit?”

He stares at you for a long moment, pursing his lips. The disapproval doesn't quite reach his eyes - you can tell by the way they gleam that he's going to cave.

“Maybe a bit of both,” he admits. He tousles his fingers through his hair and moves to cross his legs at the ankles. “Fine,” he relents. “One game.”

You squeal like a kid in a candy store as you shuffle the deck of cards and lay them in a stack between you.

“Elders first,” you motion to the pile.

He rolls his eyes, drawing one from the top – dare.

“Smell another player's armpit,” he deadpans. You're instantly thankful that you remembered to cram a stick of deodorant into your backpack when packing for the mission.

“Well?” You lift up your arm. “I'm the only other player here and it's not going to sniff itself.”

Bucky sighs, leaning across the game to put his nose directly next to the opening of your t-shirt sleeve. “Lavender,” he observes after inhaling, giving you an approving nod. “As far as dares go, I got lucky.”

“Lucky that I showered earlier,” you mumble as you draw your turn, your cheeks warming slightly.

Truth.

“Who was your last kiss with and what was it like?”

Your heart plummets to your stomach as you read the words aloud. Bucky waits impatiently as you fiddle with the piece of paper in your hands.

“Might I remind you, you are the one who wanted to play this game so desp–”

You hold up a finger and make a shushing sound, silencing him as he grins menacingly.

“My last kiss was almost two years ago,” you answer honestly, looking back down at the card to avoid his stare. He can always tell when you're lying, why even try?

“With a man I barely knew,” you continue. “We had to pretend to be in love for the evening. It was a shockingly easy thing to do. When he pushed me up against a wall and kissed me as a distraction to security guards, I had to remind myself that it was an act. We never spoke about it again. But now two years later, I'm telling him that I think of that kiss often.”

When you finally look up, you can't decipher the look on his face. Long gone is the mischievous grin from just moments ago, in its place is.. shock? Perplexity?

“And why exactly have you not kissed anyone else since then?” He asks quietly.

“Nope,” you say, popping your lips on the p. “That's not how the game works, you don't get to add sub-questions.”

His eyes don't leave yours as he draws his next card.

His turn for truth. He glances down to read his question.

“Have you ever wanted to have sex with any of the players?”

Forget your cheeks feeling warm - your entire body feels like it's on fire as you wait for him to answer.

He chuckles, tossing the card on top of the other two that had already been picked.

“Every goddamn day since I kissed her almost two years ago.”

You aren't sure which one of you snaps first. You lunge forward at the same moment that he's leaning across the splay of cards to grasp your face in his hands just like he did in that corridor two years ago. The same hint of spearmint on his breath, a bit more stubble on his jaw, and a sense of desperation that wasn't there before.

He moves his hands to your lower back, pulling you flush against him as you both sit on your knees. Your own hands find the hem of his shirt, your fingers dancing across the skin of his waistline.

“I asked you why you haven't kissed anyone since we last kissed,” he murmurs against your lips when he pulls away, both of you breathless. “You don't have to answer, but that..” his mouth moves to the side of your throat where he trails open-mouth kisses across the sensitive flesh of your pulse point.

“That's why I haven't kissed anyone else, either.”

A pathetic, small moan escapes past your lips at his admission. In a split second decision, you take control. You place your hands across his chest, pushing him down onto the shag rug that you'd been playing games on just moments ago. He lets himself fall back, pulling you with him.

You straddle him, positioning yourself directly on his already evident erection. You drag yourself forwards, and then backwards, desperate for friction - he groans beneath you, jutting upwards.

The fabric of your pants between you feels like a prison.

You scoot back a few inches - just far enough to give yourself enough room to unbutton his jeans.

“Wait, wait,” he stops you as you're about to begin pulling down his pants and underwear. You freeze, petrified that you've crossed a line–

“I haven't stopped thinking about having your thighs wrapped around my head since I saw them earlier,” he says as he hooks his hands around them and hauls you up to his chest. “Take these off and sit on my face.” He tugs on the waistline of your leggings.

“If you wanted me to take my pants off for you so badly, you could have just said so,” you echo his earlier teasing.

“I'm asking you now, sweetheart,” his voice has a strained edge to it. “Don't make me beg.”

Though the notion of him begging has wetness pooling down your thighs, you're too eager to entertain it.

You stand up, directly above him as he keeps his position on the floor. You shimmy your leggings down your thighs, this time completely removing them and tossing them somewhere behind you. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and throws it in the general direction of your discarded pants.

With you still standing above him, he leans forward so that his face brushes against the inside of your thighs. He brings his hands to the band of your underwear, hooking his fingers and slowly pulling them down until they're at your ankles.

You slip them off as he lays back down on the floor. A bit apprehensively, you sit so that your bare pussy is against his hard chest.

“Just stop me if it's too uncomfortable or if you can't breathe or any–”

He cuts you off by all but picking you up and hauling you up to his face.

“I wouldn't worry about that,” his voice vibrates against the flesh of your innermost thighs. He tugs you down just one more inch so that his mouth makes contact with your center.

You gasp out in pleasure as his tongue begins exploring your folds. There's no restraint about it - he sets a brutal pace, alternating between fucking his tongue into your cunt and sucking on your clit.

You're writhing above him, grinding your pussy against his mouth. You go to squeeze your breasts, pulling your t-shirt off when you realize it's the one clothing article you've yet to shed.

When he realizes that you're now completely naked above him, he lets out an animalistic groan as he laps a thick lick up your center.

The vibration, in addition to him now squeezing your ass with enough pressure that he's bound to leave behind fingertip shaped bruises, is enough to send you spiraling to your climax.

You involuntarily squeeze your thighs around his cheeks, riding out your orgasm as he continues to wrap his lips around your throbbing clitoris.

You go still for a moment, aside from your heaving chest, as you come back down to earth.

You climb off of him, your jellified legs nearly causing you to collapse onto the floor next to him.

He props himself up with one arm, looking down at you. His face is thoroughly glistening with your juices.

You can't help but think he's never looked hotter.

A proud grin begins to form across his features as you pull him down to you by the back of his neck.

You kiss him with as much feverency as you can muster in your post orgasm haze, tasting the semi-sweet tang of your come on his lips and tongue.

“It's your turn to get these off,” you demand, drawing back from the kiss to pull at the waistband of his pants.

“Can I at least take you to the comfy bed before this goes any further?” he bargains. “You are still recovering from multiple injuries, you know.”

“I can assure you that I've never felt better.” But you let him have his way. He stands before picking you up, lifting you so that you can wrap your legs securely around his midsection. His large hands planted firmly on your ass, he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Your nipples pebble as they press against his bare chest.

He gently places you on top of the comforter before standing back, at last removing his jeans and boxers. His cock springs forward, slapping against his lower belly.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. If it had been a long time since you had been kissed, it had been even longer since you had been fucked.

He crawls onto the bed, hovering above where you lay. You automatically open your legs to allow him between them.

His eyes rake up and down your body, pausing on your breasts.

"You're goddamn stunning.”

Before you can respond, he's leaning down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, the sensation has you arching your back into his touch. You can feel the tip of his cock jutting against your core - teasing but not yet entering.

He starts to line himself up at your hole, his eyes locking onto yours as he pumps himself in his hand. He brings his lips down to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth at the same moment he nudges his tip past your entrance.

There's a blissful burn as he cautiously buries himself inside you - you're simultaneously thankful that he's going slow and needing him balls deep. He pushes in, inch by inch, until you're filled to the hilt. When he can't get any deeper, he pulls back - and slams back into you all at once.

You swear you can feel him in your stomach. You look down at where your bodies connect, the sight of him sliding in and out of you enough to have you on the edge of climaxing again already.

He brings his metal hand to knead your breast.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've pictured having you under me like this?” He coos. You gyrate your hips to meet his thrusts, causing his eyes to roll back into his head.

“How many times I've thought about what your little moans would sound like?”

Your only answer is a gutteral moan of his name as you wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into the flesh of his back.

“Your pussy feels even more like heaven than I imagined it would.”

His praises send you over the edge - you're coming for a second time, clenching around him as his thrusts grow messy. He fucks you through your orgasm before he loses control himself, burying his face in the curve of your neck as he spills into you.

With you still panting and limp beneath him, his movements gradually come to a stop but he doesn't pull out - instead he flips you to your side and maneuvers himself into a spooning position behind you.

He peppers soft kisses along the skin of your shoulder, being careful to avoid your stitches, and relaxes beside you.

“Remind me to dislocate my knee more often,” you joke, processing everything that just happened.

He snorts, then tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “Remind me to play truth or dare with you more often.” He captures your lips in his, this kiss slower than any of the ones before.

“I guess it would be weird to make you do my laundry for two weeks now, huh?” He teases, earning a laugh from you.

“You do still owe me a pizza, but I'll be happy to share it with you.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #pvris #oil & water #oil & water by pvris #song fic

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theshitpostcalligrapher · 3 months ago

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okay so i went to go looking for a clean scan in order to get prints ordered today and pick them up either late today or early tomorrow but it SEEMS that i never scanned the original

so here's a recreation of the design

I have a 7pm to close that I gotta be working today, so with any luck, I'll have the energy to scan and clean it after work, order prints, pass out, and pick them up tomorrow

when making designs for prints, I don't apply metallics until after theyre printed, which is why the distinctive silver isn't here on the drop cap

this was originally a post on tumblr. as usual, I have the OP's paypal so they may receive their cut of print sales

in any case, the listing should be up and ready to go within a few days!

#calligraphy

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bi-rising · 2 years ago

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yknow I always get caught up thinking that my Issues™ are a moral failing on my part, and then I have an energy drink for the first time in weeks and I’m suddenly able to focus and move and do all of the chores that have been piling up, and I go, oh yeah, adhd, huh

#I’ve done so MUCH today #like I’ve cleaned and I’ve done masters homework #I’ve done the LAUNDRY!! and remade my bed!!!#did the dishes and hand washed all my metal tumblrs #and I’ve even had the energy to keep my newly cleaned desk CLEAN #bro adhd is one hell of a thing isn’t it

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carriondell · 6 months ago

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mechanic reader who fawns over boothill's machine body with torrents of praise worthy of the sappiest romance novels—but doesn't even consider the man attached to all those gorgeous wires and fine pistons and elegant hydrolics and ooh, what an efficient system of dynamic pseudo-muscle memory!! you're so honoured to work with this beauty, to innovate upon it, even!

boothill, meanwhile, is fighting for his life to be acknowledged.

exhibit A:

he's laying on a metal slab in your lab, half of his chest popped open, your fingers fiddling inside with the tubes that feed into a fuel tank. you acquired top-grade Neutrinoil(TM) and you simply HAD to deep-clean and upgrade his plumbing. so he has to watch and bear it while you're straddling him, hands in his guts, cooing about how perfectly efficient he's about to be, how much energy he'll have, how that "awesome new engine's gonna exploit every last drop, not an inkling wasted, and this beautiful machine will run for ages."

"if ya like it so much, why not drop by my ship later? i could show ya a trick or two. put that new energy to use."

you perk up with excitement, and for a glimmering instant he thinks he's got it in the bag, until you gleefully announce, "oh, no, let's do it in my workshop! i'll hook you up to the scanners first, i must collect as much data as possible!! wait, is it a physical trick or should i also plug in the peri-mental data receptors?"

#boothill x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader

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tasteracha · 1 year ago

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kinktober - day thirteen

kink: camcorder with minho ft. chan

warnings: smut - MINORS DNI. threesome (kind of), chan is a perv, afab!reader, teensy bit of manipulation

chan didn’t think this would happen when he asked minho to borrow his camcorder a couple days ago - all he wanted was to record some practice videos to upload to youtube. he didn’t think before he took it, didn’t think before he looked through minho’s old footage of his dancing that he keeps for memories, didn’t think before watching what he watched.

it was a video of you. and minho.

in his defense, the storage on the memory card was almost full and chan was just looking for something that could be deleted to free up space - and wouldn’t minho check the storage to see if there was anything he didn’t want chan seeing first? if anything, this is minho’s fault.

sure, it’s minho’s fault that chan is one second away from jerking off to the sight of you getting fucked into oblivion by his best friend, the grainy pixels leaving little to nothing to his imagination. your moans sound tinny from the low quality speakers, minho’s grunts accenting the sounds coming from your mouth as he fucks you up against the studio mirrors. your breath is fogging up from where your face is pressed against the glass, sweaty handprints from the both of you staining the surface. minho better have cleaned those mirrors after that, chan’s delirious mind supplies as he continues watching the footage he should have turned off minutes ago.

the video is from the same angle as their dance practices, the same walls on display and oh fuck chan doesn’t think he’s been this hard in his entire life. that’s the room that he dances in, he’s leaned up against that exact mirror, panting and overexerted, he’s been yelled at by minho for messing up the choreography in that exact place.

he tries. he tries so hard to forget what he saw, to get the image of you shaking apart when you came out of his head. to stop thinking about the way your skin went white from where minho was gripping it. to restrain from gripping his cock in his hand under his blanket with his eyes screwed shut and the symphony of your combined noises playing in his head like a song he couldn’t get off of repeat.

but how could he when he had to go back into that rehearsal room just a few days later to practice? what excuse could he possibly give his members about why he wanted to switch rooms from this one? the room that’s full of their most precious memories, full of laughter and tears and piles of sweaty cuddles on the floor? no, he couldn’t. what he could do was avoid that spot like it was poisonous, standing on the farthest edge of the room after practice was over, chugging water and thinking about how you both have probably fucked on the floor there, or those couches, or by the closet door.

he doesn’t notice you at first, sliding into the room to hand minho a cold water bottle and press a kiss to his cheek. the other members were slowly trickling out, passing tired greetings to you as they shuffled past, eager to go home and shower. when only minho and him were left, you went to approach him only to find his eyes already on you, glazed over at you but not really seeing.

he looks at you and all he can see is the way you were pressed up against the glass, your tits squished but somehow still bouncing, the screwed up features of your face when you were overwhelmed in pleasure. all he can hear are those metallic sounding moans, all he can feel is the urge to fall at your feet-

“bang chan,” minho snaps, jerking chan out of his fantasy. “where is my camera? you’ve had it for a while, i wanted to record the new choreography.”

“oh!” chan is starting to panic, he didn’t think that minho would ask after the camcorder so soon. he didn’t have time to prepare, didn’t have the energy to create an excuse. “there was too much storage on it, so i didn’t get to record what i wanted and i forgot to ask you about it.”

he’s biting his tongue now, cursing himself for saying too much. couldn’t he just have said he would give it back tomorrow?

“i didn’t think about the storage,” minho starts, not sounding like he had anything to hide. did he truly not know about what he had left on that camera for chan to find? “did you see anything interesting?”

he knows. he knows. chan is beginning to sweat, he can feel it in his hair and under his arms and he wants to bury a hole by his feet so he can jump into it and never climb out.

“haha, no,” he says, packing up the rest of his bag so that he didn’t have to look at minho. or you, who’s been silent since you walked in, watching him carefully. for all he wasn’t scared of minho and his adorably empty threats, he was terrified of you. “i didn’t even look. just saw that the storage was full, you know?”

he sounds awkward. he is awkward, right now.

“chan,” you trail a finger down his arm, speaking for the first time since you arrived and he’s gone, your touch leaving raised hairs in your wake. you should be angry, you should be livid, why are you touching him like that- “come over tonight to mine would you? we wanted to have you over for a while, minho wanted to cook for you. and you can give him the camera back then.”

“oh,” chan is sure that his face is flushed completely red by now, but he nods anyways. “sure! i’m free tonight. i’ll be there at seven? or whenever is good for you, i’m free. wait, i said that already-”

“perfect,” minho purrs, taking one of your hands in his and laying the other on chan’s shoulder. “seven is perfect. see you then, chan.”

he gets to your place early and sits in his car for 30 minutes, chewing at his fingernails and tapping his leg at an alarming pace. the more he thinks about it the more he overthinks - did they just want to yell at you in private instead of at the company building? did they really not know? what if he confessed and they didn’t know? what if they never speak to you again?

he has to take several deep breaths before leaving his car, and again before he knocks on your door. he’s ushered in by you, bright smiles on yours and minho’s faces as you take the camera out of his hands, and by the time he has a glass of wine in his hand and he’s sitting on the couch while minho puts the finishing touches on dinner he’s almost fully relaxed. he’s been here so many times, your apartment being a refuge to all the boys when they wanted to get away from the dorms for a bit. this is normal.

“let me put something on for us to watch,” you say at the same time minho asks chan if he wanted more wine, and you sneak the camcorder towards the tv while chan was distracted, sniping at minho that no he doesn’t want a second glass he’s not even halfway through the first one. you plug it in, smiling when it connected to the right input immediately. you scroll through the files, fingers calm on the remote even though you were shaking in anticipation inside. when you get to the right file you click on it, turning up the volume.

the image of you and minho takes over the tv, sounds coming out of the tv in a much better quality than what chan had been used to. his head whips towards the tv, wine forgotten and eyes wide as he takes in the video that you put on.

“what?” he asks, almost in a gasp as his eyes flicker back and forth between the tv, you, and minho, who had finally exited the kitchen and joined you in the living room.

“we thought since you loved it so much, we would watch it together,” minho explains, much more casually than one should be when playing a video of them fucking their girlfriend in front of their best friend. “why, is something wrong?”

“i-”, chan cuts himself off, panic choking his voice. “i’m so sorry-”

“hey,” you move towards him, sitting against his side and taking one of his hands in both of yours. “that isn’t what this is about. we don’t mind, okay?”

“we couldn’t let him sputter on for a bit more?” minho pouts, crossing his arms at you. “it was funny.”

“min, be nice,” you scold, smiling at chan.

“channie, i would have beat you up when i found out if i wanted to,” minho relents, siting on chan’s other side, sandwiching him between you both. “she likes that you watched it. i like it. okay? just relax and be good for us.”

minho’s words wash over chan, leaving him in a sort of daze. be good for us, minho had said. he could do that, chan was so good at being good. he melts against the couch, the heat from both of your bodies enveloping him as he takes in the video he’s seen over and over already.

“you planned this?” he asks, breathless and mesmerized.

“of course i did,” minho scoffs, squeezing one of chan’s thighs in his warm hand. “you think i would just let you watch that without planning it? i’m not that stupid.”

you’re not, but maybe i am, chan thinks, and he only realizes that he said it out loud when you start giggling and lean your head into his shoulder to hide your laughter.

he wants to retort, to somehow defend himself, but then video-minho changes his angle and starts fucking video-you even harder than before and whatever words were in his throat stayed behind the lump there.

“do you want to do that to her?” minho asks, hand trailing up chan’s thigh, leaving behind phantom pinpricks of sensation. he lets his blunt nails rake over chan’s leg, the delicate material of his workout pants providing no protection.

“can i?” chan breathes out, looking at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“please,” you wiggle your legs open a bit, a clear invitation. his hand comes to rest on your thigh and it’s so big, so much bigger than minho’s. he slides it up, to the hem of your oversized shorts, dipping his fingers closer to your panties and -

he stops.

“but, i also want…” he ducks his head down, trying to hide his flush before glancing at minho through his lashes. minho’s brow furrows, confusion clear on his face before he puts it together.

“oh, my channie,” he coos, running a hand through chan’s hair. “we can do that too, i promise. but my girl has been waiting so long for you, you don’t want to make her wait even longer, do you?”

chan shakes his head, entire body swaying with the force of it, reenergized by minho’s promise of more. he turns towards you and you feel your breath leave your body as you turn weighless for a moment, landing back on earth to find yourself straddling chan’s lap.

“you’re strong,” you praise, feeling up his biceps as you get comfy in his lap, ignoring minho’s indignant yelp next to you. chan beams up at you, both of his hands cupping your ass and using it as leverage to pull you closer into him. his dick is hard in his pants, poking against your crotch, and you both let out lewd moans when you grind into him a bit. he glances at minho, a little insecure and still kind of uncomfortable, but minho just pulls him in and kisses him deeply. it’s a sight to see, like a movie playing out right in front of your eyes, the love of your life and his best friend making out right in front of you. chan tenses a bit but melts into the couch even faster, letting minho lead him into blissful submission as he cups his face and moves it right how he wants it.

when they part, chan’s lips are cherry red and so wet, glistening in the light from the lamps decorating the room. you can’t help but kiss him too, licking minho’s essence off of him and reveling in the way he bucks up into you like he can’t help it.

chan slides his lips to the right, peppering kisses to the corner of your lips, across your jaw and down your neck. he sucks at the spot right under your ear that makes you see stars, heat bursting in your lower belly. he was utterly intoxicated by your scent, your clean, floral body wash taking over his senses until he was all but panting into your neck.

it almost hurts to pull back from him, it’s like a stab right to your heart when he makes a wounded noise at the loss of contact, but you need more from him. any thoughts that you might have had of seducing him, of wining and dining him and showing him how much you really wanted him, died out once you felt his hands on you. you’ve been crushing on this man for almost as long as you’ve been crushing on minho, and you weren’t going to give this opportunity any time to ruin itself; you knew chan, knew how his self-consciousness and second-guessing worked, and if you wanted him you needed to take him now before he changed his mind.

you reach for the drawstring on his pants, pulling it open and sticking your hand in, rubbing him through his boxers. next time you’d have more decorum, you’d suck him off until he was right on the edge and make him sob when you refuse to let him come, you’d let him fuck you into the mattress and let him pin you down, but not right now.

“on the couch?” chan asks, eyes wide as they flicker back and forth between you and minho.

“you know we’ve done it in worse places,” minho says, humor lining his words as the lust takes over his eyes at the thought of what was about to happen. a burst of affection takes over you as you look at him, your perfect soulmate who understood you and your desires and shared them with you like you shared everything else.

“never knew you were such an exhibitionist,” chan snipes back at him, gasping when you tug him out of his pants and boxers, the stretch of his waistband making it easy. you only have to stroke him a few times until he’s fully hard, his cock red and leaking where it curves into his lower belly.

“minho, help me,” you ask, blinking at minho through your eyelashes, and he knows what you want immediately; he hooks his fingers through your shorts and panties at once, pulling them down to your knees, just far down enough for you to be able to rub your bare pussy against chan’s cock.

“god, you’re so wet,” he curses, throwing his head back and sighing in time with the movement of your hips.

“for you, channie,” your voice cracks when his cock catches on your clit, and both of them are smart enough not to say anything about it. minho moves though, ever impatient, and lines chan’s cock up against your hole with practiced ease.

“thought about this a lot, did you?” you tease, knowing very well that both of you thought about this a little too much, sharing fantasies in hushes whispers when you were supposed to be asleep. .

minho clicks his tongue and presses himself up behind you, still fully clothed even though his dick was rock hard in his jeans. he places his hands on your hips and pushes you into chan, driving his cock deep into you. you collapse against chan’s chest, a surprised yelp leaving you at the unexpected fullness. chan echoes you, burying his face into your neck with a shudder.

“tease me again and see what i’ll do,” he says darkly, hands still in a death grip on your waist. you take his threat for what it is, knowing that he would follow through with his words, and you start grinding into chan in slow circles. his hands circle your waist, fingers tangled with minho as they let you set the pace.

“please,” chan whimpers, his breath tickling your neck. you want to tease him so badly, but how could you when he asked so politely? you shift your knees further onto the couch, gaining leverage so you could lift your hips higher up. you drop back down onto him and you both moan in unison.

you lift back up and drop down, again and again and again, finding a rhythm that fits both of you perfectly. it’s like a dance, moves that feel practiced and eased, spurred on by minho’s soft whispered praises towards the both of you. the video playing on the tv had reached its end, and every sound coming from you was heightened.

“what a pretty show, all for me,” minho moves away and finally takes his cock out of his jeans, fisting it and immediately starting to stroke himself off at a fast pace. you can’t see him, you miss the warmth of him against your back, but chan can’t take his eyes off of him, transfixed by the sight of his best friend jerking himself off to him and you as you’re bouncing on top of him.

you’re shaking apart on top of chan before you realize it, orgasm taking over you as you continue to ride him. you clench around him hard, and he’s spilling into you a second later, jerky little thrusts shaking your body on top of his. minho curses as he comes a moment later, too keyed up to extend his pleasure for long. this wasn’t about him anyways; at least, not this time.

you lift off of chan with a hiss, sending him a look of sympathy when he shivers in overstimulation. you don’t make it far, pulling him down to lay against you, your back pressed up against his front. both of your pants are still halfway off, but you can’t be bothered to care right now - you’re utterly exhausted, even from just one orgasm.

the both of you barely register minho draping a blanket over you before settling on the floor in front of you, leaning his head on the couch right by where chan’s hands were around your stomach. it’s so domestic, the three of you drifting towards one another so naturally that it just feels right. later, you’d get up and eat the now-cold dinner minho had painstakingly prepared, but for now you were content to lay in comfortable quiet.

“wait,” chan breaks the silence, and you have to resist the urge to groan at him. “how did you know that i watched it? what if the storage really was just full?”

“please, you’re too obvious,” minho teases, voice soft and drowsy, and you can hear the smile in it. “plus, you were watching it in the dorms, idiot. you’re lucky it wasn’t jeongin that caught you.”

kinktober masterlist

#stray kids smut #skz smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids drabbles #lee know smut #lee minho smut #bang chan smut #bang chan imagines #minchan #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader

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sophiethewitch1 · 2 months ago

Text

What We Want - Chpt. 8 - Jason Fucking Todd

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Well, look on the bright side of things. You’re not crying right now. That’s nice. You’re not an intern anymore. That’s nice. You struggle to think of anything else. Oh yeah, you’re rich! That’s also nice. You’re not dead. Nice.

This is kind of pathetic. You just feel bummed after having to break up with George a second time. And getting smacked right in the face by him. Which you know, anybody would be, you think. You don’t think a single soul has ever known the George Lancaster Break-Up Special more than once. And you didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to fall for that asshole more than once.

You couldn’t fake a brave face anymore, you just didn’t have the energy for it.

…And let’s not forget almost dying via Joker goon. Not even the man himself, just a random lackey. You think of how he literally disappeared in front of your eyes, and decide you are going to stop thinking. It’s doing you no good anyway.

Instead, you just start walking. Letting your feet and your intimate knowledge of Gotham’s streets, even in this area you don’t often frequent, guide you. You find yourself at the train station. With little consideration, you buy a ticket to the southern part of the city. The bad side of town, the docks, where your apartment used to be.

You feel like a little rat scurrying back into the sewers as you hop on the subway, tucking yourself in between people who don’t recognise you, probably because of your general dishevelment.

Shoulders knocking against strangers, you feel the most at home since this whole disaster started. You stare across the train car, watching a baby babble to its mother. It catches your eye, gives you a big toothless smile, and some snot dribbles into it’s mouth. The mother notices and cleans the baby up with a tissue. When she catches you staring, you give a very awkward but friendly smile, and she smiles back.

A tiny weight lifts off your shoulders. Surrounded by the chaos of Gotham, as the subway exits the tunnels and heads up onto the sky rails, you find yourself warm by the rays of sun through the clouds. The view is beautiful, as it always is. Usually, you’d be looking at your phone, too busy to enjoy the sights. But it really is beautiful.

It’s only when you hear the announcer calling out that you realise you did this for a reason, and dart out of your seat and through the narrowly closing doors. The metal closes behind you with a small hiss. The Docks station, for most people, would be one of the better Gotham train stations. Newly built, and with all the tourist money it was clean. Well, clean as it could get. You’d read some article about the bacteria the rats were carrying being not found anywhere else on earth, and you’d decided to stop reading articles.

Anyway, for you, even the shining marble of the station was a sad sight. Because you only ever came here on your very worst days.

This seemed like one of them.

The familiar streets flit past you, barely something you’re even cognisant of. This part of the city was mostly new, the concrete fresh under your feet instead of littered with potholes. Still, it wasn’t at the centre of the blast radius, so it hadn’t been totally demolished.

No, that was just up ahead. And like everything else in this weird new world, you immediately noticed something different. Where your family had died was… still there, for some reason.

With confusion, exhaustion, and no small bit of despair, you stop in the middle of the pathway outside the remnants of what used to be an old diner and was now just a pile of rocks. Some very charred rocks. Looking at the wreckage, you raise your brows. Its crumbling form is still under construction after all these years. The yellow caution tape is only a deterrence to you because you don’t want to end up on the gossip reels for a second time today. Looking around, you find yourself further confused. Lots of other parts of the pier had been redeveloped, but this piece of the puzzle still lay bare.

It didn’t, in your home, your world. It had been replaced with high-rise apartments, and since they were so close to the water, so pretty and new, you had no hope of affording them. It probably wouldn’t be very good for your mental health even if you could. Still, you’d taken many walks past the street. Enjoyed the little bit of dirty white concrete that had survived. You and your siblings had signed your names into it, and you’d stroked the sidewalk like the weirdo you were many times.

Like you did today. And today, for some reason, the rest of it was here. Untouched. A remnant of the disaster. As you run your thumb along the sharp edge of Julie’s J, you find yourself once again lost in your memories. They were like honey traps to you these days.

The mum-and-pops diner had been run by your uncle. It’d been in the family for three generations, and he was incorrigibly proud of it. You’d all had your birthday parties there, because it was free and you were poor. It wasn’t like your uncle would let you pay for the food anyway, it was just one of the few times Mum could stand the generosity. She didn’t like it when you had disappointing birthdays, and no matter how much you tried to fake your happiness, she could always see to your core. Eventually, you and your siblings all gave up on trying.

You were late. You were often late, but this time it was… it was the difference between life and death. If you’d been a few blocks further, a little bit earlier, you’d probably be dead too. Or at least have some serious hearing loss instead of just suffering mild tinnitus.

You had felt more than seen the destruction. The earth had rumbled, and a deafening roar had swept through the streets. You remember falling to your knees, the worry about being late morphing to worry for your best clothes to a true terror when you realised where the blast had come from.

When you realised your family was in the epicentre.

You sometimes wish you were on time that day. That you’d gotten to see them all, even if you went with them. It didn’t sound so bad, really. At least you wouldn’t be alone. Hmm, you should probably stop thinking like that. Or maybe go to a therapist about it.

Not that you could afford it. Oh, right. Rich now. That was really taking some getting used to.

You wonder if people who won the lottery felt the same way. Probably not, because the rest of the world reflected the changes the person felt. They’d have to go pick up the check, go to the bank, and if they let their family and friends know, deal with the consequences of that.

You’d just woken up rich. No time to adjust, your new life was here and it was demanding your attention very loudly. And soup-ly, unfortunately. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the rubble, you look towards your left, where you know the Memorial awaits you. It’s in the centre of the new shopping district, built on top of the bombed parts of Gotham. It sits right next to the water, the cold breeze a comfort that you’d turned to on more than one occasion.

You’d feel bad if you didn’t change your clothes. You told Grayson you would, and you already felt bad enough about... everything to do with him. You suppose he was your brother. Your ex-brother. Ex-step-brother. The ex-step-brother of a woman who you weren’t.

Really, he was just a stranger. It seemed he didn’t feel that way, though.

You start the walk towards the shopping district, and into the first clothes store you see. The prices on the tags would usually make you flinch, but well, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing seems to matter. Your survival is now guaranteed, might as well wear some clothes that feel nice on your skin.

You walk out of that store looking like you just robbed it. Even the clerk had given you a weird look but accepted the black card tucked in your phone without much complaint. It’s an improvement if a small one.

Once you’re done, like a moth to a flame, you drift towards the Memorial centre. You’re following all the steps you used to in the past, but somehow, it all feels a bit alien. The world looks a little different, a little uncomfortable. Your shoes are worn in, and yet they still feel too tight.

Uncanny valley. You feel unwelcomed here, unwanted. Like the very earth can tell that there’s something wrong in this scene, some intruder. You ignore the feeling as best you can.

The Memorial is just as unfamiliar as the diner was, maybe even more. You know that your mother was a Wayne before she died. You know that. But still seeing your family’s framed photos, right alongside Jason's is so shocking you nearly jump. It takes a moment of wide-eyed staring before you can manage to get past that. When you do, for some reason you still go back to your old habits. You walk by them, the bouquets and to where their names used to be in thin letters.

You count with your fingers, finding the fifty-second line.

A man’s name replaces the spot where your mother’s is. The little grooves the oil in your fingers had left behind were gone, and instead was sharp stone like when the monument was first erected. It cuts at your fingers. It no longer welcomes your touch.

James Whitaker. That’s the name of the man who took their spot.

You can already feel a rising obsession with the random dead man. If you were going to psycho-analyse yourself, you’d recognise that you didn’t feel that the images of the Waynes you’d created were no longer real, no longer safe to your escapist mindset. You’d realise, that this was all pretty unhealthy, and you really, really needed therapy.

Instead, you give the guy your condolences and start reading the other plinths. They seem largely the same. It’s not like you hadn’t read all of these towers of stone at one point or another, your eyes glazing over the many, many names. So much devastation, all in one moment.

And still, this was not even a tenth of all the lives the Joker had taken. You kinda wanna go take a kick at one of the Bat signals littered around the city. Maybe that’d make you less… broiling with incompetent rage.

Again, maybe you should just go to therapy. You should call Jeanine about that or something.

Eventually, you circle back to your family and Jason’s shrines. You know, back then you’d been jealous that Jason Todd had been so well mourned. You’d wished your family had gotten the same treatment.

Now, you… felt jealous again. Possessive, over their memory, their image. You didn’t really like that random strangers that never knew them… knew them. That Sam always got As in English and Art class but would sometimes skip math and would hide in the bathrooms to do so. That Chasey had struggled with going to school because of her anxiety but kept going because she had a friend going through the exact same thing. That Julie was the ace of her school’s soccer team, and that she’d almost gotten them to nationals even in the presence of all the super-rich schools in Gotham. That your Mum was a great cook but genuinely hated doing it, but for some reason, baking was her favourite thing even as she had never made a proper macaron.

They didn’t know them. They knew their faces and a facsimile of them, but they didn’t know them. It reminded you of the people at the orphanage. Nice, but not kind. They’d had their own lives, they didn’t want some bratty, demented teenager who was going down and planning on taking everyone with her.

You really couldn’t be happy, could you? Maybe you didn’t know what you wanted. What you want now. What you’d wanted for a while, actually.

Ugh. You close your eyes and let out a deep, soul-shaking sigh. It takes a moment for you to shore up the willpower to open them again. Come on, flower shop, finish your weird little ritual then you can go home and hide for the next millenia.

The walk there is the same as always, if a little more morose. It’s in a good spot, near the church just a block away and the memorial on its other side, as well as less sombre atmospheres down near the pier. Well, as little sombre as Gotham can manage.

You feel like you blink and you’re there. Too quickly, you find a rainbow of blooms in front of you, the scent of the blossoms washing over you. When you walk into the flower shop, the bell at the door rings the same as it always does. On autopilot, you walk over to the small, cheaper buds. Your hand clenches around the crinkly wrapping paper, a bundle of posies in your hand. You go to the counter with your prize in hand.

Larissa, the counter worker, smiles at you. Your breath hitches. It’s a working smile, not one of the real, toothy ones she used to give you.

“Oh wow, I thought all the posies had sold out. Lucky you!”

You think of something to say, but the moment passes and you don’t. She rings you up, tells you the price, and when you pay, asks sweetly if you want a receipt.

She doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t acknowledge how you come here every week and buy this same handful of flowers. She doesn’t ask about your job or the weather. She doesn’t cheerfully tell you about how her apprenticeship is going, or about the next sweet thing her partner has done. No, she just stares at you, growing more uncomfortable the longer it takes for you to answer.

She doesn’t even seem to recognise this other version of you. It feels like another string that tied you down to the earth has been snipped. You have an image in your head of a child losing a balloon, desperately grasping at the air. You’re going to float up into the atmosphere, and then you’re going to pop.

You can see the foil glinting in the sun’s light, so, so clearly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “Yes, a receipt, please.”

Taking it blindly, you barely flutter your eyes open as you walk out of the shop. She didn’t know you, didn’t remember you. That doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. You hadn’t really known her. It doesn’t matter. There’s no real difference, it doesn’t matter.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it never really mattered. You keep telling yourself this as you walk back over to the memorial. As you lay your flowers down with the others, the little posies are dwarfed by the other donations. It didn’t matter. You didn’t know her. None of this matters. Their flowers don’t matter.

You don’t matter. You hit that errant thought with a mental fly swatter.

Exhausted, you sit down next to the monument. You used to be able to lay your head on the stone, able to feel your family in the warmth it had absorbed in the sun. Now you just sort of, awkwardly reached out to the small bit of uncovered plinth at the side. You have to stick your hand through a wreath to do so.

It’s not warm. You wonder if your family are sad. And then you wonder if you’re an idiot for attributing feelings to a literal rock.

After a while, you get up. Cross your arms. You stare at your family's portraits, eyes moving over their smiles. One by one. You recognise some of the photographs, those are your favourites. A smile cracks across your face when you see the picture of when Chasey lost her two front teeth. She still grins cheekily at the camera, uncaring for any changes to her appearance, as all kids shouldn’t.

Your shoulders fall just the slightest bit when you see the picture of Jason Todd. It’s one of his older pictures. Probably seventeen or something. He’d always been a lovely boy when he was younger. And he still was up till he died but you’d always thought you’d seen something start to change in him. That sparkle of innocence, dulled, just the slightest.

And then he’d died. And you’d wondered if maybe he’d felt it was coming.

You certainly hadn’t. It had been like a hurricane tearing through your life. You’d ended up on the other side completely abandoned, the only friend who’d bothered to keep seeing you being one who’d learnt to dodge train ticket costs like a damn ninja. And you’d had to decide whether you could keep doing this, whether you even wanted to.

You were an obsessive creature by nurture. It had been all you could do to hang onto the Waynes, pretend they would love and care for you even if they’d have never even noticed you in real life. You weren’t sure that was strength or simple human survival. Dying was scary. Of course, you were scared of dying.

Your whole family had died. So, you told yourself, that Jason Fucking Todd would be sad if you killed yourself, and somehow, you had made it all these years.

And now here you were, and the Waynes did notice you in real life. You were important to them. You didn’t want to be, but you were. And again, you have to ask yourself, what would Jason Todd ask of you? What would he want you to do now, in this impossible situation you’ve found yourself in?

You stare at the picture. Stare at the way the sun hits his dark hair and blue eyes. Stare very, very hard. Like he might crawl out and give you a detailed list of what to do. You’d really like a detailed list. Or any guidance at all. Maybe you could go hit up a seance or something.

Your head falls forward into your sun-warmed palms. This is so stupid. No answers are going to fall from the sky, you need to find them yourself. And you’re not going to find them here.

Someone walks up beside you to the old memorial, and you quickly tuck yourself back into an acceptable image. Fold in all the rough edges you can. A tall and well-built man, with a face mask, sunglasses and a trucker hat, he looks like he could be a celebrity or something. Someone important, much more than you.

And you weren’t, not technically, at least. The universe had done the equivalent of a shelving error, and now here you goddamn were.

He does an odd pose next to you, something military-esque, where he clasps his hands together and bows his head. With a quick flick of your eyes you confirm, yes, his feet are equal with his shoulders. It’s obvious that he’s paying his respects so you do your best not to judge him too hard.

And then he speaks to you.

“I’m sorry.”

You look up, startled and confused.

“For your loss,” the deep voice finishes, jerking his head toward the pictures in front of the two of you.

“Wha- oh uh, um,” you blink and then realise that this person has recognised you, which would make sense since you are literally in one of the photos in front of you, and manage to pull your fading conscious mind back together for a moment more.

“Thank you, uh-” you stare at him a moment longer, “You too?”

Almost worse than that time you told the barista who gave you your coffee you hoped she enjoyed hers too, but not quite. Well, you know, he’d probably lost someone here too. You don’t know why he’d be here otherwise unless he wanted an autograph or something. The thought almost makes you laugh.

He snorts at your words. You don’t know what to make of that.

He looks back down at the pictures and flowers. You think he does, at least, from the slight shifting of his head. He’s kind of mysterious. Pair that with the deep voice, the muscular and tall physique, and you’re an odd mix of attracted and socially anxious. Not that you’re not always socially anxious, but this guy feels… strong. Dumb again, you can see his biceps from here but…

You just can’t quite shake it off. Strong. Strong.

“They didn’t deserve it, none of them did,” he speaks again, and you wonder what the fuck he’s going on about at all.

You admit, you sound a little bitter when you mutter, “Well, that’s obvious.”

He lets out a bark of laughter, and you see his eyes flash to you from under his sunglasses. A shade of blue. There’s another odd pause, and then he turns to you. You don’t know why he’s looking at you. He crosses his arms, and seems to size you up.

“What are you doing here?” he asks you like he knows you.

Your brow furrows. Okay, kind of losing any hotness points here. Bothering someone who was grieving could’ve been seen as rude from the very start, but you’d just thought he was weird. Now, you thought he was weird and rude.

“…Paying my respects. Obviously,” you gesture downwards, “My mother, my siblings, and…”

Well, how would you describe the relationship between you and Jason Todd now? He was still just a stranger to you and-

“With who, that guy?”

Now, it isn’t often that you’re stunned into silence, but at the moment you can’t find it in you to do anything but stare and gape. Frankly, you’re astonished! You’ve never met anyone who spoke so rudely of the dead, and well, he couldn’t have picked a worse person to do it in front of.

“Excuse me?” your voice can’t seem to convey even half of your offence, even as you sound like you’re about ready to bite a second person for today. The man pauses like you’ve surprised him, which- what the fuck is going on? Why do you feel like an alien crash-landed on Earth these days?

“No, I just meant-” he huffs, shakes his head, and continues, his voice now offended too, “What the fuck am I saying? Yes, I did mean that. That little twerp was a naive idiot who was manipulated by the people he believed in most.”

You stare, absolutely speechless, as the stranger goes on a damn-fucking-near crazed rant about one of the people most important to you. Never met? Sure. Dead as hell? Absolutely. But still, he was one of your lifelines. Your candlelight in the dark, guiding your way even when you felt completely lost. And now he’s calling him a naive idiot? You can practically feel the steam coming out of your ears.

“He changed nothing, made no difference in the end-”

“Nothing?!” you practically shriek, finally able to find your voice just to use it to shout, “He changed… so much! He donated millions of dollars, did heaps of charity work, was practically a treasure to our city… He made multiple homeless shelters, an orphanage, helped rehabilitate criminals and countless other things.”

Your fists are clenched tight enough that they shake. You hide them behind your back, but you still feel like he can probably see them. Your emotions are simmering too close to the surface, bubbling over and onto the floor. About to burn his sneakers to ash.

“You seem like you care a lot,” he says, sounding reserved.

“Of course, I care.”

“…It’s just, you didn’t seem the type, on the TV,” he keeps talking, poking at you for some god-awful reason, and you bark out a harsh laugh.

“Maybe people need to stop making so many fucking assumptions, then? It certainly hasn’t gotten you anywhere,” you throw your hands up, damn sick of all the constant fucking surveillance you’re under. You can see why this version of you lost her mind. You’re near about to as well.

He stares at you for a moment longer, and you start feeling too uncomfortable. It’s a stupid and useless protectiveness that has you staying. Like he’ll somehow try and harm the shrine to your people. It’s happened before, Joker fanboys defacing it and such. This guy could be one of those bastards.

And yet… somehow you feel…

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally says.

“Good, you do that.”

“But in the end, nothing’s really changed. Joker’s still out and about, as you well know.”

You physically flinch like you’ve been slapped. For a good minute there, all you can do is stare at him in disbelief. You raise one shaking fist, and lift one trembling finger, pointing. The man looks in the direction you’ve pointed, and when he doesn’t see anything, turns back to you. His sunglasses reflect the grey afternoon sun.

“Go,” you order, voice shaking just like the rest of you.

He just keeps staring at you. You wish he’d take off those dumb fucking glasses, so you could see this asshole’s face. Etch it into your mind. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take any action. He simply waits for you to… Well, you don’t know what you’ll do. You haven’t known what you’d do since you left Dick behind two hours ago.

“You need to go,” you say again, and again, he doesn’t fucking move, “You… there’s… you have no right.”

You can hear the buzz of the city around you, the wind rushing by. His clothes rustle in the wind. Your voice sounds too loud in your ears, but he won’t just… he won’t leave. You don’t want this stranger here, watching you. Judging you. It’s all…

“Jason didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, and you think to yourself, desperately, ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

There’s a slight shift in the stranger’s posture. His shoulders tensed.

You think you’ve offended him.

“The Joker… That’s nobody's fault but the government for not just sucking it up and giving him the death penalty, or Batman’s for not doing it himself a long time ago. They’re all fucking useless, but they’re the ones who are supposed to be dealing with this!” you continue, your words growing more heated. It’s only the already looming threat of an assault case that keeps you from shoving the guy. Not like you’d be able to move him an inch, of course, he was huge.

You’re sure it would feel good, though.

“It was never some random teenager's responsibility, and it wasn't mine either,” you say, but find yourself pausing for a moment when you hear the end of your sentence. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious anyway.

You’d tied yourself and Jason up together in your head. To you, you were both two sides of the same coin. One foot in the grave. You’ve got one foot in the grave…

“Jason Todd was a good person, and he made the world a better place.”

You look down at the portrait of the boy, his toothy smile twisting at your heart. None of this was fair. None of this had ever been fair. Why was this guy acting like anybody here had ever been able to do anything about it? Like Jason should’ve been smarter, and avoided a fucking bomb blast?

It was stupid. This was stupid, and you were over it. You were tired.

“And I miss him.”

It’s quiet after you say that.

“I don’t know how you can think it’s fair to act like his death was pointless when… of course it was, all of this was pointless,” you say, throwing your hands wide and gesturing to the entire memorial. “This was a tragedy, but Jason was a victim. And I’m sick of people like you who think they can decide whether someone else’s life was lived right. It’s not your damn right.”

“Now… fuck off!” you announce, and to your shock, he does. He fucks right off. The man gives you one last lingering look, and then turns and leaves without another word. Not like you needed them.

You huff out a shocked breath, and then turn back to the memorial.

The framed faces of your loved ones stare back at you, and for all you know it’s stupid, you can’t help but feel embarrassed for the display. You know your mother would’ve scolded you for your language, at least.

“Sorry,” you say, and you’re unfortunately reminded of that irritating man again. Likely that won’t be the first time he pops up again in your head. He seemed well, insane. Which wasn’t that odd in Gotham but… god, you just couldn’t seem to let it go.

It pissed you off to high heaven. His rudeness was something you’d usually be able to shrug off, especially from some random stranger, but, but, but-! Argh, damn it all. And it wasn’t like that was the first time you had had that sort of conversation, but it was certainly the first time someone had been so bold as to bring it up in front of your dead mother’s smiling face.

Earlier today had snuffed out the fire in you, but that encounter had been the spark to reignite it. More than that, actually. It had made you so damn pissed, made your blood boil in a way you just couldn’t ignore, to the point that you wanted to prove him wrong.

Jason Todd had mattered and had made a difference and change in Gotham. He had made a change in you. You put your hands on your hips, stare down at the flowers, and make a decision.

You’re going to fix your goddamn life. For Jason Fucking Todd.

Your body feels like shit, your brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and yet this is the greatest opportunity you’ve ever been given. You have a chance to save yourself, and save your friends, and fix all the tiny little problems in Gotham that you’ve suffered through since childhood. Surely just throwing enough money at all your problems would fix some of them.

You were rich. If you couldn’t fix your life with millions of dollars available, then you had no chance.

And yeah, you don’t know what you’re doing. You know you can’t really change what happened. Back then or even just a few days ago. But you hate that. You hate it so much. You hate how weak you are in the face of loss. How both then and now, there’s nothing you can really do. And maybe if just out of spite, towards that asshat, Batman, Joker and everyone else, you want to make a change.

You want to be able to do something about it. You want it, so fucking bad.

First order of business?

…You want more flowers.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

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