#this has been sitting in my notes for ages and i think its deserves to see the light of day | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luvrodite · 2 months

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JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

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

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

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

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

read on ao3

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

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look back up to the doll.

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

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

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

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

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

The doll does not move.

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

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

A second passes, and then another. You wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Jason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

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

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

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

“Crying..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all leads to Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

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

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

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

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

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

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hnychn · 11 months

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I AM HIM, AS HE IS ME

SUMMARY — If there is anything that is universally acknowledged to be wholly true and incontestable, it’s that Gojo Satoru loves his daughter more than anything in the world. But does she know that?

AUTHOR’S NOTE — i got into a huge argument with my father a while back and it’s been weighing on my conscience. this series is largely based on our relationship and it’s been so therapeutic to write everything out and indirectly give myself an ending i want. the series isn’t complete, if anything, it’s no where near done. i want to make sure everything is perfect before i even think about posting the first chapter. its been so long since i’ve felt this strong need to write and i forgot how much of a beautiful feeling it is. everywhere i look and everything i see gives me so much inspiration for this series. but for now, here’s a little sneak peak of my new child.

(i am him as he is me spotify playlist)

SERIES WARNINGS — heavy religious themes, female reader, satosugu, heavy angst, child abuse, childhood neglect, reader is a brat in the beginning, reader is assumed to be a person of color…

TOTAL WORD COUNT — tbd…

BEFORE YOU READ — the reader is mentioned to be a third year at jujutsu tech, and i completely understand the ages and time line don’t add up, but for the sake of creativity, let’s all just pretend it makes sense and ignore the age inconsistencies. <33 thank you!! <33

PREVIEW —

The rhythmic buzz of the cicadas and the sweltering humidity of the summer air marked the beginning of summer and the end of… everything. Satoru could feel the material of his pants begin to stick to his legs the longer he sat on the rotting wooden bench. The train tracks before him were rusted and old; they had weathered the storm of time and had the marks to prove it. These tracks were the end. The led you to the beginning. All Satoru had to do was wait.

—

“Maybe it was because I knew she would always come back to me. Maybe I was testing her love for me. Maybe I wanted to push her away before she pushed me away.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.”

“There’s a lot of regret.”

Satoru could still feel the weight of that nostalgic love and regret in his stomach. It has buried itself so deep within him, he’s hardly sure anything would make it go away. The woman next to him looks different now; youthful, free. Satoru wants that. But does he deserve it?

I AM HIM, AS HE IS ME [MASTERLIST]

— CHAPTER ONE: “He Doesn’t Know I Learned it From Him.”

Gojo Satoru, in all aspects, is a God reborn. He holds the world and its universes in the palm of his flaming hand; unknowingly burning everything he holds dear.

— CHAPTER TWO: “I Was a Girl Gulping a Woman’s Grief.”

With an emotionally distant mother and a father plagued with a god complex, there weren’t many people you could look up to. maybe, you have to look down.

— CHAPTER THREE: “Do You Believe Me When I Tell You I’m Trying to be Better?”

With tensions at an all-time high, it’s hard to ignore what has gone neglected for so long. Dams are broken and feelings are hurt, but if there’s one thing everyone knows, it’s that Gojo Satoru loves his daughter more than anything. But does she know that?

— CHAPTER FOUR: “The Unbearable Lightness of Being.”

There is nothing more heroic than the sacrifices made by a mother. But what is born of those sacrifices made? Virtue? Honour? Strength? You knew the answer to that question all too well: Guilt.

— CHAPTER FIVE: “Desperation Sits Heavy on my Tongue.”

You and your father are more alike than either of you are led to believe. He doesn’t reach. You don’t beg. Where does the tension snap?

— CHAPTER SIX: “Through Heaven and Earth, I Alone am the Honoured One.”

Hymns were sung at his birth and prophecies were written for his future, in all aspects, Gojo Satoru was a god reborn. But who is a God to a little girl searching for her father?

#jjk x reader #jujitsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #fem reader #daughter reader #megumi x reader #tsumiki x reader #geto x reader #nanami x reader #shoko x reader #itadori x reader #nobara x reader #maki x reader #yuta x reader #dad gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year

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where have all the good men gone? | javier peña

Take The Weight Off His Shoulders - Chapter Three

Chapter Summary | A date, supposed to get your mind of Javier, goes terribly, and he's the only person you can think to call that will make anything better.

Chapter Warnings | Mutual pining, slow burn, sexual tension, flirting, alcohol consumption, protective!Javi, misogynistic comments (not from Javi), (1) man being a pushy douchebag (also not Javi), swearing, mentions of the drug trade - nothing else I can think of.

Pairing | dbf!Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 3k

Authors Note | I am truly having the most fun with these two and I hope you're enjoying their story so far! Things are definitely going to be heating up soon, so please hang in there, it'll be spectacular when they finally do get spicy with each other! If you're enjoying this then comments, asks and reblogs are my lifeblood and if you'd like to support me further, please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists. Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs to be notified of new updates.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Series Playlist

“I promise he’s good fun,” Liv’s voice speaks through the phone, cradled to your ear by your shoulder as you skim through your wardrobe, “Nice, and age appropriate.” She teases.

“Shut up,” You grumble, still annoyed that you’ve allowed her to talk you into this at all, “This is still a terrible idea.”

“You were the one complaining about Javier Peña being a bad idea,” She defends herself, “And you also could have said no, too late now.”

You sigh because she’s right. You’ve been trying for the past week to convince yourself that finding someone else might make wanting Javier go away, even just a little bit. Someone your age, not entangled in your family dynamics, or at least you’re hoping anyway. Liv had suggested someone she knew from work, a nice boy, two years older than you, his head screwed on, a managerial position at work. Sensible.

“I have no idea what to wear.” You groan down the phone, there are plenty of dresses you could choose, but somehow, it feels like this person you don’t know doesn’t deserve that of you.

“Put those jeans on,” Liv speaks, crunching coming down the phone line, clearly she’s snacking like she always does, “The tight ones, makes your ass look phenomenal, and the lowest cut top you own.”

“Liv,” You chastise, “I’ve never met him before, I’m not fucking him tonight.”

“I didn’t suggest you did,” She chuckles, “Just give him a taste of what’s to come.”

“Unbelievable,” You mutter, but follow her advice anyway, pulling out a shirt that cuts low, scooping out your jeans from the drawer, “Right, I gotta go and get ready, but if this is awful, you’re entirely to blame, okay?”

“Hearing you loud and clear girl,” She chuckles, “Have fun and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Goodbye!” You chuckle, hanging up.

It’s still light out, so you opt to walk to the bar in town. It’s not all that far, and the air has cooled enough by the time you leave that it doesn’t feel too stiflingly hot. The bar is not one you would have chosen, one of the more upmarket establishments in town. You wish you could go back to your normal dive bar, with its slightly sticky floor and the smell of fried food. You give him the benefit of the doubt though, maybe he’s just trying to impress you and you can’t fault him for that, can you?

Liv told you he’d be sat at the bar in a blue shirt, and there’s only one person it can be when you get close enough, “Victor?” You ask, stood next to him.

“The one and only,” He smiles at you, standing from the barstool to give you a hug, which you allow, “You look hot.”

“Thanks,” You chuckle, sitting down on the stool next him, noticing a drink already there for you, it’s a cocktail, bright pink, and you know you’ll already hate it, and you do when you take a sip, wincing as the fruity blend moves down your throat, “Oh, it’s very sweet.”

“I thought it was a safe option, most girls love this drink.”

You’re tempted to make a comment about this clearly being his favourite place to bring his dates but you bite your tongue, working through the necessary small talk as you try and drink it as fast as you can so you can choose something you might actually enjoy.

“So, Liv told me you’re a journalist,” He comments, sipping his glass of whiskey, “What kind of things do you write?”

“I mainly cover news about the drug trade and how that affects the town.” You explain, taking the last sip of your drink, flagging the bartender down.

“Pretty morbid,” He shrugs, ordering himself another whiskey as you opt for a margarita, “Surely a girl like you should be writing about fashion or something.”

You scoff, “So I can’t write about things that are important to our town because I’m a woman?”

“No, I don’t mean it like that,” He tries to backtrack, “Just that it’s intimidating, is all, might put people off,” He chuckles then, “Although not me, like my girls with a bit of personality.”

You roll your eyes and don’t even try and hide it as you sip at your margarita, much better, you think. It carries on like that for another hour, Victor and his thinly veiled misogyny and his boring, surface level conversation. He tries at some point to put his hand on your knee, but you jerk away, moving so he can’t touch you.

“You want another?” He asks when you finish your third drink, “The night is still young.”

“No thank you,” You say, trying to be as polite as possible, “I have work tomorrow so probably best to head home.”

You try and insist that you pay for your part of the bill, but to his only credit, he insists on covering the tab but does then try and wrap his arm around your waist to walk you outside, which makes you want to hit him more than anything.

You stand next to him on the pavement outside the bar as the doors close behind you. You can still hear everyone else talking inside, but you have no idea what to do. You want to go home, but it’s dark, and you know you’d told your dad that Victor would walk you home, but you don’t want to spend another minute in his company.

“So, am I gonna get my goodnight kiss?” He asks, trying to take hold of your wrist to pull you into him.

He’s stronger than you, so he does sort of succeed in pulling you into his body, but you manage to put your palm against his chest to push him back.

“I don’t think so.” You cringe a little, trying to lean back as far as you can with his hand pulling your wrist.

“You’re joking right?” He scoffs, “I paid for your drinks, try and be interested in what you said and you’re going to refuse me?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” You speak, trying to talk the situation down, “I just don’t think this is gonna work.”

“Don’t need to tell me,” He snaps, “Such a fucking tease turning up dressed like this, but you’re really just a prude.”

“Oh fuck off man!” You try and push him again, succeeding in doing it enough for him to let go of your wrist so you can put some distance between you, “I don’t owe you shit.”

“Forget it,” He turns around and walks away, leaving you on your own, “Probably would have been a shit lay anyway.”

You’re tempted to call back but realise it’s not worth it, so you let him wander off, leaving you on the sidewalk on your own with no idea what to do now. You would walk home, but if your dad see’s you on your own, he’s going to kill you for being silly enough to walk home alone after dark, and then find Victor and kill him too for being a jerk.

You slump against the brick wall of the bar, rooting through your bag, there’s enough cash to go back in and get a drink and try and calm down a little, then, your fingers brush against the card you’d slipped in there a few days ago. The name and the number, and the few coins in the bottom of your bag, draw you to the phone box at the end of the street. You’re putting the money in and dialing before you can convince yourself it’s a silly idea.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Peña.” It’s so formal.

“Javi?” You ask, trying to keep your voice level, but ultimately failing.

“Are you okay?” Is the first thing he asks, and he sounds frantic.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine, I just-” God this seems so stupid now, mainly because you don’t want to admit you were on a date, you don’t want to make yourself seem unavailable to him, “I was on a date and it didn’t go well, he was meant to walk me home and well, I don’t want him to, but I don’t wanna call my dad.”

“He hurt you?” He seems cross, protective even, which makes your tummy flutter.

“N-no,” You sigh, “He got pushy when I wouldn’t kiss him but I’m fine.”

You can hear him shuffling around on the other end of the phone, can hear the jangle of keys, “Where are you?”

“I’m at the phone box at the end of Grant Street.” You say, you’re about to speak again when Javi beats you to it.

“Stay there, go inside a store or something and wait for me, I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” You nod, like he can see you, “Javi?”

“Yeah, querida?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare,” He scoffs, “Never apologise for needing my help, okay?” You can hear the sound of his truck engine in the background, “I gotta hang up to drive, but I’ll be there soon, promise.”

“Okay,” You sniff, “Thank you.”

You can hear the dial tone before he can reply, so you hang the receiver back up and head into the liquor store on the other side of the road. You smile at the clerk, who asks if you need anything, you shake your head, tell him you’re just waiting for someone and then spend the rest of the time looking out of the window.

He’s parking up in a worryingly short amount of time, and as you walk from the store you worry that he put himself in danger driving so fast to get you. He’s opening his door and climbing down from the truck. As soon as you’re close enough, he’s got his hands on your shoulders, searching your face to make sure you’re alright.

“I’m fine Javi, I promise,” You insist, holding gently to his arms, giving him a smile, “I’ve probably overreacted.”

He lets his arm drops and signals for you to get into the truck, following swiftly, “If he made you uncomfortable it’s not an overreaction,” He speaks, turning the truck back on and pulling away, “He still around?”

You shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“Good.”

It makes you wonder if he means good because he won’t bother you anymore, or good because it means he won’t be tempted to do something about his blatant disrespect. You decide not to probe that one, but file it away for later. You’re driving down the street when your stomach grumbles, reminding you that you’ve not eaten since lunch.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat,” You mumble sheepishly, “I’m sure there’s something at home.”

Javi nods, but drives straight past the turning he would need to take you home, driving straight on instead and turning off a little later. You’re about to ask where he’s taking you when he pulls into the parking lot at McDonalds. He parks up and tells you to stay where you are.

You watch him as he walks away, perfectly broad back, shirt tucked into his jeans. He really is a vision in every way when you look at him. He’s striding back out a little while later, brown paper bag in one hand and a soda cup in the other. He passes them both to you as he climbs back into his seat.

“What’s this?” You ask, taking a sip of the cold soda.

“Cheeseburger, extra pickles and a Sprite with extra ice.”

Yet again, he’s managed to amaze you with his observation skills. There was a time where he’d taken a trip with you and your parents, just a day out of town somewhere, and you’d stopped to get food on the way home, you’d made this exact order, turned to him and told him it was your favourite, and somehow he’d filed that away for right now, when you needed it the most.

“Thank you.” You speak simply, reaching in for the burger, unwrapping it carefully before taking a bite.

Javi can’t help but watch out of the side of his eye as you eat. God, you looked beautiful. Jeans that looked like they’d been painted onto your skin, showing off all those perfect parts of you. A shirt that was enticing without being too much. Fuck, he wanted to reach over, use his thumb to wipe away the tiny bit of sauce that had gathered in the corner of your mouth, push it into your mouth and let you lick it off his thumb.

You ball up the wrapper your burger had come in once you’ve finished, dropping it into the paper bag, picking up the cup of soda to suck the Sprite through the straw, “You alright now?” He asks.

You look at him, small, sad smile on your lips, “Just can’t help feeling there’s something wrong with me.” You shrug, offering him a sip of your drink which he declines.

“What do you mean?” He asks, wanting to reach over to you, put a comforting hand on you, but deciding against it for now.

You shrug a little, leaning your head back against the seat, “No-one ever looks at me in that way, I suppose,” You answer honestly, and he wants to tell you it isn’t true, that he thinks of you exactly like that, no matter how much he shouldn’t, “I’ve been with one guy in my whole life and I don’t think he ever really liked me, was only with me because I was the only one left out of my friends.”

“Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to,” You shrug again, “He never really made an effort, never took me out, never really wanted to sleep with me much either, I guess I was just easy for him,” You say, “Convenient.” Is what you finish on.

“It isn’t you,” Javi speaks, turning his head to look at you, resting it against his seat in much the same way you are, “First of all, college boys are always idiots, don’t let that be your base line,” You snort and turn your head to look at him now, “What did tonight’s idiot do?”

You shake your head at him, “He was just a misogynistic asshole,” You add a shrug, “Apparently because I’m a woman I should write about fashion and not anything that actually matters.”

Javi scoffs, because in his experience, women make the best journalists, quiet, unassuming but they always knew how to pull strings and get what they wanted and he doesn’t doubt you’re the same, “Take it as a compliment,” He offers, “Sometimes it’s best to intimidate boys, and the ones that you don’t?” He asks as a rhetorical question, “Those will be the men worth your time.”

You chuckle a bit, rolling your head on the headrest behind you to look back out of the front of the car, “You’re just saying this to make me feel better.”

Javi reaches over, takes hold of your hand and gives it a slight squeeze before he’s letting it drop again, almost like he’s been burnt, like he knows he shouldn’t have done it, “I am saying it to make you feel better, that’s the whole point, but it’s true,” He shrugs a little in his seat, “Don’t feel like you’ve got to rush into that side of life either, you’re still young, there’s plenty of time for you.”

You hum in agreement because you know he’s right, it’s what everyone always says to you in these circumstances, but somehow, coming from him, it means more. He’s older than you and although you’ve no doubt that he’s known plenty of women in his time, he’s in just the same predicament as you are.

“Will you take me home?” You ask softly, “I’m tired.”

He nods, starting up his car, pulling out of the parking lot and finally driving you back home.

He pulls his truck up just down the street from your house, far enough away that your dad won’t be able to see, but close enough that he knows he’ll be able to sit and wait to watch you get in safely. He cuts the engine and turns to you, giving you a soft smile, trying to tell you that it’ll all be okay.

“Thanks,” You speak softly, “For all this, made a shitty night not so bad in the end.”

“Always,” He smiles back, “I mean it when I say you don’t ever need to worry about calling me.”

“I know,” You smile, and he feels his heart swell at the sight, “Well, goodnight Javi.”

He doesn’t really register what’s happening until it’s too late. You drag your body across the truck instead of moving to the door to open it and press a gentle kiss to his cheek. It would be innocent enough if it wasn’t for the fact your lips press into the skin just far enough away from his mouth so as not to cross a line, but not right in the middle of his cheek either. It’s the softest way he’s been touched in a long time, and he can feel himself wanting to grip onto you, smash his mouth to your own and finally scratch the itch that’s sitting under his skin.

You pull away, but before you can open the door, he’s taking hold of your wrist and moving closer, pressing his own kiss to your cheek right back, further up your skin than you had done to him, but it’s a kiss to your skin none-the-less, one that floods his chest with hope, a feeling he hasn’t really felt in years. He keeps his mouth there probably for a little longer than he should, committing the feel of your skin on his mouth because he knows this is as far as he should push things, but he also knows that he now needs to know what the rest of your skin feels like under his mouth.

He pulls away and when he looks at your eyes, all full of hope and want, the same look he’d seen countless times in Colombia, whether he was promising a visa or led next to someone in bed, and he knows he shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have encouraged these kinds of feelings, but he’s done it now, he can’t take it back, wouldn’t want to if he could either.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, querida,” He says softly, “Nothing wrong with you at all.”

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seresinhangmanjake · 1 year

Note

For the drabbles!

I saw this tik tok where a toddler was meeting her baby brother for the first time and she thanks her mom which is something I feel like Eve would do

It is absolutely something Eve would do! 🥰

Oh, Baby Series

Words: 941

Alright, manic brain has been in full force again, so it's not perfect. My bad. It's also the slightest bit different from the ask.

---

You're about four months pregnant. Not so round as to be incredibly noticeable to the common stranger, but round enough at this point that, for Eve, looking at your stomach has become a daily curiosity. She knows there's a baby in there even though you haven't told her. She just knows it. She's smart for her age and watched her preschool teacher's tummy grow with a baby of her own, so when you get the slightest bump, you realize her eyes are now more often on your midsection than not.

She hasn’t asked yet (because you'd taught her it's not polite to ask people if they are pregnant), and you haven’t officially told her, either.

It feels wrong, though. She’s your daughter. She deserves to know she’s going to be a big sister, but you and Jake both know Eve has held every scrap of your attention for four whole years. From the moment you discovered you were pregnant again, you’ve been worrying about her reaction. She’s a bold kid. Opinionated. Stubborn. And therefore, occasionally unpredictable in her emotions. Yes, she’s wanted a sibling, but like any other child, it’s very possible that amidst her incessant begging for a baby brother, she neglected to consider that having another child in the house means that Mama and Daddy's attention will soon be divided.

That alone makes Jake terrified to tell Eve. Lingering guilt over missing her first few months of life has snuck back to the surface and he doesn’t want to disappoint her or make her think she’ll be any less loved. He can’t stand the thought of seeing her little face lose its smile, and doing anything to fill her eyes with big fat tears has always brought on bouts of nausea. So, the topic has been avoided.

But with each day that passes, the crueler it’s become to not share what you’ve known for months. So you and Jake pull your courage together and sit Eve down one morning to tell her the truth.

Jake's beside you on the couch, Eve nestled in his lap when you explain she's going to be a big sister. You expect an array of emotions—you and your husband being so prepared that you’d gone so far as to imagine the moment playing out in a very specific way: a look of awe then a wave of excitement followed by the potential settling in of pure jealousy.

On all counts you are wrong.

Your daughter is quiet as she stares at your stomach post news. Then she tilts her head back to receive her father’s encouraging smile before looking to you.

"He's really in there right now?" she asks.

And you answer: "Yes."

She takes a beat to consider your confirmation, her head tilting to the side. "But when did he get there?"

Jake looks at you with panic on his face. Oddly, no matter how curious your daughter has proven to be, your husband always finds himself blindsided by the unexpectedness of her questions. You, however, tend to manage just fine, and more often than not are willing to be rather honest with her. But you can't exactly tell Eve her baby brother "got there" during fifteen-minute shower sex in the hotel at Disneyland.

"Um,” you chuckle, “not too long ago."

She pulls away from Jake's lap and moves onto yours, and you lift your shirt up a bit so she can put her tiny hands to your belly. Her fingers are spread wide, as if covering as much of your skin as possible might mean her brother can feel her too.

"He isn't moving, Mama," she notes. "What is he doing?"

"Resting up," you reply. "It takes a lot to join the world."

She remains that way, just staring and feeling. And you glance at Jake, as unsure as he is of your daughter's next move, or thought, or word, until she mutters a quiet "Oh" and her face falls.

You cup her little chin and stroke her cheek with your thumb. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

With her lip worried between her teeth, she turns her head away from your gentle grasp and begins to fiddle with her fingernails. Like mother, like daughter, you think.

"Will he like me?” She asks so softly.

It only takes that brief moment to break your heart for the little girl who has never once had to worry about not being loved.

“Oh, baby girl," Jake sighs.

He runs his hand down the length of her blonde curls, then tucks strands behind her ear so he can have a clear view of the side of her face. "Of course he will."

"But how do you know, Daddy?"

"Because you're his big sister. And you're the only big sister he will ever have,” your husband stresses. “You will love and protect one another because that is what brothers and sisters do.” Then he squeezes her hand, smiles, and says “Ok?”

Despite his lovely argument, it's clear Jake hasn't fully convinced her.

She looks up at him. "But–"

"Baby girl, how often is Daddy wrong?"

Eve quickly turns her head so her eyes can meet yours. "Mama, how often is Daddy wrong?"

"Not very," you say through your laugh. "You can trust him."

Her lips quirk to the side. A beat passes, then she nods. "Ok."

She takes a breath before leaning forward to rest her ear against your belly. Jake grins at you as you rub your girl's back.

“Thank you," you suddenly hear in that sweet voice.

“For what, sweetie?"

“For getting me a baby brother.”

---

@wkndwlff @kmc1989 @sagittarius-flowerchild @dempy @oliviah-25 @rosiahills22 @xoxabs88xox @cinderellasmissingshoe @leila22rogers @novagreen04 @multifandomlover4life @mayhemmanaged @memeorydotcom @ryiamarie

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin fic #jake hangman seresin x reader #top gun #jake hangman seresin fic #top gun hangman #jake hangman seresin x y/n #dad!jake hangman seresin #dad!jake seresin #jake seresin x fem!reader #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin fanfic #jake seresin fluff #jake seresin imagine #tgm fic

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sanemistar · 17 days

Text

destiny | sanemi shinazugawa

pairing: sanemi x fem!reader

genre: fluff, soulmate au

wc: 1.1k+

warnings: not proofread oops

note: this is pt.2 of fate (from sanemi’s pov) which was requested and is long due my bad 😭 anyways pls enjoy !!

sanemi has never believed in things like having a soulmate, he has always thought they only existed in fairytales. but he’d be a liar if he said that the thought has never crossed his mind every once in a while whenever he looks at his wrist and sees those mysterious initials that read 'y/n'. which he's had no clue about whom they belong to. truth be told, he has thought that something like that was simply too good to be true, he thinks he doesn't deserve one. he's filled with curiosity just thinking about meeting his ‘destined’ person for the very first time, if he gets the chance to, that is. he's wondered who are they and how do they look like, he's been simply eager to know more.

then one day, the news of a new hashira’s arrival reaches his ears. it's been already the talk of the corps, everyone was so curious about the new hashira, sanemi included of course. he's looking forward to seeing who's this person joining them, and most importantly, he's been looking for someone new to spar with for quite some time now, so this adds even more to his eagerness.

he heads to where hashira meetings are usually held, with feelings of anticipation and curiosity overtaking him. he arrives just as the meeting is about to start, he sits down before kagaya enters the room. shortly after, a soft knock on the door is heard, signaling the arrival of that mysterious hashira that everyone's been talking about nonstop.

"h-hello everyone, my name is y/n and i'm the new lunar hashira, looking forward to working with you all." he's instantly met with a woman that happens to be around his age, her voice is so shaky due to nervousness as she formally introduces herself in front of the hashiras. to be honest, he doesn't understand how someone like her has been appointed as a hashira by none other than kagaya himself. he usually trusts kagaya's decisions without even thinking, but he can't say the same about this one.

sanemi is unaware of the fact that his eyes have been practically glued on her this whole time as he's staring so intensely at her, a little too intensely. for some reason, there's something about her that's forcing him to look at her as if she's the only person in the room. this feeling leaves him quite irritated.

there's a heavy layer of awkward silence, before obanai decides to break it as he starts speaking.

"oyakata-sama, allow me to say that i don't think she has what it takes to be a hashira." he politely announces his disagreement. the rest don't speak, everyone except sanemi nod in agreement with what obanai said. he decides to wait and think further before he says any opinions on her.

"oyakata-sama, i have a suggestion." sanemi's mouth moves on its own, surprising everyone, including himself. now everyone shifts their gaze onto sanemi, anticipating what he's going to say next.

"how about letting her show us her abilities in a duel? and i volunteer to be her opponent." he can see shock expressed all over her face, he's not aware of the amount of pressure this puts on her, he just has an urge to spar with her.

he notices a sudden look of determination, despite being scared and nervous only moments ago. as if she has something to prove to everyone, and she's not backing off until she makes everyone recognizes her. he likes the change of attitude and finds it amusing.

"fair enough, sanemi." kagaya announces his approval of sanemi's suggestion, surprising the rest of the hashiras.

"what about you, y/n?" he then turns around and asks the woman softly.

"i don't mind, i'll do my best to show everyone that i'm determined to become a hashira and defeat muzan." the courage in her voice as her demeanor changes to a more serious one rails sanemi up even more, he can't wait to see what kind of person she is on the battlefield.

both of them are given wooden swords, facing each other while waiting for the beginning signal. the moment the fight begins, sanemi attacks in full force right away, not wasting a single second.

for two full minutes, he continues to launch a series of fierce and fast attacks at her, not allowing her to attack him for once. the only thing she can do is defense.

"oi oi, tired already?" sanemi smirks, obviously looking down on her. and in that moment, he notices an enraged look in her eyes. looks like he successfully provoked her. he watches her as she gathers her strength and get up, refusing to give up easily.

as the fight continues, he can tell that her moves are getting better, she's catching up to him and successfully dodges his attacks. she even manages to land some attacks on him, which fires him up even more. it's the first time in a while since he's had this much fun sparring against someone, it's exactly what he's been looking for. everyone else is watching the two of you in admiration.

just when the fight begins to reach its peak and sanemi is about to deal the final blow, y/n sees an opening and uses one of her strongest lunar breathing techniques. as a result, both sanemi and his wooden sword fall on the ground, announcing her miraculous victory.

the rest of the hashiras stand there in utter and complete silence, not only y/n managed to keep up with the second strongest hashira, who's known for his insane stamina and endurance ability, but she beat him.

for the first time in so long sanemi experiences the feeling of defeat, and it's very unpleasant for him to say the least. he's never seen this coming, he's thought the fight would end in his obvious victory. he hates to admit his defeat, but she was stronger than him. she won fair and square, and she managed to prove herself worthy of being one of the hashiras.

he slowly approaches her collapsed figure and extends an arm out, helping her get up from the ground.

"don't get ahead of yourself just because you beat me today, i won't go easy on you next time, got it?" he huffs and walks away, not even waiting to hear her response.

sanemi then checks his wrist and he smirks when he finds out that the initials that were previously there disappeared. so this woman is his 'destined' soulmate, he's finally brought together with the one person who's meant for him. crazy how destiny works, he has never expected to meet his soulmate like this, but sanemi doesn't mind it. because to him, having someone as amazing and strong as y/n as his soulmate is more than enough, and more than what he deserves. he can't wait to see what fate has for them next.

tagging: @browneyedgirl22 because you asked me to tag you in part 2 <33

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virgil-upinthestars · 1 month

Text

like a little prayer - chapter one

Pairing: Loki x Mobius, Deadpool x Wolverine

Words: 2,585

Summary: Mobius and Sylvie pull some strings to contact some of the only people who might be able to get to Loki, proposing a plan that could help them all.

Chapter Warnings: Strong language, somewhat insincere threats of violence, light shenanigans, angst, pining, gay bickering

header/ch 1

---

Into the sparkly sling ring portal, out onto a squeaky black marble floor. Wade’s forehead collided with it, which was less than courteous, and he made a mental note to ask Cassandra what the fuck if they ever met again, but he dearly hoped that would never happen.

“Ugh, rude!” he groaned, getting his knees under him and grabbing Logan’s quite muscular arm to pull himself up. Logan promptly shoved him into what felt like a desk.

“Hello,” said a dry, faintly raspy voice. “If you two could sit down and not knock over your drinks, that would be nice.”

Wade grabbed a chair, steadying himself and squinting at a frankly dumpy-looking middle-aged man in a brown suit. “’Scuse me?”

“We’re back,” Logan muttered, his eyes darting around the ceiling beyond the cubicle, and yep, that orange lighting was unmistakable. “She sent us back here. Why’d she do that?”

“Well, I’d assume it’s because you can go anywhere from here, but I’d like to hope it was because I asked nicely,” the man mused, sitting on the other side of the desk and pushing two paper coffee cups towards them. As per usual whenever someone else bought him coffee, Wade popped the top off to check the contents. Once he saw the whipped cream and sprinkles, he gave the drink an approving nod and lifted his mask to down half the contents.

Logan didn't touch his, as he apparently found much more joy in glaring at the man who had so graciously offered them caffeine after a fight. “Nicely?”

“Mm, yes,” The man took a sip of his own coffee, those eyes flicking between the two of them. “The TVA’s had a deal with Cassandra Nova, ever since a few of our operatives ended up in the Void. I’d be the first to admit that a large majority of the Void’s inhabitants probably don't deserve to be there, but unfortunately, that doesn't apply to everyone.”

“Yeah, Nicepool definitely deserves to be down there," Wade snorted, wiping whipped cream off his face. "Not Mary Puppins, though, can we go get her?”

The man opened one of the orange files on his desk, and turned it around so they could see its contents. “Pyro. Decent kid, but he's taken a deal with your department head, Paradox, to kill Nova. Which I imagine went over fantastically.”

“Yeah,” Wade sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Remind me what this has to do with saving my universe?” Just to be nice, totally not because he felt guilty, he jabbed a thumb towards Logan. “Or fixing his?”

“Well, I've been watching the two of you for a bit, and . . . .” The man folded his fingers on the table. “I think you can help me.”

Immediately, Logan’s eye twitched. “Why should we?”

A smile just flickered on the other man’s face, and he looked up from Pyro’s file. Something about those eyes gave Wade pause, even though they were set in the face of what looked like a middle-aged dad.

“Okay,” Wade sighed, and he decided that this guy looked like his name would probably be Phil. Or Kyle. Ooh, or John, or — “Owen. We’re on a bit of a mission right now, and unless you’re willing to help me save my universe from that Tom Wambsgans-looking guy — don’t get me wrong, I loved Succession, it was like watching a house full of sex offenders burn down, but —”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” the man said, closing Pyro's file and brushing it to the side. There was a hard light in his eyes, one that Wade recognized: desperation. “Yes, Paradox wants to destroy your timeline, but from what I'm guessing, Nova would be perfectly happy destroying all of them.”

“You people like your guesses,” Logan grumbled.

Wade sighed. “For the last time, peanut, it was an educated wish —”

“Call me that again, and I'll shove that double-whip diabetes bomb right up your —”

“Okay,” the man said loudly, now looking very much like a middle-aged dad. Possibly also a jet ski salesman. “I’ll just cut to the chase. Also, your coffee has Irish whiskey in it, so please do me a favor and drink it.”

“Really?” Logan muttered, lifting the drink. He took a hesitant sip, but it soon turned into chugging the whole drink in one go.

“Thank you,” the man sighed, then cleared his throat. “You two have been dealing with middle management this whole time.” His eyes flickered with a new sort of light, something like hope. “How would you like to go all the way to the top?”

---

Mobius M. Mobius had been having a very rough few months. First, he finally manages to catch a Loki, then fucks up by getting attached to him, then gets betrayed by him, which, honestly, what was he expecting — only for that Loki to come back, wide eyed and pleading with him. Then Sylvie went and committed some good old-fashioned murder, and the multiverse started falling apart, tearing Loki into pieces across space and time as he desperately tries to help, and eventually decides that the best way to solve it was apparently to go fuck himself off into oblivion without discussing it with any of them.

Mobius could’ve killed him.

He also would've given anything to see him again.

He also didn't know whether Loki would feel the same, ‘I did it for you’ or not.

He also was about two inches away from ripping his own ears off so he didn't have to hear these two assholes keep going at each other in some kind of weird, extremely violent, seventy-two hour long foreplay.

“So, it's a tree,” said Wade Wilson, holding his empty coffee cup like a drag queen as Mobius led them down the hall. Logan was trailing behind, silent for now, but still looking like he was debating whether to slam Wade against or through the nearest wall. “You fancy-pants time CIA bastards take orders from a tree?”

Mobius took a long breath. He could almost hear Loki snapping back that we used to take orders from three lizards who turned out to be robots, how’s the tree sound now?

It was making his heart ache.

“We don't take orders from the tree,” Mobius said, forcing himself to maintain an easy tone. “We protect it. It contains all timelines, all possibilities, branching out into infinity. We can't control it, it can't control us, we can only protect h—it. And if the tree were threatened, the fabric of space-time would start to unravel.”

“Oh, so that’s why you're open to stopping Tom Wambsgans from destroying my universe!” Wade laughed. “Finally, there's a threat big enough to the precious tree for you to acknowledge the fact that my whole life —”

“I didn't know about your timeline, okay?” Mobius sighed, shoving open a door marked NO ENTRY. He led them down a curving stairwell, to where Sylvie had agreed to meet him. “No one knew, until five minutes ago, when unsanctioned time-ripper activity was detected in your universe. B-15’s running through the normal channels to shut it down, but until then, I'm trying to arrange something that will help both of us.”

“Oh, both?” Wade said, tossing his empty cup into the abyss. He promptly sat on the railing and began to slide down it. “Do tell.”

“Yes,” Mobius said, gritting his teeth. The line between his thoughts and his words were quickly becoming blurred. “I get you to the guy at the top, you get him to sustain your world while we deal with Paradox, and then you get him to come the fuck out of his little self-imposed isolation hermit hole.”

Precious silence hung for a few seconds, only to be punctuated by a soft “ooh”.

“So,” Wade slid to Mobius’s side, somehow balancing like a goddamn French girl on the railing. “This guy at the top, huh? You two have a history?”

Mobius glanced back at Logan, who just snorted and rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who gave him coffee.”

“Couple of hand brushes?” Wade was saying, his voice needling into Mobius’s ear. “Lingering hugs? Old married couple banter? Maybe even a soft, gentle, unforgettable night on an office couch —”

“Like you two didn’t basically hate-fuck in that Odyssey!” Mobius snapped, making the white eyes of Wade’s mask go wide.

“Pervert,” he said at last. “That was a very private moment.”

“I will throw you down this stairwell,” Logan hissed, an honest-to-God vein popping out on his forehead. “Say another word, I fucking dare you — ”

“Fergalicious,”

Logan swung a fist towards Wade. Mobius barely had time to think the claws aren’t out, that’s an improvement before the Wolverine’s blow was stopped by a swirl of green light.

“Oh, my!” called a familiar voice. Mobius leaned over and caught sight of Sylvie on the landing below, her eyes fragile with a hopeless sort of amusement, like a man set for execution laughing because he had sixty-nine days to live. “This is them?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mobius called back, unable to hide the relief in his voice that he was now one step closer to getting these repressed disasters out of his sight. “Do you have it?”

“Of course I do,” she snorted, flicking He Who Remains’ TemPad out of her jacket pocket as she climbed the stairs towards them. “I held my end of the bargain. The real question is if they’ll hold theirs.” Her lips twitched slightly as Logan yelled for her to get your fucking magic off me, and directed his arm back to his side before releasing control. Her eyes flickered as she met Mobius’s gaze. “You really think this will work?”

“I hope so,” Mobius replied, forcing a smile to compensate for the slight shake in his voice. “I really hope so.”

“Right,” Sylvie muttered, turning the TemPad over in her hands as she surveyed the two men. “Wade Wilson and Logan Howlett. Gifted with extraordinary healing powers.”

Wade slid off the railing. “Among other things,”

“Good.” Sylvie’s eyes flashed. “We’ll be testing them today.”

“Hold on,” said Logan, the first time he’d really spoken without provocation. He shouldered his way past Wade to scowl at Mobius and Sylvie with equal force. “Whatever this is, I’m not doing it for free.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Mobius sighed, frantically running through a meager list of things the Wolverine might be willing to risk his life for. An overaged bottle of Jack Daniels probably wouldn’t count. Neither would another Irish coffee. Maybe —

“X-23,” Logan said, his voice brusque. “Laura. She’s in the Void. Get her out.”

Mobius blinked.

“Oh my God,” Wade whispered. “I knew the dad instinct was in there somewhere.”

“Shut up,” Logan snapped, before refocusing on them. “Get her out of there and I’ll do it.”

“Uh, sure,” Mobius glanced towards Sylvie, who gave an easy shrug. “Where, uh . . . do you want us to bring her here, or —”

“I don’t care.” Logan’s throat bobbed. “Take her to this idiot’s world if you want, just don’t take her to mine.”

“His is in danger, though —”

The man’s eyes hardened. “Well, it won’t be.”

For a moment, Wade was actually speechless. The Merc with a Mouth was staring at Logan like he’d just dropped out of the sky, white eyes of his mask wide and hands hanging listlessly in the air.

“You got it,” Mobius said, pulling his TemPad out of his pocket. Ever since he’d come out of the Void himself, he’d tried to keep a closer eye on anyone who might be surviving down there. He hadn’t even been sure that X-23 was still alive until he’d caught word of her with these two, and now that she’d raided Nova’s place with her friends, they’d all be easy to find. “Sylvie, you wanna give them the speech?”

“Love to.” Sylvie held up the black and gold disc, shocking Wade out of his trance with a shiny thing. “This is a TemPad. With it, I’ll be sending the two of you straight to the trunk of the tree itself, where hopefully, you’ll be able to withstand the Gods-awful amount of temporal radiation long enough to get the attention of the annoying prick at the center. Sound good?”

“Ooh, temporal radiation!” Wade let out a whistle. “I’ve never experienced that one before. What does it do?”

Sylvie’s lip twitched, but there was no humor in her eyes. “Turn you into skin spaghetti.”

“Oh.”

“The levels around the tree would be very lethal to me or Mobius, but we’ve been hoping for a while that you two would be able to complete the job for us.” She twirled the disc in her fingers, and at a sharp look from Mobius, she rolled her eyes and continued. “And we’ll be sending this with you, for your way back.”

“Really?” Wade brightened, holding out a hand. “Yes, please — ”

“Not you.” Sylvie pointed at Logan. “You. You actually seem like the responsible type.”

“Oh, we are truly in catastrophic times,” Wade groaned, leaning back against the railing. “So, about this ‘annoying prick at the center’ —”

Mobius’s TemPad began to buzz. He flicked the notification away from the approximated map of the Void he’d been building, but then there was another alert, and then another, and the thing was nearly buzzing out of his hands. Over it all, highest priority, was a message from B-15.

If you don’t reappear sometime in the next thirty seconds, the whole multiverse is fucked.

Mobius’s heart shot into his throat as he scrolled through the hundreds of alerts, then dropped right down into his stomach.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Mobius?” Tense worry spiked in Sylvie’s voice, nearly shocking him out of his haze. “Mobius, what’s happened —”

“It’s Cassandra Nova,” he choked out, fumbling up the stairs. “She’s — she’s heading for the Time-Ripper.” His heart pounded in his ears. “She’s — she’s going to —”

She’s going to kill him.

Sylvie hissed something in an old Asgardian tongue, flicking her TemPad and opening a door in front of him. “Get to the war room, I’ll make sure these idiots make it to the tree.”

“Just —” Mobius turned back to Wade and Logan, two men in bright primary-colored suits standing in a TVA stairwell, two men who were as likely to try and kill each other as they were to fuck, two men who were each certified mental disasters but as it stood, his only chance of ever seeing Loki again.

He’d been watching them for more than a while. He’d gone looking for variants who could withstand the tree’s temporal radiation the second he’d gotten back to the TVA, since Sylvie had told him she could pinpoint the tree’s location, but he hadn’t been able to convince any to help him until now. Here were two men, just as desperate as he was, two men who were now looking back at him with that mirrored, last-ditch determination.

Because fuck it — if this didn’t work, nothing would.

Mobius swallowed, managing to say, “Just — tell him I miss him, would you?”

If he’s even still alive when you reach him. If any of us are still alive.

Wade nodded. “You got it, Lightning McQueen.”

His lips twitched. “Mobius.”

“Oh!” The white eyes of his mask widened. “You’re Mobius! Which means the guy in the tree has to be —”

Mobius didn’t even care how Wade knew, he didn’t want to hear that name said out loud. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it. Instead, he turned and bolted up the stairs.

Towards the one thing he could do.

header/ch 1

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localravenclaw · 1 year

Text

I'm Not Done With You

Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Theme: One-Shot Smut

Summary: Virgin Sebastian get his man-cherry popped by you, hun!

Warnings: Aged up 18+ vanilla af (because that deserves a warning of its own)

Author's Note: Do I hate myself for writing this? Yes. Yes, I do. Did I enjoy writing this? I did so too. It's been sitting in my drafts for two months now and AI Sebastian who is now apparently my soulmate told me to go ahead and risk it all so here ya go!

---

You revel in the intimacy of feeling Sebastian's soft, brown hair between your fingers. The way he sighs and his eyes flutter as your hand glides through his locks is your own private heaven on earth. You sit contentedly in the Undercroft sofa, craddling the Slytherin, his head resting comfortably on your lap as you rhythmically toyed with his hair.

"So you've never done it?" you validate.

He opens his eyes and raises a brow at you with a smirk.

"You doubt me?"

"No," you deny. "It's just that... Well, I find it hard to believe."

"What's so hard to believe about that?" he asks, feigning offense.

"With all due respect, Sebastian. A man with your charm and..." you hesistate, not wanting to overinflate his ego.

"And what?"

"And then being, you know, handsome," you finish, surrending your compliment.

"So?"

"Surely, you've had your fun."

He snorts and closes his eyes, unfazed by the flattery.

"I'm not a saint. Of course I've had my share of fun. In the past, maybe. But..." This time it was his turn to hesitate.

"But what? Tell me," you pry.

"It just never came to that," he answers simply, emphasizing the last word.

You sit quietly in thought, fingers still absently brushing through his hair.

He's gotta be lying, you muse. Perhaps he's doing so to spare your feelings, being protective of you as he always is.

It seems rather uncharacteristic of someone with Sebastian Sallow's aggressive nature to be a virgin. Him being the tenacious man that he is, it's hard to imagine him not being able to get his way with a woman. Any woman.

You've seen the way the other students look at him when they think he's not looking. You aren't exactly blind to their secret pining towards the dauntingly disinterested man. If he really wanted to, he could have had anyone he liked, female or male.

"Have you?" he asks, cutting you off your musings.

"Mmm, a handful of times," you answer honestly.

"Tch. Lucky bastard."

"You assume there's only one?" you tease.

He opens his eyes and raises a brow at you incredulously. You laugh, throwing your head back in amusement.

"You know I'm not like that," you assure him. "It was with a fling, and I was young and stupid. Relax, it was a long, long time ago."

He sits up and grabs the back of your head, forcing your face closer to his. There was fire in his eyes. He smiles mischievously at you through gritted teeth and runs a hand over your breast, stopping between the cleavage.

"This," he says, pressing his palm over your heart, "is what I want."

"But this," he adds, and proceeds to trail his hand slowly down your navel, "is a bonus."

His hand hovers over your groin, touching ever so lightly. You inhale sharply at the sudden escalation of his boldness.

Ever since you started seeing each other, Sebastian has never been physically forceful. He would steal ardent kisses in empty corridors and fondle you behind closed doors even in broad daylight but much to your frustration, the two of you have never really gotten past rough makeouts and occasional groping.

You run a hand on the back of his neck and stroke the smoothness of his nape. His smile widen before capturing your mouth in a deep, fervent kiss.

The taste of him is intoxicating, filling your senses and robbing you of air. He skillfully probes your parted lips, verociously exploring your mouth with his tongue. He scoops you in one swift motion and switches you to a straddling position.

He breaks the kiss, making you moan in protest.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathes, soaking in the sight of you.

You huff and look away, growing ever more frustrated. Desire hung heavily in the air around you.

"Seb, it's hot in here," you complain, playfully fanning yourself and releasing the buttons of your shirt. He gives you a sinister grin, reaching out a greedy hand to caress your breast. You smile in triumph as his hand ventures around your chest, squeezing and pinching, rolling your nipples between his thumb. He watches you closely as you shudder in pleasure.

"You have no idea how hard it is to control myself around you," he mutters, jaw tense in restrain.

You respond by completely removing your top, revealing your bareness for him to feast on. And feast he did.

He pulls you closer, taking one breast to his mouth. You groan needily as the warmth of his tongue seared your skin. He swirls his tongue around the crown, nipping playfully before sucking at it again. You throw your head back and run your hands through his hair, encouraging him. He switches to the other one, rough, calloused hands tenderly skimming along your back before resting firmly on your hips. He traces your smooth belly with kisses, one hand deftly undoing the clasp of your trousers. Your breathing hastens in excitement as he slowly pulls down the zipper, sneering wickedly at you.

He reclines on the couch, lustfully admiring your half-naked figure. And you whine in annoyance, wanting, no, needing him to go further. His arousal is very visible now, bulging threateningly against his crotch. You rake a hand over it, making him growl with impatience. You lean forward, fixing your hands on the back of the sofa for support and caging him between your arms.

"You will be the death of me, Sebastian Sallow" you croon.

He seals your mouth in a deceivingly chaste kiss as his right hand found its way inside your unzipped pants. You mewl in his mouth and he grabs the back of your head with his free hand, pulling you back into the kiss.

Deft fingers glide into you, feeling your wetness before dancing over the sensitive nub, making you gasp and call out his name. You drape yourself on neck and bite into his shoulder in a bid to stiffle your moans, and failing.

"Mmm, you like that?" he purrs into you ear. "Tell me, does it feel good?"

You respond in whimpers and cling tighter to him, logic escaping your brain as his words push you closer to your impending climax.

"Just let it go, love" he coaxes, expertly adding pressure and speed to his manipulation.

He catches you in time as your legs fail and you shudder helplessly against his chest, consumed in a tidal wave of blissful spasms racking your body.

He lays you on your back to ride out the last of your climax. Your clothes quickly pile on the floor in desperate efficiency.

"Sebastian, I'm not sure I can take that," you tease as you gape in absolute awe at the sight of his girth. He gives you a sinister grin, stroking the length of his shaft. Not the first time you've seen it, but certainly the first it's ever been this angry.

"We don't have to do it if you don't want to," Sebastian lies, though he knew full well there was no turning back at this point.

You smile at his thoughtfulness and eagerly pull him to you again. You resume your straddling position and kiss him affectionately, slowly grinding against his hardness. He groans deliciously into your mouth, hands grasping your hips, anxiously wanting more. You take his erection in one hand and rub it teasingly against your wetness. His breath hitches and his grip tightens, nails digging into your skin. You lock eyes and he gives you a silent, pleading nod. Slowly, you lower yourself on him, sheathing his throbbing cock inside you. Sebastian gives out a growl of pleasure, burying his face between your breasts and trapping you in a tight embrace.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he breathes.

You raise your hips and sink into him again, making him cry out once more. You moan in divine agony as your walls gradually stretch to accomodate all of him. Sebastian whimpers and whines as you rock yourself on his lap, dripping all over his thighs. Your walls tighten involuntarily around his shaft as you pick up the cadence, lost in the desperate chase of your personal high. Sebastian seems to be growing equally impatient as he strains and buckles in an attempt to go deeper.

Your second orgasm comes without warning, flooding your brain with stars as your senses mute and your mind goes paper white. Sebastian lays you on the couch and clutches your shoulders for leverage as he loses himself in a frenzy of fervent thrusts. He lets out an exquisitely primal sound in between ragged breaths and collapse on top of you, gasping from the intensity of his release.

The two of you lay there spent, a heaving mess of sweat and sex.

"How was that for your first time?" you tease.

"I will never look at this couch the same way ever again," he laughs feebly.

"Sebastian?"

"Hmm?"

"You're still inside me."

He props himself up slighty to meet your gaze, a familiar glint already dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet."

---

#sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x f!reader

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cowboyemeritus · 2 months

Text

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter Three

Series Masterlist

Summary: Copia has a meeting with his father while you try your best not to think about him.

Content Warning: implied gang violence, mild sexism (nihil is a gross old man)

Read on AO3

Notes: we’re keeping on with this series! i hope this chapter isn’t too dull; i don’t want to have smut in every installment and needed to establish a few Plot Things, if that makes sense. i didn’t actually have the plot fully planned out when I decided to make this a series, so that will likely bite me in the ass in the future. cooking up some spicy stuff for you all in the next few chapters though. stay tuned ;)

lmk what y'all think about the new header! graphic design is not my passion, so i'm worried it sucks lol.

feedback is always welcome! enjoy, friends!

Copia tugs at the collar of his shirt. It does nothing to relieve the choking feeling that’s been plaguing him all morning. The walk from the car is short, but sweat prickles across his back and under his arms as he climbs the front stairs. He takes a second to compose himself, one final moment of peace before the onslaught to come, staring at the obnoxious goat head knocker. Its square pupils bore into his soul, mocking him. Copia scoffs at the brass monstrosity, finally reaching for the ring between its teeth. It’s almost in his grasp when the door opens, startling him.

“Were you going to stand out here all day?” Psaltarian asks, a look of exasperation already plastered across his aged face. Copia swallows, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.

“I was not,” he quips. A beat passes. “Didn’t realize the old guy promoted you to doorman.” Psaltarian rolls his eyes, beckoning Copia to come inside with a wave of his arm. The foyer, as always, smells vaguely of cigar smoke, though today there’s a hint of chemical cleaner as well. The Persian rug at the center of the room catches his eye; it’s clearly new, the colors too rich and bright for this dismal place. On the opposite wall, a framed photo of Copia and his brothers as children hangs askew, the glass cracked. Glancing upwards, he finally notices the man sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs, a large gun laid across his lap. His finger rests on the trigger.

“Shit,” Copia mutters, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on a stand near the door. “What-“ Psaltarian is already halfway down the hall, and Copia has to power-walk to catch up to him. “What happened?”

“An uninvited guest dropped by last night,” he says. “That’s all.”

Copia nods, wringing his hands. He’ll be in a bad mood. As the two pass by the basement door, he can’t help but pick up on the screaming emanating from the dark, musty labyrinth beneath the house. Whoever is down there… He chooses not to dwell on it any further. They’ll get what they deserve.

His father’s office is at the very end of the long, narrow hall. It’s not wide enough for him and Psaltarian to walk side-by-side, so he follows the old bookkeeper quietly. This part of the house has always reminded Copia of a livestock chute, pushing him through to the slaughterhouse at its terminus. Portraits of long-dead Emeritus patriarchs hang on the walls, their attire becoming progressively more antiquated the further he travels. He has never been able to shake the feeling that their eyes follow him, silently passing their judgement. Approaching the door, Copia recalls his words to you the night previous, the false assurance that his father would be pleased by your performance. He realizes now that he said it more to make himself feel better than to praise you.

When they arrive at the door to the office, Psaltarian steps to the side, looking at Copia expectantly. It’s awkward as he squeezes by the older man, turning his body so as to not brush against him. Fighting back a groan, he gingerly raps on the door.

“Yes?” Even through the thick wood, the frustration in Nihil’s voice is evident. Hesitantly, Copia opens the door enough to stick his head in. He finds his father sitting at his antique mahogany desk, hands clasped in front of him and looking at his youngest son disapprovingly.

“Hey, dad.” Copia smiles nervously as he steps into the room. “You’re looking well today.” The old man, unimpressed, scowls.

“Sit down. You are late.” Glancing at the clock on the wall — one of those stupid ones that spins and plays a song every hour — he sees it’s only two minutes past the designated meeting time. Knowing better than to say anything, Copia takes a seat in the rickety wooden chair across from the desk.

“So, eh… What’s up?” Nihil sneers, slamming his hands down on the desktop. Copia jumps a little.

“What is ‘up’ is that you refuse get your head out of your ass and participate in this business. Instead, you go galavanting around like you’re some sort of showman, putting on these silly cat-fights.” Copia is thankful his father is nearly blind, eyes so clouded with cataracts they look ghostly. He’s sure the indignant expression on his face would earn him an additional tongue-lashing.

“I am participating,” he objects, crossing his arms. “People pay good money to watch these fights, and we get a sizable cut of what the bookies make. Our dealers get good business, too; just ask Primo or Secondo.” Despite having intimate knowledge of the Family’s ledgers, Psaltarian, it seems, has been doing him no favors.

“Who wants to watch a bunch of girls fight anyway?” Nihil questions. “They can’t hurt each other like men can.” Copia rolls his eyes. If the geezer could see you fight, he’d know that’s horrifyingly false. “Now, Terzo? He’s got the right idea. He knows what kind of work women are suited for.” Copia cringes, knowing his brother would probably kill the old man for saying that. “You would make some real money if they wore bikinis.”

“Ahi, dad! We are not in the Dark Ages anymore.” Nihil scoffs.

“Don’t try and change the subject. There are serious matters at hand.” His father sighs, worry finally showing on his wrinkled face. “The other Families, they are growing bold.”

“I noticed the remodeling,” Copia says. “Who was it? The Sicilians? The Russians?” Nihil waves him off.

“That is not important right now. The point, son,” something about that word makes his stomach churn, “is that I will not be here forever. When the time comes, I need the assurance that you and your brothers can protect what this family has worked so hard for. As it stands, I am not convinced you have what it takes, not until you start taking this seriously.” Copia is used to this treatment, but the words sting nonetheless. “Would you stop that?” For a moment, he’s confused, but then realizes he’s been bouncing his leg, causing the chair to squeak rhythmically. Copia sighs, stilling himself.

“Look, you may not think so, but I am serious about this. If we want to be able to hold our own against the other Families, we need to diversify.” Nihil still looks skeptical. “These events are only getting more popular, and more lucrative. With the right resources, we can expand the operation; more fights, more often, better venues, more money in our pocket. Believe me, this is worth investing in.” Nihil stokes his chin for a moment, glancing out the window contemplatively. He sighs, shoulders dropping.

“Convince your brothers that is the case, and maybe you will convince me. Maybe. This is a business, Copia, not the circus.”

It’s not a no.

“Alright, fine.” Copia rises from his chair. “I’ll do that.” Nihil rolls his eyes.

“Ragazzo testardo,” he mutters. “Proprio come tua madre.” Copia pretends not to hear him, making his way back to the door.

“Lovely to see you, dad,” he says, ready to get the fuck out of there. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” Nihil grunts.

“Yeah, yeah. You as well. And, son?” Copia looks back at his father, his hand on the doorknob. He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think I do not know about that pet of yours — the girl. If you disappoint me, I will see to it that she finds better management.”

Copia’s mood instantly turns.

You wake up late. Copia is already gone, presumably at his meeting. On the coffee table is small plate bearing a blueberry muffin and more ibuprofen. Next to it is a stack of bills, the fifteen hundred dollars you won last night, and a handwritten note. In elegant script, it reads:

Dolcezza,

There’s coffee in the kitchen. Swiss is here and can take you home. You will find the full amount of your earnings here, plus a small bonus from me. Think of it as an expression of gratitude for all that you do.

Excellent work as always, mia tigressa. I will be in touch soon.

XO, C

P.S. Make sure you get some rest!

Fuck that.

After dry-swallowing the pills and absolutely devouring the muffin, you go to the kitchen. Swiss (you don’t know his real name) is sitting at the counter, a newspaper laid out in front of him. He perks up when you enter the room, flashing you a pleasant smile. He’s grown a mustache since the last time you saw him.

“Morning, champ.” You nod at him, awkwardly shuffling over to the cabinet where Copia stores his coffee cups. “Heard you kicked some serious ass last night.”

“I guess so,” you say, pulling out a mug decorated with a map of Florence.

“Bet that nose hurts like hell, though. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

“I’m used to it.” Please stop talking to me. You don’t dislike Swiss; you feel the same level of indifference toward him that you do with most people. He’s a decent guy considering his line of work, there’s just something about him being here, knowing you had a “sleepover” with his employer that’s just… ew. Thankfully, he seems to get the memo, returning to his reading as you sip your coffee in painful silence.

Once the caffeine hits, you’re ready to engage with him for real. “Can you take me to the gym, please,” you ask, placing your mug in the sink. Swiss grimaces, the skin around his dark eyes crinkling. He shakes his head.

“Sorry, but no can do. Boss wants me to take you home. Says you need to rest.”

That fucker.

You feel your temper flare, but quickly work to suppress it. Swiss is just doing his job, and you imagine Copia would be pretty displeased if you had it out with one of his guys. Taking a deep breath through your nose, you nod, muttering out a quiet “Okay.”

“Alrighty, then.” You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in a bad mood. “If you're ready, let’s get going.” Swiss grabs a pair of keys from a wooden bowl on the counter and heads for the garage. Following him, you're able to catch the headline running across the top of the newspaper.

DRIVE-BY AT THE WHISKEY LEAVES TWO DEAD.

As soon as Swiss leaves, you walk to the gym. You get a few weird looks on the street and end up having to pull down the hood of your sweatshirt to hide your busted-up face, but otherwise, the journey is pleasant. The guys at the gym don’t ask questions, and have learned — some the hard way — to leave you be. Without distractions, it’s easy for you to get into a groove, and you soon find your mind wandering as you go to town on the bag.

Stupid Copia. Stupid Copia and his stupid fucking face. Stupid Copia and-

“Where would I be without you, il mia campionessa?”

Your knuckles are bleeding again.

A handful of hours later, you’re rounding the corner of your apartment building. You took the long way home to, in your mind, spite Copia. Trying to imagine him in place of the punching bag had been unsuccessful, your fist stopping itself a fraction of an inch away. This is as good a substitute as you’ll get, even if he has no idea you’re doing it.

There’s a swarm of pigeons waiting outside the front door. They flock to you as you approach, cooing and fluttering their wings in a frenzy. Your landlord has tried everything to get rid of them, from hanging strings of old CDs to putting up those fake dummy owls. You’re sure you’ll get another notice warning the residents of the building that “anyone caught feeding them will be receive punitive action.” So far, he has yet to suspect you of anything.

“No, no food today.” Wading through the dense sea of birds is a challenge, and you nearly lose your balance trying to avoid stepping on one. Eventually, though, you make it up the stairs to the door, unlock it, and step in, shooing away a particularly bold pigeon that tries to follow you inside. The elevator is always broken, so you take the stairs. They creak with every step. You have a few hours until you need to be at work. A nap, and then maybe a shower seems in order. Anything to distract yourself from the thought of stupid, stupid Copia.

You’re so busy trying to not think about him that when you insert the key into your apartment door, it takes you a second to realize it’s already unlocked.

#my writing #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iv x reader #copia x reader #sorry gang nothing spicy today just plot

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justmeinadaze · 1 year

Text

We're A Family Part 10 (Steddie X You)

A/N: I had many feels with this one. From this point forward I may start aging everyone up a bit just because I have some ideas with Steddie being girl dads and then Dylan needing them for advice all growing boys need. Im also drooling to get to teacher Steve... We also may throw another kid in there. Idk. Definitely not 6 @sidthedollface2 !!!

Warnings: ANGST and SMUT with a dash of fluff. Reader interacts with her mother which is always fun (I may also be dealing with things personal in this regard that flowed into my writing...), Reader and boys fight! I know! Its a small one though. She mentions feelings from her previous marriage and feeling like she isn't enough. Um...I think that it.

Word count: 4085

“Dada…da…da…”

“I know, sweetheart. I miss them to.”

You and Aurora were sitting on the floor of your bedroom while Dylan laid a few feet away patting the floor.

“Come on, Ro. You can do it.” She giggled at her brother as she tried to take a step forward before falling back on her butt.

This was the fourth day in a row that the guys hadn’t been home in time for dinner. Eddie had been working late at the shop while Steve had stayed behind at school to work on a project he had due. You missed them terribly but you would never bring it up. They were both working so hard to take care of you and the kids but you’d be lying if you said there weren’t a few times you had some flashbacks to your previous marriage.

You reminded yourself constantly that this was different. Charlie had always been out on the town with his friends or fucking other women behind your back. Eddie and Steve were both at work. You weren’t allowed to be angry…right? It’s ok though. The guys said tomorrow everything would go back to normal…right?

The sound of your phone ringing startled you back to reality.

“Hello?”

“Hey! Is my son there?”

“Lynette? No, he isn’t and if he was I wouldn’t let you talk to him.”

She aggressively sighs. “Just like Wayne. So fucking self-righteous. I need to know if he’s going to the hearing.”

“Oh, well, I can answer that. No. Now leave him alone.”

Dylan laughed as you hung up the phone. “You’re so spicy, mom.”

“Yeah, it comes with old age.” He laughs harder as you laugh with him. “You want to watch a movie, weirdo?”

##################

Steve sighed as he quietly opened the front door to a relatively dark house. Like you had been doing all week, the kitchen light remained on illuminating the entryway enough for him so he could see.

“Hey, Munson.”

“Harrington. You’re just walking in to I see?”

He nodded as he reached for the fridge door, softly smiling at the food you left behind for them.

“We don’t deserve her.” As he turns back around, he notices Eddie reading the note you left behind. Even though you could text them, you always left a note on the counter giving them a play by play of the evening. The metalhead hands it to Steve as he retrieves a beer and leans against the counter.

“Eddie and Steve,

Dylan insisted on Chinese food so I ordered you both something and left it in the fridge. He had a good day and even told me about a new girl in his class :P. I think he likes her.

Ro still hasn’t got walking down. Our son keeps calling to her like she’s a dog and all she does is laugh lol She has definitely mastered crawling for sure. I saved the lives of one of your guitars, Ed!

She asks for you guys a lot. At night while we’re watching tv, she’ll point or look around and call out for ‘dada’. She misses you two…we all do…

Eddie, baby, your mom called my phone tonight looking for you asking about the hearing. I told her you didn’t want to go. I wanted to give you a heads up just in case she tries calling you to.

I love you both so much,

Y/N <3 “

“Steve, one of us should at least be here.”

“I know… I don’t know what to fucking do, Eddie. This is a big project for the semester and then I have to still go to work and make money. What about you?”

“I’m working to, man. I have more responsibility now and not just here. I…”, he exhales as he heads for the stairs. “I’m too fucking tired.”

Their hearts break when they enter the bedroom, finding all three of you asleep on the bed. Steve carefully picks up Aurora from your chest as Eddie pries Dylan from your hip, carrying them to their respective areas.

Without even changing, they threw themselves into bed next to you, pulling you into their embrace as they fell asleep.

#############

When you woke up, they were both already gone for work. The only reason you knew they even came home was because you could still smell their scent lingering in the sheets.

For the rest of the Saturday, you busied yourself around the house to make the time go by faster. Eddie and Steve were supposed to come home by 6 but the anger didn’t start to rise until 7 when neither of them had come back yet. Stomping to your phone you noticed a few texts you had missed. Steve said that the group he was working with in his class had some free time so he was going to run to one of their houses to finish up their project and Eddie said he had to work late again but promised he’d be home by 8 at the latest.

You fumed as you paced in the kitchen. They promised today everything would go back to normal. They told you things were going to go back to how they were so they could at least see the kids before they went to bed. Without thinking it through you grabbed your phone and texted them a response.

“Fuck you both.”

Thirty minutes later, both boys angrily barreled into the house, shocked to find not you but Kierra in the living room.

“I don’t know what you two did but my sister is pissed.”

“Where is she?”

“She said she needed to let off some steam.”

“Kierra, come on, we know you know where she is.”

Your sister glared in their direction, rising to her feet with Aurora on her hip.

“Dada. Dada.”, she clapped reaching for Steve.

“I’m taking them to my house to spend the night. Talk to her, gentlemen. Y/N can handle a lot but she won’t put up with another Charlie.” It was their turn to glare, hating being compared to your douchebag ex. “She’s at The Hideout. Bring your shield and swords. My sister isn’t exactly a happy drunk.”

##############

I’m not supposed to be angry. I’m not supposed to be angry. I’m not—”

You chugged back the liquid in your glass as you lit another one of Eddie’s cigarettes. You imagined you looked pretty pathetic in a dark bar, smoking a cigarette in a shirt and jacket that were two sizes too big but you needed them close to you. Eddie’s jacket and one of Steve’s button up shirts were blanketed in their smells that had you hugging yourself as you tried to push back the tears that tried to run down your face.

“Man trouble?” Your eyes shoot up to meet your moms as she sits diagonal from you at the bar, ordering a drink of her own as she lights up the cigarette in her mouth. “I swear me being here is a coincidence. It seems Mrs. Harrington and I don’t have a lot to talk about these days. Plus, she spends less time at that country club now that she’s at your house more.”

“Can I just drink alone, please?”, you whine.

Your mother nods as she takes a sip of the martini that was handed to her. “How’s, um, how’s Dylan?”

“You would know if you bothered to come by or even call.” She looks down as you snap at her, immediately feeling guilty. “He’s doing ok. He plays baseball now and is dead set on teaching Aurora how to walk.”

“Is that the baby’s name?”

“My daughter, your granddaughter? Yes, it is.”

Your mother sighs as she turns to fully face you. “I don’t have a problem with her. I hope you know that. Janet showed me some pictures of her. She’s really beautiful.”

“No, you just have a problem with her mother being together with her fathers.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Y/N! She has ONE father. ONE parent. How are you going to explain that to her when she gets older. Hell, how are you going to explain it to her now?! I imagine for a toddler that will be extremely confusing. And have you even considered what school will be like for her?! You’re so selfish, Y/N.”

You chugged down the rest of the liquor in your glass as you began to subtly cry. You already felt selfish for being angry with the boys…this is the last thing you needed.

“Y/N, let me call Eddie to pick you up!”

“I’m not driving, Nick!”, you shouted as you exited the bar.

As you began your trek into the parking lot, your mother’s voice floated from behind you.

“Y/N, come on. Let me drive you home.”

“Don’t!”, you snap as you turn on her. “Don’t pretend like you fucking care about me now. Don’t patronize me and pretend like you give a fuck about me or my kids! You told Charlie all about my life and things he didn’t need to fucking know which kick started a brand-new custody filing which fucking back fired because even a court so far seems to think my home is better than his! He felt so cornered he took him from school without telling me and got arrested. Did you know that?”

“Did you know that no one makes fun of Dylan at school and most of his friends think it’s ‘cool’ he has three parents? Of course, my son doesn’t care about that. All he cares about is the fact that he finally has men in his life who are there and actually make him feel wanted!”

This was a long time coming. Everything you been holding in was finally spilling out of you and you couldn’t reel it back in. A hand suddenly touched your arm but you didn’t bother turning around. At that moment, it didn’t matter.

“Y/N, baby, come on.”, Steve murmured before you yanked out of his grasp.

“Aurora may only be one but believe it or not she understands that these two are her father. Biologically, yes, one helped make her but it takes more than that to be a parent but you wouldn’t understand anything about that, would you? I haven’t seen you in almost 2 years and why?! Because I found two good people I love and love me back? Jesus, you’re right. I am fucking selfish! I’m not perfect!”

As you spoke, Eddie and Steve tried to pull you towards the car but you kept fighting to get out of their grasp.

“Why am I not enough for you?”

Eddie finally stepped in front of you, blocking your mom from your view as he grabbed your biceps forcing you to look at him.

“Stop! Stop... Get in the car, sweetheart.”

Steve opened the back door, guiding you in before facing your mom. “You know, for someone who cares about how people perceive her, you give off a really shitty image. Maybe it’s time to consider if you’re trying to impress the right people.”

#############

You barge into the house and head straight for the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

“Fucking child proof...garbage…ugh!”, you whine as you aggressively pull on the child lock attached to the door.

“You don’t need anymore alcohol, Y/N.” Both men were leaning against opposite counters watching you.

“I’m sorry, Steven, but you don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m an adult—”

“Whose acting like a child.”, Eddie cut you off.

“Said the man who acts like a kid 24/7.” You glare at them as you exhale. “Fuck this. I’m going to bed.” As you tried to head towards the stairs, they both cut you off. “Move.”

“Or what?”, Steve challenged.

It had been awhile since you saw this version them; the angry version that didn’t mind playing into your attitude with a fury of their own.

Turning on your heels, you planned to go around the counter through the living room but Eddie cut you off.

“What was that text about? ‘Fuck you both.’”

“You BOTH promised me you would be home today?!”

“Sorry, honey. Shit came up. It’s not like we’re out on the town or having any fucking fun! Eddie and I are working our asses off!”

“So do I! I work an 8hr shift AND come home to take care of TWO kids alone!”

“We talked about this, Y/N. You knew when Steve started school and I took that promotion our schedules would be tight. You said you were fine with it.”

“Well maybe I’m not! And tight is completely different that not seeing you at all.”

“What do we do then, huh? You want me to quit my job so we can scrape by for the next year and a half? Maybe, Ed can go back to his old position that he hated. At least everyone would be fucking happy!”

You marched outside, slamming the backdoor as you lit a fresh cigarette.

“Hey! Don’t walk away! We aren’t done.”

“I DON’T KNOW!”, you screamed. Your hands beginning to shake as the tears started to flow again. “I don’t know, Eddie. I-I know I’m not allowed to be angry and I know that you guys aren’t doing anything wrong or anything like that. But I hear Dylan talk and see Aurora search for you…then I go to bed alone and I just…I feel like I did when I was married to Charlie.”

“That’s…”, Steve aggressively sighs as he tries to control his temper. “That’s not fair, Y/N.”

“I know but, fuck. Maybe I am selfish.”

“If there’s one thing you’re not, sweetheart, it’s selfish. Don’t bring your mom’s ignorance into this because what she thinks about you and us doesn’t matter. What I do want to focus on is you’re the second person today to compare us to your ex and I don’t fucking like it.”

“Me either.”, Steve chimed in.

“Y/N, we know you went through a lot with him and still are but we aren’t him. How would you feel if we said something you did reminded us of Emily.” You cringed at the thought. “Exactly. We would never fucking hurt you the way Charlie did and we would never fucking give up on you either.” You made a funny face in his direction so Eddie continued.

“Baby, he stopped fighting for you the moment he cheated on you. Fucking asshole was so petty he wouldn’t even let the mother of his child and son stay in their home.”

“If he hadn’t done that though, I never would have met you two.” You flashed them a slanted smile as you wiped your eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I sent that text earlier. You know me, I saw red and… I was just so excited you guys were going to be home.”

Your gaze shifted between theirs as something quickly passed through their eyes, something you hadn’t seen directed towards you since living across from them...

“I’m going to go get ready for bed.” You grin again, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray before swishing past them into the house.

A hand abruptly grabs your shoulder, spinning you around as lips crash to yours. The many rings on his fingers tells you its Eddie as he pushes you against the living room wall. There’s a neediness to both your energies as he hastily unbuttons your pants and slides his hand under the waistband of your panties, making you moan as he roughly inserts two of his fingers into your cunt.

You cling to his neck as he sucks on yours, thrusting into you at an aggressive pace.

“E-Eddie… slow…oh my god…slow down.”

Without a word, he does as you ask, choosing to curl his fingers deep inside of you. Your legs began to shake as you reached down to grip his wrist. You tried to pull at his hair to look at his face but his lips remained attached to your neck. Instead, you searched for Steve, finding him leaning beside you both, his eyes overshadowed with that determination you saw before.

Tonight, it was just you three and it had been so long since you had been together not just sexually but intimately. You were hurting and so were they. They missed you as much as you missed them and tonight they were going to show you how much. Tonight, the house belonged to you guys and they were going to make you scream their names so all of Hawkins understood you were theirs, no matter what.

You moan his name repeatedly as you cum, yanking Steve’s shirt to bring his lips to yours. As soon as Eddie removed his hand, the other man lifted you into his arms, bringing you into the kitchen and placing you on the island in the middle. The metalhead came around to grip your waist as Steve aggressively tugged off your jeans and panties.

After pulling you closer to the edge, he threw off his shirt before kneeling, opening your legs wider, and wrapping his mouth around your clit. His motions were just as fast as Eddie, not allowing you much time to catch your breath. Lips and teeth warmed your breast as Eddie switched between the two.

“I…guys…please…fuck…” You were struggling to form words as they both overwhelmed your senses. The sharp, cold temperature of the granite hit your back as you laid flat against it, thrusting your hips against the man’s face till you felt the coil snap and you came again. Eddie lifted you, placing you on your feet, and turning you so your back was to his chest.

He fumbled with his belt as he walked you towards the stairs, kicking them and his boxers to the side as you fall forward onto the steps. The man licks his hand, pumping himself a few times before pushing into you as you moan. His fingers clung to your hips as he thrust into you, the obscene sound of skin hitting skin filling the area.

Footsteps echoed beside you as Steve pushed off his own attire tossing it to the ground. After sliding himself in front of you, your hands grip his thighs for support as you encase his cock with your lips.

He grunts at the feeling as you moan and bob your head, pulling your hair into a ponytail so he can watch you take him. Eddie falls forward, grinding into your pussy hard as his hands roam your now sweaty body.

You lift your head, continuing to jerk him as fast as you can, shouting Eddie’s name as you hurtle quickly over that ledge again. He groans as you flutter around him, pulling out before taking you in his arms as he heads for the bedroom.

Throwing you onto your back on the mattress, he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and breaches your entrance again as he chases his high. Steve climbs up beside you, licking his fingers and reaching between you to rub your swollen clit.

“Please…I can’t…again…too much…” They both silently continue what they were doing, lost in you and the moment. Eddie grunts as he cums, thrusting his hips till he empties inside of you.

Steve takes over as the other boy pulls out and backs away, sliding himself into you before pushing your legs together and turning you on your side. This position had him deeper inside of you then you had ever felt as you gripped the sheets for support, needing to hold on to something as he smacked his hips against yours.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hand reaching for yours, quickly reaching over to take it as he gripped you tightly. The sound of your whimpers and moans escalated until you couldn’t hold back anymore, crying and shouting Steve’s name into the darkness. His body folded over your own slightly as his rhythm sputtered and he came, rope after rope filling you up.

The room feel quiet except for your sniffles into the blankets. Someone gently lifted you into their arms and carried you to the bathroom before placing you on your feet by the tub. Looking up, you met Eddie’s soft brown eyes as he smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. A loud grunt left him as you practically tackled him, wrapping your arms around his waist as you cried into his chest. Steve came up behind you, hugging you as he rested his cheek on your head.

They waited for the bathtub to fill before releasing you, holding your hand as you stepped inside and immediately tugged your knees under your chin as they joined you. After Steve delicately pulled up your hair, he tenderly ran his palms along your shoulders and down your arms as Eddie cleaned your body.

“I don’t like this…the silence…” The only reason you knew they heard you was because their movements paused for a moment before they continued. “Please say something.”

“You’re more than enough.” Your eyes met Eddie’s in total confusion. “You asked your mom why you weren’t enough and I know part of the reason you feel the way you’ve been feeling is because Charlie made you believe that to. You’re MORE than enough. You are everything.”

“You’re not selfish for feeling the way you’ve been feeling, Y/N.”, Steve continued after. “We miss you to and the kids. When you said Dylan has been trying to show Ro how to walk more, I panicked like what if we weren’t here when she finally did?”

You sighed as you leaned against his chest.

“We finished our project so I’m done there and, of course, the semester ends next week so I’ll be home more. Maybe next semester, I can cut back on some of my hours at work. Things might be a bit tight but…”

“Maybe not.”

“What do you mean, Ed?”

“The owner of the shop, Scott? He’s retiring after the new year. Part of the reason I’ve been staying late is because… he’s been talking about giving the garage to me.”

“Eddie, oh my god. That’s amazing!” You lean forward wrapping your arms around his neck. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up including my own if he decided against it. But, baby, this would mean I could be home more and we would have more money. Steve could even solely focus on school but knowing him he would insist on continuing to work.”

“You’re not wrong.”, Steve chuckles.

“But what about music? Corroded Coffin?”

“I can practice more with them to. Sweetheart, I’m not going to become a rockstar in the next year.”, he laughs.

“You’re already a rockstar to me.”, you smile as you kiss his lips.

################

“Oh hey, look. The entire Munson-Harrington clan came to get you guys AND they seem happy.”, Kierra grins as she opens her door wider to allow you three into her home. “Did you fall on your knees and beg for forgiveness?”

“Eh something like that.”, Eddie laughs.

“Your mother was at the bar to last night. I’m not sure if she told you that.”

Your sister sighed at Steve’s comment. “I swear to God, that woman can be so…ugh! What did she say, Y/N?” When you didn’t answer, she turned to face you, noticing your eyes focusing on the kids.

Dylan was holding Aurora’s hand allow her to balance before letting her go. She took one wobbly step forward before falling on her butt and smiling up at him. You sunk to your knees placing yourself a small distance away from her. Your son lifted her up again, holding her hand as he guided her towards you before letting her go. She stood still just for a moment as she looked your way.

“Come here, baby. I missed you. Give mama a hug?”

You reached out your arms as she giggled before slowly taking two steps forward. She almost fell catching herself on her hands before pushing back to a standing position.

“Ma…mama!”

She took two more determined steps by herself before falling into your lap.

“Oh, Wayne’s going to hate that.”, Eddie grinned.

“God job, Ro.” Steve kissed her forehead as she keened into your neck.

“Get ready, boys. Here comes the fun part. Running after a toddler around a two story house with sticky fingers.”, Kierra laughed as she wrapped her arms around you leaning her head on the Aurora’s back.

###############

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