unckuna đ„č
Sukuna is heavy.
It's a nice weight, you think. Blanketing and comfortable as he bears down on top of you. The weight makes sense; he's firm and sturdy and broad through his shoulders, tapering down into a trim waist that you can't think about for too long or it makes your head spin.
He's warm too.
There's a heat that seems to perpetually radiate from him, regardless of the climate, against all odds. It's just as soothing as his weight to seek out and leech from himâparticularly when the two of you are out in the cold, inching closer to him on the sidewalk just to fight the frigid breeze or twining your fingers through his own to keep your fingertips from pricking with the chill. His hands are one of your favourite parts of him, usually.
But not at the present moment.
"Sukunaâ" the warning is lost to his esurient mouth, mumbled into soft lips and swallowed down before it can elicit any actual response. Sukuna has you pinned down on the sofa, underneath his warmth and weight, and those hands you usually like so much are creeping dangerously up, up, up under the hem of your t-shirtâeven in spite of your repeated insistence that this wasn't allowed to proceed any further.
His breath huffs against your slick lips, a laugh you think, and that familiar heat of his hands slithers back down towards your waist like it has every other time you've cautioned him.
"Stop bein' a tease," he mutters, slipping one hand underneath your back and pulling up so your spine arches and presses the two of you even closer together in that impossibly narrow space you occupy on the sofa.
Your breath hitches as your hips grind against his, and the look on Sukuna's face is deeply pleased by the sound. You huff a little. "I'm not teasing."
"Yeah fuckin' riâ"
"Yuuji's only down the hall," you don't even let him finish his snark, chastising him firmly.
"He's asleep," the man above you tries to reason, dipping down to nip at your pulse. Sukuna's nephew had only fallen asleep a short while prior, and as sweet a little boy as he may be, you were all too conscious of his bloodlineâyou didn't trust Yuuji to stay asleep any more than you trusted his beloved jichan to keep his hands off you, just because you said so.
Using the hand he still has tucked underneath the small of your back, Sukuna effortlessly tugs you up against him. Everything spins as you're righted, and before you know it you're straddling his lap on the sofa in his older brother's humble apartment, peering down the dimly lit hallway in the direction of Yuuji's bedroom. Sukuna mouths at your chest through the thin material of your shirt, sucking against the visible bud of your nipple. He'd weaselled you out of your bra soon after the two of you started fooling aroundâwhat had started off as a bit of innocent heavy pettingâslipping it off and tossing it somewhere in the living room, and you've lost track of it now that things had kept spiralling out of your control.
You should have known this was how things were bound to turn out when Sukuna had asked if you'd accompany him to babysit his nephew that night. You had plans to see a movie, maybe grab dinner, and then almost assuredly end up bent over some piece of furniture in your/his/a hotel room by the end of the night. That's how things usually go with Sukuna. But then Itadori Jin had called his younger brother only a short while before the two of you were planning to meet, pleading with him to watch Yuuji for the night since he had to stay late at work.
When you first learned Sukuna had a nephew, more by accident than anything, it had surprised you. He didn't strike you as the type to get along with children when he barely gets along with other adults. Then you met Yuujiâeven more by accident than simply finding out, happening to cross paths with them one afternoonâand it surprised you even more to see with your own two eyes just how deeply he cares for him. Upon first impression, Sukuna is rough and crass and unsympatheticâand while yes, those things might be true to some degree, the more you've come to learn about him, the more you've come to see other sides of him that you're not sure many (if any) other people have the chance to.
You spent your evening playing games and colouring with Yuuji while Sukuna prepared his dinner (which Jin had left in the fridge, but still, there was a certain level of preparation involved.) The three of you ate together at the kotatsu in the living room, and you laughed every time Sukuna barked at his nephew to stop trying to sneak his vegetables onto your plate. You watched Sukuna and Yuuji roughhouse before collapsing into a pile on the sofa to watch a movie, watched the six year old fall asleep on his uncle's arm, watched said uncle pluck him up (more delicately than you've ever seen Sukuna treat anything) and eventually take him to his room and tuck him into bed.
The Sukuna you thought you met six months ago would have never changed all his plans, with relatively little hesitation or complaint, to babysit a six year old, and he certainly would never have invited you along to accompany himâa bit awkwardly, endearingly clumsyâjust so the two of you could still spend time together.
Sukuna pulls away from your chest, a little string of saliva stretching from his mouth to the wet stain he's suckled into the material of your top. He blinks up at you, eyes heavy lidded and gaze hot. You trace your fingers through his unkempt hair, brushing it back from his brow.
"What?" he asks, his tone guarded, as though he's suspicious of how gentle you've suddenly become. "Aren't you gonna tell me toâ"
"Hey," you cut him off, your hands settling on his shoulders. He pauses, his lips still parted in speech though the words have stopped. "Kiss me?"
There's not a moment wasted before he cranes up, obeying your request without any hesitation. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to give you the chance to change your mind. Maybe it's because he can't say no to you. Maybe it's because he wants it just as bad as you do.
This time you don't stop Sukuna when his hands slip up your top. Don't stop him when he takes it off all together, either. He's not as talkative as he usually is, having grown used to the way he likes to mouth off when the two of you are intimate like this. He's as conscious as you are of his nephew sleeping only a few rooms away. He's careful with you, not unlike how like he was with Yuuji, in his own particular way.
You don't plan to stop him at all, anymore. Your resolve to deny him (and yourself) having melted under a strange warmth you feel kindling in your chest. You're happy to let himâthe Sukuna you think you might be the only one who knowsâhave you.
Or, you would be, if not for the unexpected return of his older brother, who flicks on the light in the living room with absolutely no idea what he's about to expose.
Thankfully you've learned from experience that first impressions aren't so important after all.
College AU Uvogin x fem! Reader
This plays in the same universe as the college AU with Shalnark! I had a large part of this already written in my drafts, but it eventually got to this 5k piece.Â
This is a bit darker than my average piece, so take the warnings into account. Contains nsfw, yandere, violence and other disturbing themes.
â-so I think thatâs it. Dâyou need help with anything else?â
âNah, I think itâs fine. Only need a passing grade anyway.â
You laughed as you packed your books, your back already lamenting having to carry all this home. âThatâs the spirit.â
âWhatâs the rush though?â He leaned backward in the cheap chairs provided by the library, and you wondered how the plastic was holding up. âUsually I have to beg we stop.â
âThe dance is tonight, remember?â Your friends and you had all already gotten dresses and suits, planning to spend the afternoon dressing up and eating together. It had been a while since youâd seen the lot of them, so you were looking forward to some quality time. Uvoginâs eyebrows shot up in surprise. âYeah, yeah, get it out of your system. I have plans for once.â
âWho wouldâve thought? Someone asked you?â He dug into his pockets, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, waiting for you to nod that the librarian wasnât near. âYouâre leaving the nest, y/n.â
You werenât asked by anyone, but you didnât want him to make fun of you, so you kept quiet. He got caught every week with another girl so you couldnât exactly expect him to understand that it simply didnât seem to be in your stars to meet someone. Everyone you even tried to approach looked at you as if talking to you was already life-threatening.
He lit up the cigarette.
Keep reading
Can you do treasure 13 reaction to an idol saying that their gf is their ideal type? Does that even make sense? Lol i hope it does
Yes it does make sense! This took me a whole hour to write omg.
The idols I picked for this are Stray Kids, NCT Dream and a Sexy Zone member, I tried getting the idols to be similar ages to them.
Iâm assuming that the girlfriend is also an idol from a girl group and I made it in a way where their relationship is private, so none of the public would know about it :)
When Hyunsuk was watching you on weekly idol when Seungmin from Stray Kids made the confession. You had just released a new song and one of the guest MCâs were Seungmin as you entered the set, Seungmin cheeks turned bright red, the other MCâs noticed and started asking him why he was blushing, thatâs when he said âY/N is actually my ideal type, Iâm really happy to meet herâ. Hyunsuk would be all cocky, bragging, âOf course, who wouldnât have Y/N as their ideal type?â But he would make sure to keep a closer eye on Seungmin on the future, if the two ever crossed paths.
Jihoon was eating ramen while live streaming the Running Man episode that featured you and another member of your group along with Renjun and Jaemin from NCT Dream, as Jaemin had been on a hiatus for awhile Yoo Jaesuk asked him if there was any particular songs he listened to. To this, Jaemin replied that he listened to your groups songs, Yoo Jaesuk then asked if there was a particular member he was fond of from your group, âI really like Y/N, sheâs been my ideal type for a while.â All the members of Running Man would break into havoc at the sudden confession while Jihoon would be shocked at the confession. Jihoonâs ramen would fall from his mouth as his jaw drops. âHeâs pretty gutsy isnât he?â Doesnât blame him though, youâre charming.
Yoshinori was on a Japanese cooking show along with the youngest member of Sexy Zone, Yoshinori was busy cooking while all of a sudden he heard a voice mentioning your name, as he looked up he saw the owner of the voice, it was the member of Sexy Zone. âIâm a big fan of Y/N, sheâs my ideal type.â The other hosts of the show started saying that the two would look good together. The boy was blushing but Yoshinori was taken aback, wasnât mad, but after the show he talked to his manager about being able to shoot a commercial with you, to prove to the hosts, the Sexy Zone memeber whose name he had already forgotten and to prove to the world that you two look the best together.
Would be on the same show as you, along with Jeno from NCT Dream. Junkyu, Jeno and you had shot a commercial together, that went viral all over the nation, making headlines how good looking and powerful your auras were when the three of you were together. After the commercial, many brands had been asking the three of you to star in their commercials, the three of you made such a big deal, that the Knowing Bros had asked you to star on their show. Thatâs how the three of you ended up there. When the three of you entered the class room exclaims were heard from the Bros, no one could doubt that the three of you were good looking, have powerful auras and are tall - like models, (say youâre about 170cm). As the show progressed, one of the Bros asked Jeno and Junkyu if they could recreate your legendary fancam, as your fancam was being played, Jeno wasted no time in recreating it, the whole studio was in awe, including you and Junkyu, as the fancam and Jenoâs dancing came to an end, one of the Bros said âThe only way Jeno couldâve gotten the dance so precise is that if he had a crush on Y/N.â Jenoâs cheeks turned crimson, while Junkyuâs brows shot up to his hairline. âTo be honest, Y/N is my ideal type.â The Bros were screaming and jumping up and down, while you were flustered, Junkyu said âPlay the fancam again, itâs my turn!â Thats how it turned into a dance competition between him and Jeno, as the two competed more fancams of you were played, after the two had been completely drained, you decided to show them that you were better at the two of them. I got a lil carried away
Yoonbin and Changbin from Stray Kids were on weekly idol, a competition of who had the most darkest aura, half way through the show, the two only proved that they were fluffiest cinnamon buns ever. The two had to send a video of them doing aegyo to a celebrity, Yoonbin was first, âSajangnim, I hope you give me more lines and more screen time in our music videosâ he exclaimed in a high pitched voice, the MCâs absolutely loved it and asked him again if he was sure if he wanted his CEO to see this, âI have nothing to loseâ Yoonbin replied which caused the MCâs burst into laughter. It was Changbins turn now, âWho is this video to?â An MC asked, âTo my ideal typeâ the MCâs were found âooooh-ingâ along with Yoonbin, âWho? Who? Who?â They persisted, with red cheeks Changbin replied, âY/N.â Yoonbin was shocked but he made sure not to show it, after the show, Yoonbin headed home and smothered you with aegyo, despite you not liking aegyo, you could admit that you only liked it when it was Yoonbin doing aegyo, âRight? You only like it when I do it?â
Mashiho was in Japan touring, while he was in bed live streaming your groups TV show, on this episode, you and your group had gone to your companyâs building to meet up with your brother group - Stray Kids - to hear some tips from them, as your group had just debuted. Your group entered Stray Kids dancing studio and watched them practice their song, not wanting to disrupt their dancing. As the song came to an end your group started clapping and âwowingâ. Your group and Stray Kids were now sitting in a circle while your member spoke up, âAs our seniors, are there any tips for us?â Bang Chan spoke up âDating is something normal, you canât get rid of feeling, but if you do get caught, JYP wonât be hard on you.â He said all this while staring at Jisung, âTrust me, I know from experienceâ Hyunjin said making everyone break out into laughter. âY/N, do you have an ideal type?â Jisung asked out of the blue, âUh, I like guys who loo cute and have a soft vibe.â You replied, Mashiho watching from his laptop, nodded his head in approval, knowing you had just described him, no doubt. âYouâre my ideal type.â Jisung blurted out, âWhat are you saying?â Minho slapped his back laughing, your group and his group all laughed it off. Mashiho knew that when the two of you met again, he was only going to spoil you in affection.
Jaehyuk was just scrolling around on Instagram when he saw a picture of your cut out at a makeup store that you model for, and infront of that cut out was I.N from Stray Kids. He frowned at the photo, clicked onto it and read the caption âMy ideal typeâ it read. Reading through the comments his frown only got deeper, seeing that so many people though that the two would make such a cute couple. He went onto his Instagram and posted a picture of your latest album, captioning it âY/N is a very talented singer, hopefully one day I could collaborate with her âșïž.â He was jealous, I.N canât couldnât compete with him because he already had your heart and vice versa. You best believe that a collaboration between the two of you would happen.
This guy is so confusing like I just canât figure him out, and there isnât much âfootageâ of him for me to even guess how heâll react.
Would have a blank space, âso whatâ, your his ideal type too, Chenle ainât special. Difference is that Asahi is your ideal type and Chenle isnât. He keeps your relationship private so itâs only the two of you that can share special moments together with each other, not with the rest of the world, thatâs why his reaction is blank, he doesnât want anyone suspecting anything, for your sake and his. Iâm sorry it wasnât that good.
When he heard Hyunjin from Stray Kids say that youâre his ideal type, he would be a bit âdownâ, Yedam just seems to be someone who isnât 100% happy with themself, heâs always pushing himself, pushing himself to his limits at such as young age, he would probably think you would be more happier with Hyunjin, so youâll have to help Yedam love himself more :(
He and Jisung from NCT Dream were on a dancing program and your song came on, the two of them raced to the front and started dancing to your song as best as they could, the two were on opposing teams so pushed themselves, Jisung was the winner of this round, which has dampened Doyoungâs spirit a bit, he was your boyfriend so how could he have not been a better dancer at your song? One of the hosts asked Jisung at how he was so good at dancing to your song âSheâs my ideal type, thatâs how.â Doyoung just became more and more competitive, he became more determined in winning, Jisung had won at the dancing round, but he has not won your heart like Doyoung did.
Would be taken aback when he heard Felix from Stray Kids say that you were his ideal type, Haruto was so taken aback that he said âReally? Me tooâ out loud, the hosts would make the two rap out their confessions or something like that, at the end of the show Haruto would be thinking something like âIâm not only Y/Nâs boyfriend but her bestfriend also.â He knows he has nothing to worry about.
âOkay but do you know all her songs off by heart?â He would say to the screen watching [insert a boy group member was young as Jeongwoo] say that youâre his ideal type, âokay but do you know how to reach all her high notes like I do?â He would have a mini argument with his phone screen, âPlus, Y/N doesnât date people who wear NIKE.â âShe doesnât even breathe near them, he knows nothing of her.â
âOh, really?â He wouldnât know how to react heâs such a baby omllllllll you guys are probably more like best friends than boyfriend and girlfriend đ€·đ»ââïž
TW: yandere, noncon/dubcon, angst, unwanted pregnancy, blackmail, ish-baby trapping
PART ONE only avaliable on AO3 due to Tumblr restrictions
fem reader
You went cold and forgot how to breathe.
When you got to the kindergarten, they told you his father had already come and collected him early. All looking at you as though you were crazy, assaulting the daycare workers with your hands in a bruising grip, shaking her by her shouldersâdemanding she tell you where he took him.Â
She spilled the name of some family restaurant down the road and said heâd wanted you to join them there. The poor thing was on the verge of tears when you let go.
Rushing out, you all but ran down the streets before pushing yourself through the doorsâcold-sweating and swivel-eyedâin a panic, scanning faces with his name coming out weak under your breath.Â
With your vision spinning, you felt faint before you heard it.
âMommy! Mommy! Youâre here! Look! Iâm King of the castle!â he shouted, and your peeled eyes snapped to see him up high in a bright red plastic tower.
But before your shoes could hit the soft foam of the playground, you were intercepted by something larger.
âHeâs fine,â he said under his breath, catching and stopping you in your beeline, holding you by the waist. âI need to talk to you.â
Something old and instinctive didnât bother paying him heedâas if forgetting how to speak, you just ignored him in favor of pushing past him, eyes glued to the sight of your son blissfully unaware, playing with other kids with an oblivious smile on his face. But his grip was stronger than your instincts, firm enough to keep you still but not enough to hurt you, even when you tried twisting yourself free.
âCome on,â he urged.
You were about to sneer something, finally looking at his faceâthat face you hatedâbut the bark of curse words got held back.
âLook around you. Letâs not cause a scene.â The wild animal within went silent while your eyes flickered around at the surrounding picnic tables where families were having their dinner. âWe can talk outside. My assistant will look after him.â
You didnât feel much inclined to listen, but still, even though it made you hate to fold on his behestâreluctantly, you accepted the sense of what he was saying. Looking back at your son still laughing up in his tower with cinched brows. You didnât want to scare him when he didnât know what was going on, even though you felt the need to scream at the very top of your lungs.
You allowed him to lead you outside, but as soon as the fresh air welcomed your rigid state, you were at once whipping around and pushing him away. âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing?!â snarling at him. âHow fucking dare you?!â
âCalm down. He might still see us,â he hushed, hands raised in halfhearted surrender, casting a nod to the glass walls separating you from the frivolity inside. âLetâs just talk rationally.â
âRationally?!â you scoffed in a shout, eyes still manic. âYou fucking kidnapped my son, you psycho-â
âYou wouldnât answer my texts or calls,â he snubbed. âHeâs my son too-â
âFuck you,â you interrupted to return the favor. âIf you fuck with me on this, I swear Iâll ruin you.â You had a finger raised at him, breathing furiouslyâlooking down-right madâsweaty and disheveled from your run with your face twisted with such a state of frenzy. âIâll tell everyone how I got him in the first place!â
Despite the threat, he didnât seem all that fazed.Â
âThink about itâŠâ he said calmly, much in contrast to you. âWho do you think people will believe? A teenage mom abusing her son for a paycheck or his estranged father wanting to provide for him?â
You blanched, and before anything else made it outâwhether it be more rage or something else, he was already further silencing you.
âNot to mention⊠the trial would be gruesome, and Junior would have to grow up with it always hanging over his headâis that really what you want?â
You look at him, and you still can't believe it. How could it have turned out like this? Youâd been perfect only a month ago before heâd shown up at your apartment.
You thought youâd sent him on his way for good that day, but only now did you realize he had no plans to leave you alone.
âCome, letâs talk in the car. Itâs cold, and youâre not dressed,â he ushered, taking your arm again where you stood, stunned and still, trying to wrap your head around his threats. Letting yourself be led into the black vehicle standing perfectly parked in its neat white rectangle.
You both got in the back with enough room to battle your homey sofa nook at home.
âI donât want this to get ugly,â he started anewâhis voice still so irritatingly calm, unfairly so. âI just want to see my son-â
âHeâs not yours,â you croaked, feeling the situation slip from your fingersâbattling a drumming heart, shifty breaths, and the mean sting of tears welling up in your eyes.
âIf you try and keep him from me, Iâll sue for full custody. And given Iâm the only one out of us who isnât a pro-bono case and the only one with any future that isnât managing a register, Iâd say I have a pretty fair shot at winning.â
You canât keep from bursting out crying then, overwhelmed by the fear of losing the only thing that mattered and the pure disgust of the man whoâd given it to you. It felt like everything was tearingâyour whole lifeâcrumbling before your eyes.
âDonât cry,â he soothed, his hand coming to drape your hunched shoulders where you held your tears. âI donât want to take him away from youâŠâ His attempt did little to comfort you, but the next words had your heart grasping for what little hope they offered. âAnd Iâm not going to either.â
You looked at him through the hurt of swollen eyes, tears still falling while he wiped them away with the course pad of his thumbârubbing your cheek affectionately. In any other circumstance, youâd surely slap him, but right now, all you could do was listen.
âIâm buying a house,â he revealed, still holding your cheek and gaze. âFit for a family. Safe neighborhood, good school district, giant backyard.â The list went over your headâit was all too surreal to register. You couldnât even fathom what he was getting at until, âI want the two of you to come live there with me.â
Stunned, you remained completely silent until the tears dried, and he let go of your face.Â
âYou donât have to say anything right now.â He reaches across you and fetches the seatbelt before coming back over you to click it in place. âIâll go get Junior and drive you home. Just stay here.â
You do as suggested and stay seated as he pops his door open and leavesâfeeling all but cemented in place as your thoughts go tumbling around and around as if caught in a rip curl. When Junior jumps in beside you, a farfetched smile is all you can offer. Thankfully, heâs so enamored by a toy heâd gotten to notice much of your state.
When your door opens again, youâre led out and onto your neighborhood street. The fresh air does little to clear your mind. Feeling all but feverish as you hold Junior's small hand in yours while the man of your nightmares smiles all too fondly at the two of you.
âIâll come pick you up after your shift on Monday.,â he says decidedlyâcheerfully as he ruffles Juniorâs hair enough to make him giggle. âBring the rascal with you, and he can pick his room first.â
You werenât planning on staying. You were never planning on stayingâcertain you would leave the second the opportunity to skip town aroseâyou just need to scramble the money together first.Â
But the house was huge⊠nothing you could ever dream of, and while it made you desperate with grief, you couldnât deny it eitherâŠÂ Junior really loved having a dad.
It nearly brought sick to your throat to call him that. It was a shot through the heart every time you heard Juniorâs boyish call, squealing with giggles, saying âDaddy, daddy, daddy-â
None of it seemed right to you. Seeing his bright smile, now at the age where a new tooth fell out every other weekâlooking so goofy as he proudly shows the two of you the new one heâd just knocked out playing soccer at school. âMommy, Daddy, look!â
Whatâs worse is that you can't even deny how good the man you hate is at it allâspoiling him with gifts and making him laughâgiving piggyback ride after air-plane flight after tickle-fight and a game of tag and hideânâseek.Â
And itâs not just the easy stuff. Heâs good at the shit that used to make you go crazyâputting him to bed, getting him dressed, making him eat the right stuff, and not just scuffle down candy. Itâs as if the two of them have developed a secret language youâre not a part of. If Junior werenât a toddler, youâd even suspect heâd been bribed and told to do his best to make you lose your mind. But no, itâs just reality.
The man you live with drives and picks your son up from school as if heâd done it since he was born, goes with you to meet the teacher if and when he gets into trouble and helps the two of you pick out the right shoesâshoes that you can now afford, thanks to him.
âI thought I might sleep in the master bedroom tonight.â He says, leaning against the frame in the doorway.
Youâd been living there a month now. Heâd been generous enough to sleep in the guest room up until now.
You donât know how to deny him. It feels as if anything you might say would just be ignored or threatened until you eventually took it back. You didnât want him in your bedâyou didnât want him in the same houseâin fact, preferably, youâd want him to be six feet deep in the dirt.
You end up not answering. But heâs used to that by now.Â
âI get itâŠâ he says, taking steps into the room youâd wrongfully thought was your safe space. âYou donât trust me.â He sits down at the edge of the bed and reaches out across the sheets. Youâre too late to pull your feet to yourself before he has one in his hand. He doesnât do much but stroke it. âBut you can.â
The sincerity in his eyes makes you want to gouge them out. Itâs all been some cruel joke ever since you moved inâall the pleasantries and presents, as if trying to distract you from the past. Your wardrobe is chockfull of it, and so is Juniorâs roomâfilled to the brim with lies.
âIâm never gonâ hurt you.â Another lie. âI did you wrong once, and Iâll spend the rest of my life makinâ up for it.âÂ
You want to shake your head, laugh in his faceâanything to reject it. But youâre terrified of what he might do if you didnât play along. The threat of losing Junior is enough to make you cooperative.
âI know Iâve not been fairâpushinâ you into all of this so fast.â He gets down on his knees on the floor as if praying, right down beside you. âI took advantage of a vulnerable situation âcause Iâm an impatient assholeâbut I promise youââ He takes your hand in both of his. âIf you give me the chance, Iâm gonâ make our lives together like somethinâ outaâ a fuckinâ fairytaleâall that happily ever after shit and more, just like you always wanted.â
The kiss he presses upon your knuckles beckons goosebumps to rise all across you. All his words feel like a bad script read by an even worse actorâin fact, this whole thing feels like a prank. And still, it doesnât surprise youâheâs been laughing at you ever since you were children.
And now, laughing still, only with a fucking ringbox in his hand.
âI want Junior to see us as a united front. I donât want him askinâ question why we ainât sleepinâ in the same bed, why we fight behind locked doors, why you cry in the bathroom.âÂ
He pops the black velvet lid and reveals something so outrages it almost looks tacky lying there in a plush bed of red silk.
âI want us to be happy.â He picks the little thing out and holds it up between his thumb and index, still holding your hand in the other. âI want us to be real.â You can almost see your life flash before your eyes as it threatens your ring finger. âLetâs make us real.â
You donât say anything as he eases the tiny hoop on, sliding it all the way back until it sits snugly right at your knuckleâdazzling in the dark. A tiny tear slips down your cheekâequally dazzling.
He played some with the digitâa smile on his face.Â
âLooks good on you, Mrs.â As he calls you by his last name you almost shake the ring off as if it burned to wear, but it all gets lost when he rushes forward and locks his lips with yours.
You yelp against his mouth, kept from turning away by the large hand holding your jaw, threatening to seize your throat and squeeze. You remember how it had felt. You donât want more of a reminder, so you intercept his tongue with yours before he forced it down your throat.
He groans at the warm welcome, and your entire body shudders in memory.
You hadnât let anyone touch you since that time five years ago. It had left a poor taste in your mouth, and the hunger for it had never come back.
You choke it down now as he climbs on top.Â
BNHA â Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks JJK â Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji
⥠(FEMxM) INSERT masterlist ⥠(GNxM) INSERT masterlist
halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.
a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!
cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.
Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.
Youâve never had much cause to look at it before. Itâs another of those mix-and-match dĂ©cor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as âminimalistâ. Itâs certainly not something youâd choose for yourself â and from what youâve seen of Lucasâs own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, itâs not something heâd have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.
You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that itâs one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucasâs cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you canât imagine belonging to the same person.
Thatâs not important.
What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and heâs held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that youâre growing more and more accustomed to cooking.
(It doesnât even make you throw up any more).
Heâs casual as he walks over to it; youâve never really paid much attention to it before. Itâs simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though youâve always been rather more spontaneous . . . Youâre hardly in a position to argue about it.
He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.
The thirtieth of October.
You stop breathing, just for a moment. Itâs been three months, then â time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after youâd realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name âdarlingâ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--
âI love Halloween.â
You donât realise youâve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.
Lucas looks up in surprise. You donât often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise youâre a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. Thatâs not to say you think heâd mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think youâve earnt the right to not have to share everything.
âSâthat so?â He rumbles, after a moment. He doesnât smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present heâs brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film heâd been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. âIâve never been all too fond of it myself.â
His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? Youâve seen Lucas angry â that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when heâd caught you, early on, trying to open a window.
(Youâd sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air â that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; âAww, darlinâ, donât cry like that. Câmon now.â
Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.
He likes the tears. Itâs a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).
You shrug helplessly.
âI like the atmosphere?â You give him, your voice quavering at the end. âAll of those kids in cute costumes, jack-oâ-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--â
His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.
âYeah,â he says to you. âI sâpose those things ainât so bad. Iâm not a scary movie guy â thereâre enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, yâknow?â He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. âGets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I probâly wonât even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a couplaâ videos though, huh?â
You swallow. You know what he means by âpatrol the areaâ â you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--
You think of Lucasâs weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some neâer-do-well out here for any other reason.
How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?
Heâs true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.
He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you havenât heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.
âI thought we could carve the pumpkin together,â he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now â but he still likes to be in the room, even if heâs not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.
âThat would be nice,â you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; heâs whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.
âCâmon here then, angel,â he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.
It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucasâs past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare â and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.
You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.
You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.
When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. Thereâs a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.
The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging youâve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork youâd see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.
You crouch to get onto the paper heâs laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.
âCâmon, sweetheart,â he says, and he pats his knee where heâs knelt with them spread apart. âCome sit between my legs and letâs do it together.â
It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it â touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move â but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.
âThere,â he murmurs, directly into your ear. âAinât that better? More . . . cosy?â
You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucasâs hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar â and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.
Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him â and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucasâs breath against your ear wouldnât make your head pound â his calloused fingers over yours wouldnât make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldnât make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucasâs behest.
There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucasâs arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. Thereâs instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to â and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--
You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucasâs cosy cabin kitchen.
(He doesnât like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that youâre not allowed in, having peeked in it once when heâd left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When heâd come out and seen you there, youâd stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off â and though thereâd been mistrust in his gaze, youâd kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).
The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise thatâs half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.
âWhatâre you scared of, angel?â He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. âI wonât ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you arenât gonna, are you?â Youâre glad he canât see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. âGood. Hurts my feelings thinkinâ youâre afraid of me.â
You donât know how to respond to that.
âIâIâm not?â You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you â one of those late night murmurs of âIâd break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlinâ,â - then perhaps you wouldnât have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--
He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-oâ-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.
âYouâre so cute,â he says into your hair. âHere. Look at that. Ainât that adorable?â
Shakily, you nod. Itâs not your best work â in your own kitchen, at home, youâd mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. Youâd used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last yearâs pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft â itâs better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when thereâs a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).
This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.
âWhere shall we put it?â He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. Heâs a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. âWindowsill?â
You swallow.
âC-can we put it outside?â You whisper, softly. âI know we wonât get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .â
You trail off; heâs looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you â but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.
Itâs another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--
âOf course, darlinâ,â he says. âCome put it out with me.â
You reach for the box of matches, but Lucasâs palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.
âDonât worry your pretty little head about that,â he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. âYou'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.â
He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.
âDâyou think you can carry it?â He asks you, voice soaked in honey. âDonât drop it, now.â
You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isnât so bad a price to pay for staying alive.
You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. Youâd earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and youâre allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat â a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.
Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.
âItâs gettingâ later than I thought,â he says, to himself more than you. âIâm gonna have to get goinâ soon, sweetheart.â
You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire â wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.
(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)
âDo you have to go?â You ask him, voice tremulous.
You donât know if you want him to go. You donât want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time â you canât in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you wonât hear the screams?
You wouldnât be able to pretend even if you donât hear them. Youâll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.
âAwww darlinâ,â Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. âDonât worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ainât gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ainât gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.â
Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.
âDonât you trust me, angel?â
Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.
âOf course I do . . .â You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.
âStay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh airâll make you feel better.â
Unspoken goes the âdonât you dare try and runâ. You canât see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either â though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucasâs boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.
âThere we go,â Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and heâs smiling at you. He hasnât made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. âDonât stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. Iâll try not to wake you up.â
(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesnât matter â you know you wonât get much sleep tonight).
He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. Heâs waiting for something â he wants something, and you donât know what it is, and heâs going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and heâs going to lodge that axe in your skull--
âDonât I get a kiss goodbye?â
His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.
One slow, lingering kiss â possessive. Youâre shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.
âSee you later,â he says. âDonât scare yourself silly, now.â
You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucasâs hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-oâ-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm âshooâ gesture that you interpret to mean âthatâs enough, now. Get back in the house before I make youâ.
You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. Youâve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin â about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldnât make himself â but tonight, it feels all the worse.
You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-oâ-lantern.
Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.
It helps that itâs a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you donât know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that â a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.
Itâs not a good movie. In a different lifetime, youâd watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.
Thereâs a sound from outside.
Youâre half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas canât be home already, can he?
Time stands still. Thereâs a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. Youâre grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they canât tell youâre in here.
A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere youâve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when youâre literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?
Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;
âTrick or Treat!â
Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.
A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didnât seem to have any of the landmarks theyâd seen marked on it.
(You can sympathise with that; the map youâd been using, once upon a time, hadnât made a single lick of sense after youâd gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).
But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. Youâve seen that in movies time and time again â I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, Iâm sorry I fell over and Iâm injured can I rest here--
One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.
Youâre shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.
âThereâs a fucking jack-oâ-lantern burning, and thereâs a key in the front door, of course someoneâs in--â
âLook, this is some horror movie bullshit, I donât like it--â
âDo you think anyone keeping fuckinâ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? Câmon. Itâs probably some old couple with their hearing going. Iâm gonna knock again--â
Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them whatâs going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.
But now youâre faced with it, you donât know what to do.
âHello?â The girlâs voice is louder now. âIs anyone home?â
Oh, she shouldnât be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you havenât hurt yourself.
âLook,â the boy, âWe just need to use your phone, weâre lostââ
Another voice cuts across the squabbling â one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.
âYou sure as hell are,â it says, and thereâs outright hate in it. âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doinâ on my property?â
The girl screams. You canât blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when heâs appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .
âShit!â The boy is swearing. âLook, man, Iâm sorry, I didnât--â
You do not see the axe come down â how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time â both his and hers â and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone â the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--
You donât know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.
It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?
But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last yearâs Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--
The noises have stopped. Thereâs not even heavy breathing, now.
âDarlinâ?â Lucas calls out, from behind the door. âCâmon. I know youâre there. You can open the door now. Youâre safe.â
You canât disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you donât do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon â and heâs already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, heâd make it hurt.
You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--
The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat â but you look up at Lucasâs eyes instead and ignore them. You canât think too hard on it.
There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.
âYouâre safe now,â he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. âDonât worry. I told yaâ, I wonât let nothinâ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.â
He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.
(If you hadnât put that pumpkin out, they wouldnât have thought that there was anyone here. Itâs your fault.)
His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.
It canât last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.
âWell?â He says â and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--
âThank you,â you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. âThank you for taking care of me.â
And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there arenât two corpses outside of the front door.
You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. Itâs like every Halloween before it--
He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.
âHappy Halloween, darlinâ. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ainât over yet.â
(SE2EP9) GOJO SATORU đ„° â ⊠JUJUTSU KAISEN
Welcome backkkk đ
yes im back and working very hard on writing my current requests!!
my brains like dry sauce bc i havenât written in so long, currently trying to get my groove back đđ
Obsidian Masterlist
-The Original Piece: Part One and Two
-Jasper's First Appearance
-Courting
jason todd x fem!reader
aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood
part one
warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault
It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You donât know if thatâs your fault or his.
âHowâs it goinâ down there?â You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.
He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. âI am up here for a reason,â he says factually.
You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You donât like that one.
He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. âWhy are all the lights off?â
âForgot to turn âem on,â you tell him simply.
He frowns at you, confusion evident.
You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks itâs odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.Â
Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.
When you return, heâs leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.
You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.Â
He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. âYouâre drunk.â
You shake your head, âIâm not sober.â
âThatâsâyeah.â He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.
He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesnât seem youâd left him much room. If he minds, it doesnât show. âWhatâd you do?â
âI jusâ went out with my friend,â you tell him, closing your eyes. âShe moves pretty fast..â
It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. âYou good?â
âI feel great,â you keen. âI feelâŠswooshy.â
He gives you a bemused look. âDizzy?â
You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, âNo, not even dizzy, justâŠswoosh.â You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.
âMhm.â
You pucker your lips to the side. âYou come here a lot,â you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.
âYouâre in my neighborhood,â he shrugs.Â
Your head tilts, âYou live here?â
He pauses before correcting himself, âMy territory.â
You hum, âStill. There has to be other people around here you know. âSpecially if youâre passing out on balconies on the reg.â
He frowns, âI try not to make a habit out of it.â
You continue on, âWhy do you always go to my apartment? Thereâsââ
âI donât always come to your apartmentââ
You deadpan, âYouâre here like three nights a week. And I donât even help you that much anymore, youâve used up my whole first aid kit.â
You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. âThat thing wasnât exactly impressive to start with..â
âDid enough for you, didnât it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,â you say with a nod.
That has him going absolutely rigid, âWhat?â
âIâve heard youâre an asshole.â
âWhat?â
You nod, âLike, people that run into you. They say youâre kind of a dick. You help âem ân everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.â
âOkay...â
âBut youâre nice to me. Sort of,â you squint. âI think you like me.â
He hasnât felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. âIâwell Iâm not here because youâre a world-class medic.â
You scoff, âThereâs no world-class medics..â But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. âWeâre friends arenât we? I think weâre friends.âÂ
He shakes his head, staring up blankly. âSure, weâre friends.â
âWeâre friends and you like me,â you reiterate.
He really wishes youâd stop saying that. âOkay.â
âI like you too. Even though youâre kinda sketchy.â
He doesnât know what to say to that.
You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. âJâŠJames, Jack, JohnâŠâ
He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. âIâm not going to tell you.â
You ignore him, âJake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, JesseâŠâ
Youâre about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.Â
âJuuhhhâŠâ you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.
He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.Â
His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. âYouâre pretty.â
What?
âWhat?â
âWhat?â He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasnât expecting them to climb out of his mouth.
You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. âIâmâŠpretty?â
He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position heâs going to take here. âIâwellâŠyeah.â
You blink once, relaxing. âI thinkâŠI think youâre pretty too.â
âWhat?â
âWe canât do this again.â
He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.
You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. âI mean, I know I havenât seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so IâŠmaybe I shouldnât be saying this.â You reset with a shallow breath, âI donât know what your whole face looks like.â
âThat was,â he blinks, eyebrows raised. âFascinating.â
âThanks,â you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.
He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didnât mean to say it but he definitely meant it: youâre really fucking pretty.
Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. Itâs when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.
And he doesnât do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isnât doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and heâs pretty confident later heâll curse himself for lying like this for so long.Â
But as he lays, he doesnât find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. Heâs usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.
He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didnât know any better, heâd call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.
He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesnât make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.
Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.
Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.
So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.
You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.
âOh, shit,â you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. âHood?âÂ
Thereâs no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. âJ? J!â
His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.Â
He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. âHey..â
You sit back on your heels with a sigh, âWhat the fuck?â
He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. âWhat is that?â
âHuh?â He throws back a tired glance, âOh. They're..curtains.â
âExplain.â
He looks at you blankly, âYou donât have any curtains.â
You blink. âExplain.â
âItâs dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.â For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, heâs not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.Â
You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.
You set it back down, blinking. âThanks.â
He only gives a half-hearted shrug.
You look back at him, âHow bad is theâŠ?â You gesture to the side of your head.
He feels at the blood again, âItâs mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.â
You nod, âIâll, uhâIâll clean it up.â
He looks at you, shaking his head. âYou donât need to. Your kitâs almost empty anyways.â
âI restocked it,â you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while youâre gone.
You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. âHere, sit on the couch,â you tell him, nodding him up.Â
He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldnât have minded either wayâif only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.
As much as you are completely in his space, youâre having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.Â
You huff, sitting back. âI canât..â
He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep heâs breathing and how heâs seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. Youâre sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly youâre kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.
An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and heâs about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.
You go back to dabbing at the blood and itâs clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. âYou should move.â
âBut then where would you go?â
He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.
You continue to wipe away at the blood until you canât see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you donât move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.Â
His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesnât stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.
Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though thereâs an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.
The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.
A long beat passes before heâs tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You arenât given the time to process the shift as heâs moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.
âSorryâIâmâŠâ his shoulders drop, âSorry.âÂ
He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until heâs gone completely.
You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.
What the fuck?
Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.Â
Youâre not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldnât possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since heâs the only one who did anything. All in all, itâs a little disappointing.
There had been tension there and it wasnât shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.
Maybe you canât read him as well as you think because youâd expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldnât kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesnât make sense.
Itâs a little more than embarrassing to admit that youâve been purposefully staying home in the hope that heâll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.
Youâd asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.Â
The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.
âHey gorgeous,â she smiles at you, waving you in.
You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.Â
Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. âYou been cool?â
You nod, âYeah, justâyou knowâŠâ She doesnât. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something youâve kept to yourself, though you donât know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.Â
You take a deep breath, âYouâve been busy. Jessie call out again?â
She laughs dryly, âOh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.â She sighs, âIâm almost done anyway.â
You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. âYou need help?â
âNo, thereâsââ she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. âOh, shit. Duck.â
âWhaââ she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.
You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.
ââChrist, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time Iâm gonna kill her.â
You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.
A second man mutters something you canât make out.
The first voice continues, âGo around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.âÂ
Another voice, âThe crates? Theyâre not here..â
Thereâs a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, âWhat the fuck do you mean theyâre not here? She needs them now.â
âWellâŠthe first shipments will be in later this week. The next batchâll take until the end of the month, probably.â
A sigh, âDumbassâŠâ
The first voice huffs, âThe end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and youâve got it coming in at the end of the month?âÂ
âIâllâŠIâll see what I can do to get it sooner.â
âYeah, you do that,â he grumbles. âMotherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.â
One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.
âWhat the fuck?â
You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like heâs trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesnât match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.
Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, âYouâre not supposed to be here still, Chloe.â
She shifts her weight, âI was justâŠfinishing inventoryâŠâ
The bossmanâs eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. âOh and you brought a friend. Great.âÂ
âMr. Murray, we were just abââ
Heâs quick to cut her off with a hand, âChloe. Stop talking.â
Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.
âGet up.â
Sheâs pushing herself off the ground instantly while youâre still on the floor catching up with what the hellâs going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.
You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. Thatâs to say, youâre feeling a little exposed.
You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.
âHow old are you, honey?â Even without the blatant ogling, thatâs never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.
Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.Â
âHey, donât be rude. I asked you a question.â He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.Â
Somehow, you feel like thereâs no answer here that would help you.Â
The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, âWe donât have time for this.â
Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. âI think we got plenty of time.â
âI disagree.â
All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.
The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isnât in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didnât make a peep whenever he came in.
Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.Â
âHood..â the bossman says measuredly. âWhat are you doing here?â
He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. âJust thought Iâd check up on you, Murray. Make sure youâre not causing trouble in light of our agreement.â He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.
He waves that off easily, âThis is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.â
Hood takes a piqued breath. âYou picked a bad time to lie to me,â he says flatly.
Murray shakes his head, âLook, weâre just cleaning up a mess. No harm.â
âReally?â
âThis clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girlâChloe, get out. Sheâs fine, sheâs not talking.â
Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.
He continues, âWe only need to kill one of them.â He says it like this is an ideal compromise. Youâre feeling differently.
Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. âIâm thinking itâs implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.â He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murrayâs head.
Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. âHey, an alliance is an alliance!â
Hood wavers his head to the side, âAlliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybeâŠâ
The short man pipes up, âOkay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.â
âThatâs the spirit,â Hood quips, lowering his gun.
The older one shakes his head, âWe donât have anything on her, sheâll talk.â
The short man demurs, âWe donât know thatââ
âShe saw too much, we canât have her walking around with that information,â Murray says, moving towards you.Â
Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, âNobodyâs killing anybody.â
Murray scoffs, âYou were gonna kill me!â
Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, âAnd I still might!â
Boldly, Murray steps up to him.
But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. âLet's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight youâre winning?â
The look on Murrayâs face tells you itâs not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.
It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesnât look happy about it.Â
Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.Â
Murray splutters, watching you go. âYou canâtâI-I know people.â
âI am people,â Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.
Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.
His stride doesnât even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, itâs silent between you.
After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. âThat uh, that seems like something heâs gonna be mad about.â
He huffs, âYeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess itâs a personal choice.â
You frown at his tone, âWhatâs your problem?â
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. âWhy the hell are you out here?â
His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. âWhy are you out here? You have a concussion.â
âI donât have a concussion,â he grumbles. âAnd I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isnât your best move right now.â
You try to stop and face him but he doesnât let you, keeping you moving along with him. âThatâs what weâre doing? Really?âÂ
Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. Heâs proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so youâre really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He wonât acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that thereâs no way he doesnât have. Especially if heâs acting like this.Â
He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. âDid they say anything about a drug shipment?â
This is what weâre talking about? Sure. Fine. At least youâre talking.Â
You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. âI donât know.â
He tries again, âWhat about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?â
âIâŠI donât know.â You werenât exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.Â
His head drops down heavily, âOkay, I think Iâm seeing a trend for how this conversationâs gonna go...â
You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks itâs you whoâs handling this discussion poorly. âYou cannot be serious right now.â
He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, âJustâwhyâd they let Chloe go?â
You blink a few times, âI mean, she has a drug problemâŠâ You guess that might be where sheâs getting them fromâŠ
He nods solemnly, âOkay.â
You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope heâll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.Â
âAre youââ you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.Â
A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, âReally?â
One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like itâs no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.
Count âem up, thatâs one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.
You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.Â
So when you walk out from the bathroom, youâre a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.Â
Maybe itâs his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.
He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.
He doesnât look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.Â
âYou got any bandages left?â he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.Â
You stare at him incredulously.Â
After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. âWhat?â
âAre you kidding me?â
âIââ he squints, eyes flickering across your face. âNo?â
You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.
He stares back, eyes wide. âI donât know what you want me to say...â
You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. âYou know what, I think I know what your problem is.â
He gives a laugh with little life to it. âI only have one?â
You bite down on your lip, âYou only have one Iâm ready to kill you over.â
He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, âWhat is it?â
You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. âThat youâre an idiot,â you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. âWhere the hell have you been?â
He blinks, âUh, thereâs just been a lot ofââ
âBullshit.â
Heâs about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, âYeah.â He takes a deep breath, sitting back. âIâŠwasnât prepared for this conversation,â he says carefully.
You scoff with a nod, âYeah, neither was I, but itâs happening. I mâwhat did you think was going to happen here? Iâyou kissed me, you kissed me!â
âNo Iââ he huffs, âI shouldnât have done that, okay?â
âWhat the fuck does that mean?â
He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. âWhat do you want me to say?â
You shrug without genuinity, âAnything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.â
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. âI know, I know, Iâm sorry!â
âIâm not asking you to be sorry, Iâm asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!â
He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. Itâs quiet for long enough that you start to think heâll accept the silence as his cue to leave. Youâre not sure if you want him to or not.
You take a deep breath, eyes closed. âI need you to start being straight with me. Now.â
He doesnât look up, taking his time to find his words. âI am sorry,â he tells you. âIâŠIâm not good at this. Iâm not good with words so I shouldnât have fucking done it.â
Honestly you werenât expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so youâre not prepared to weigh out whether or not itâs a good one.
âI like you...a lot. And I didnât knowâI donât knowâwhat to do about it so I kissed you and I didnât think it through, andâŠI guess I panicked.â
Thatâs more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesnât take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. âI wouldâve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.â
He nods to himself. âJusâ depends..â he says quietly.
And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. Youâve run out of angry words to spit and heâs run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like youâre done.
The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldnât find a name for it. Itâs got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollowâŠmaybe just softer.Â
He cuts through your thoughts before you can, âAre you mad that I kissed you?â
You shake your head, âNo. Iâm mad about what happened after.â Youâre just mad about what happened after. Shouldâve said just.
He thinks about that for a moment.Â
âI can be honest with you,â he tells you. The way he says it, itâs somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.
You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.Â
He goes on, âI trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.â
You blink a few times, processing. âIâŠI donât know anything about you.â
He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.
It doesnât though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.
It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if heâs crazy for doing it.
He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.
You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.
Youâre not revealed to much more of his face than youâd already seen before, but entirely in view like this, heâs a sight. You try not to stare but thereâs little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternativeâŠ
All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.
He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. âMy name is JâŠâ he says with assurance. âTodd,â he tacks on.
You donât mean to, really, but youâre sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.Â
JâŠToddâŠJâŠJayâŠToddâŠJasonâŠToddâŠ
Your mouth hangs open, âYouâre Jason Todd. Youâre deââ Well a couple things are starting to add up. âHow are youâŠhow are you notââ
He waves that away, tiredly. âIt's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.â
Autopsy scar. Fuck.Â
âI mean, IâllâŠâ he hesitates, âIâll tell you if you want me to.â
He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. Youâre quick to shake your head, âItâs okay.â
He nods, likely relieved.
You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. Youâd half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.
You close your eyes before asking, âWhoâs Nocturna?â
âSheâs just this woman thatâs been causing trouble for us.â
You donât say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. âSheâs more annoying than anything.â
You open your eyes, looking over. âYeah?â
He shrugs, âJust trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.â
You give a laugh thatâs barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..
Thereâs the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.
He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. âI have to go...â He says reluctantly.
You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. âGo where?â
He pauses before telling you, âA cemetery.â
You nod vacantly, âOh. Just for fun, orâŠ?â
He gives a dry laugh, âJust meeting an associate. Theyâre a bit dramatic, so.â
âYeah, Iâd say.â
âIâll come backâIâm going to come back,â he mutters against your hairline.
You donât respond, but you both know heâs good for his promise.
He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.Â
He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. âHere,â he says, looking you in the eye. âIf you need anything. Anything.â
You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like heâs thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.
You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.
You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.
Huh.
Must be official.Â
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(Note: I am not a tradwife nor do I condone forcing gender roles and societal pressures onto anyone, I just wanna be a cutesy wife for Simon Riley)
Simon prefers you call him Simon over Ghost. He thinks that since he's literally married to you, there's no reason for you to call him by his call sign. Calling him Simon is much more intimate for him and he likes separating you from everything he endures as Ghost. He just wants to be your Simon.
He knows he's gone for long periods of time. Time you spend not talking to him or doing couple things. He makes up for it, though, by doing anything you want when he's at home. If you're tired of planning, he's got you. Simon has a whole list of random things to suggest when you just want to be taken care of without worry.
He LOVES spoiling you. In his line of work, he gets down and dirty. He loves knowing you don't have to do anything of the sort (unless you want to). He pays for your nails to keep them pretty, unlike his dirty, battered ones. He will get you monthly subscriptions to whatever you want, beauty boxes, gaming passes, entertainment, etc. All luxuries he can't experience while at work. Simon knowing you're the opposite of him, clean, spoiled, safe, is enough to keep him working forever. Giving you everything he can't have. His love isn't all monetary, but a lot of it is when he's away.
Simon loves watching you. He gets major anxiety about you when he's away. To help with this, he installed security cameras in and around the house. When he gets the luxury of a WiFi signal, he'll check in on you. If you happen to see a little green light flash on while eating, relaxing, cooking, or any other mundane task, you'll offer him a smile and a wave. Sometimes you'll blow him a kiss (or give him a private show).
We all know Simon is physically fit, but that doesn't mean he has any type of expectation for you. He loves whatever you have to offer him, as long as you're in good mental and physical health (remember, being physically healthy comes in different shapes and sizes!) Simon is completely enamored with you. He believes he was blessed to be the only man on earth to be married to a real goddess. He would build a statue of you by hand (if he wasn't so bad at any type of art). If you want to go to the gym, he'll buy you the best membership he can. If you don't, he'll buy you something else that occupies your time.
Simon loves feeding into your hobbies, whatever they may be. Coming home and seeing something new you created or hearing about something you've learned makes his day 10x brighter.
You love cooking for him. It took a lot to break down his walls and food is one of them. He appreciates the time and effort it takes to plan and execute a meal as well as the skill needed to cook as well as you do. The best brands and foods for his wife only! Nothing makes him feel more full of you and your love than when he's eating something you've made for him, other than when he praises you and you get a little twinkle in your eyes and a smile on your face.
You also happen to love keeping the house nice for him. You clean fairly often, though it's not hard to keep up after one person (and any pets you may have). You like knowing he's trusted you with one of his largest assets, his home. It gives you a sense of power knowing you're the only person who controls what kind of house he comes home to. Messy, clean, minimal, tacky, bright, dark, etc. Simon appreciates anything and everything you do for the house. Knowing you've gotten everything taken care of and decorated in a way you both like is like heaven to him and lifts a huge weight off his shoulders. He loves smelling a clean house after smelling nothing but dirt, blood, gun powder, and stinky men for days. (He couldn't care less if the house was a cardboard box, as long as you were there and you still loved him.)
If you want to work, go to school, learn a trade, or be a stay at home, he supports you. You don't even have to explain yourself to him, Simon trusts you so much that even if you were to say "I don't know" he would hear trumpets because an angel just spoke to him.
Nsfw: Despite what people may think, Simon typically isn't a dom. He spend a majority of his time directing people and being an authoritative figure at work. That isn't even mentioning how tolling it can be knowing you took a life and the physical exhaustion his work takes. He likes being taken care of, however you see fit. Sometimes he'll be a dom, but only if he's been away from work and needs to let off some steam.
The sweetest ever. Cuddles, words of affirmation, snacks, whatever you need. He feels as though his sole purpose since he met you is to make you feel like nothing less than a deity. Sometimes he'll get insecure over his ability to take care of you or not being around, but one kiss from you, perfect you, and the perfect life you maintain for you both and it fades away.
Overall, Simon Riley is the hottest, most doting husband to exist, ever.
But here's the stomper