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luvrodite · 5 months ago

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JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look back up to the doll.

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

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

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

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

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

The doll does not move.

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

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

A second passes, and then another. You wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Jason.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

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

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

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

“Crying..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all leads to Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

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

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

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

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

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

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lady-pug · 1 month ago

Text

The Ballad of Green Snakes and Honey Badgers

Prologue

Summary: When your former friend and current Triwizard champion Aemond Targaryen sends you a note asking you to meet him after years having last spoken to each other, you are left wondering what he could possibly want. So when, to your surprise, he asks you to be his date to the Yule Ball, you make a decision that will either mend your broken friendship with the Slytherin boy or irreparably shatter it forever.

Pairing: Slytherin!Aemond Targaryen x Hufflepuff!Tully!Reader

Word count: 2,1k

Warnings: none

Notes: Hello hello, dearest readers! How have you all been?

I offer you the prologue to a new story I am now incredibly excited to write. The idea for this came from the lovely @peachysunrize, whom I admire very much and love her works (I’ve actually been saving Tangerine Dreams for when I have enough free time to binge read it, ‘cause I know once I start I won’t be able to stop), after Mr. Ewan Mitchell was spotted serving cunt looks at the British GQ’s Men of The Year last night. It was supposed to be a one-shot howeeeeever I ended up getting a little carried away and dicided to go for a slightly longer story (so I’m so so sorry, Aemond actually wearing the infamous outfit at the Yule Ball won’t show up for a few chapters, please forgive me).

Just to explain a few details of this story: Hogwarts is in Westeros, located in the Crownlands near the border between these lands, the Reach, the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Volaena Academy of Magic is situated in Volantis, houses female students from Volantis, Pentos and Lys (equivalent to Beauxbatons) and Green Grass Institute is situated in Braavos, houses male students, mainly Dothraki, from Braavos, Pentos and Tyrosh (equivalent to Durmstrang)

I never thought I’d write a Hogwarts!AU but here we are! Although the HP/WW universe was a very important part of my childhood, I haven’t consumed any content related to it in a very long time (except for random memes on ig I often trade with a friend) because that woman (you know which one) pisses me the fuck off. But since no one will be profiting from me writing this (at least I don’t think so), and I still quite like the universe even if my love for it got diminished somewhat, I decided to give it a try. I won’t lie, I had fun!

I’d just like to warn that the next update for this series will take a little while, as I have quite a lot of work to get done (the semester is ending and Uni is kicking me in the butt once more, what’s new) and I’d like to finish writing a new chapter of Written Between the Lines, the other Aemond series I have on going, first.

Although Reader is a Tully I didn’t write her with a specific appearance in mind, and the same goes for Kermit Tully, so it is up to you to imagine what she looks like. I really hope you, dear reader, enjoy this and have fun while reading it! And thank you so much @peachysunrize for coming up with the idea in the first place! If you spot any mistakes, please feel free to warn me and I’ll correct it right away, and feedback is always welcome and appreciated. I hope you truly enjoy this story.

Reader is female, but no physical descriptions provided

Next chapter | Masterlist | Read on AO3

When you woke up on that rainy morning, you had expected it to be just another normal Tuesday, only barely over a week into the school year. The day had started out like any other: you had met with Oscar for breakfast at the Great Hall, being joined shortly after by Kermit and Davos, and avoided at all costs glancing in Cregan’s general direction. Then you had headed for your classes of the day, being paired with Doreah, a lyseni girl from Volaena, for your year-long Herbology project.

While Doreah seemed nice, and you believed you would find a friend in her still, it was moments like this when you found yourself missing Helaena the most. You had promised to write to one another, of course, with you assuring you’d keep her updated in all the latest gossip around Hogwarts, yet it just wasn’t the same. You had become so used to seeing her at the farthest corner of the Ravenclaw table, waiting for you at supper, or sneaking out of the Hufflepuff common room together and into the kitchens to arrange snacks for your late night study sessions that you didn’t realize how much you’d miss this small things until she was actually gone, only just starting her career as a Magientomologist. Still, all you had to do was survive one more year until you could take your N.E.W.T.s and leave this place to search for a career of your own, and perhaps achieve your dream of sharing a flat with your best friend.

It was only after you left your Defense Against the Dark Arts class, having been squished between two quite large dothraki students from Green Grass, that you noticed something was different. A small piece of parchment was sticking out from inside your book, yet you didn’t remember putting it there; while you often used random papers as bookmarkers, it didn’t seem to be the case here, as the pages holding the parchment were ones you did not remember having ever read. As you turned the paper around you realized it was not just some paper, it was in fact a note, and you wondered how someone managed to place it inside your book, as you hadn’t left it unattended at all. But as you read the words, it would soon become clear to you.

Meet me at the library after dinner ~ A. T.

The note carried a neat, flourished handwriting, written in expensive green ink. And yet, as your eyes skimmed over the words once more your heart started beating faster and faster, the flow of blood seemingly thundering on the inside of your eardrums. A. T., the person had signed.

Aemond Targaryen.

What could he possibly want with you? Him, of all people? After all these years? Why did he want to speak to you now? It made sense then, how the note had appeared in your book without you realizing it; Aemond was quite good at Transfiguration, one of the top students even (but was there anything he wasn’t good at?), he excelled in it so for him to conjure a note inside your book was a piece of cake. But that didn’t explain what he wanted.

Sighing, you crumpled the paper in your hand, pinching the bridge of your nose as you pondered upon a decision you were most likely to regret.

There was only one way to find out.

You were quiet during supper, deep in thought as you poked at your food. Kermit and Davos both believed it had to do with the fact that Cregan and Alysanne were sitting right in front of you at the Gryffindor table, choosing then to sit on the bench across the table from you to try and block your view from the happy couple. But only Oscar knew the real reason for your silent demeanor.

Even though Kermit was your twin, you often felt closer to your younger brother, especially after you and Kermit got sorted to different houses on your first year, him being a Gryffindor through and through and you becoming the true embodiment of a Hufflepuff, and Oscar being selected for the same house as yours a year later. In truth, Oscar just understood you better and the other way around was also true, so you ended up becoming one another's confidants, telling each other everything and anything. So once you got back to the common room you had immediately spilled the beans about the mysterious note you had received.

He had begged you not to go. He just knew that whatever Aemond wanted couldn’t possibly be good. Not after everything. But you were curious, and although he would never admit to it, his curiosity on the back burner in face of his concern for you, so was he. So he agreed to your plan of simply listening to what Aemond had to say and leaving.

Or that would have been the plan, had what Aemond asked not left you completely flabbergasted.

Arriving at the library, now almost completely void of students, save for one or two first year nerds, you noticed Aemond was already there, punctual as ever.

“You came.” he seemed surprised as he raised from his chair, the book he had been absentmindedly flipping through forgotten over the hardwood table.

You shrugged, not willing to let him see how affected you were by his presence.

“Let’s hear it then.” you crossed your arms over your chest, trying to appear more confident than you felt.

“What?”

“You called me here for a reason, right? What do you want?”

“Can I not just wish to see an old friend?” it was his turn to shrug.

You scoffed, gritting your teeth as you glanced away from him. Old friend my ass, you thought. You weren’t friends. Not anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time.

“Right.” he must have noticed something in your expression, for he dropped the innocent act “I need your help.”

What could he possibly need your help with?

“Be my date for the Yule Ball.”

What?

“What, why?” you were honestly dumbfounded by his suggestion, because that was what it was; it wasn’t a question, it was closer to a demand. And how dare he demand something from you?

“It is mandatory for the champions to dance at the Ball. And for that they need a partner.”

That’s right, Aemond had been selected as the champion to represent Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament against Green Grass and Volaena. The professors had explained what that entailed, and how dangerous it could be, and for a fleeting moment, your heart twinged in worry over him, before it was snuffed out and replaced by the usual cold indifference you felt towards him. Furthermore, they had let all students know that a special ball would be held at Christmas, and that all three champions were required not only to attend but to dance as well.

“I know that.” you huffed, feeling a little offended “I mean why me?”

His stare turned quizzical, as if he couldn’t quite possibly understand what you were implying.

“Why not take your girlfriend?” you asked, confused “I mean, she may have graduated already, but professor Mellos said we could bring dates from outside the school.”

He glanced away from you, his expression turning dark for a split second, before returning his gaze to you.

“Alys and I broke up over summer.” he said with a nonchalance you suspected to be fake.

You wanted to ask, you were desperate to know why, but you had to remind yourself it was none of your business. His life was none of your business and it was better that way.

“Why not some other girl then? They seem to line up for your attention nowadays. Floris has always had a thing for you.”

Aemond was already considered a pretty boy even for normal standards, always having one admirer or another. It lessened a bit after he started dating Alys, a sixth year student, in his fourth year in school, but you knew for a fact people still pinned after him in silence. But after he was named Hogwarts’ triwizard champion, a lot of girls and even some guys flocked around him, vying for his undivided attention. You knew most of them would die for a chance to be his date at the Ball, to be his even if only for one night.

“It would give them the false hope that something more could happen when it won’t.” he tipped his chin, staring at you from under his lashes, and something in the way he was looking at you was deeply unsettling “At least we know where we stand with one another.”

Ouch.

“Why would I ever agree to go with you?”

“Well you certainly aren’t going with Stark, that’s for sure.” the corner of his lip twitch in the tiniest of smirks.

A pang of shame assaulted your heart, heat spreading in your chest and settling in your cheeks.

“How do you know about that?” your voice faltered, small and almost afraid.

His face fell, then, as if he didn’t expect this reaction from you.

“Everyone knows about it.”

Humiliation burned in your chest, the sting of tears steadily brimming in your eyes forcing you to glance away from him to stop yourself from breaking down in front of him. Great, now the whole school (and perhaps even the other two guest schools) knew how your boyfriend of four, almost five years had dumped you and practically immediately after started dating your cooler, prettier, hotter cousin. He couldn’t even be bothered to show his face, he had broken up with you through a letter, a majestic white owl bringing the news one summer morning.

“No.” you sniffled, daring yourself not to cry, and turning away from him, ready to leave and forget this conversation ever happened.

“Wait!” he grabbed your arm, halting your movements. His face was soft when you glanced back at him, something akin to guilt clouding his own features “Please. Just- please.”

That was new. For as long as you had known him, you knew one thing was certain: Aemond Targaryen didn’t beg. For him to stoop this low, at least for his standards, must mean he was indeed desperate.

“What’s in it for me?” you asked in turn.

He pondered for a moment, a surprised look on his face, as if he didn’t expect to get this far into the conversation.

“You’ll get to make Stark jealous?” he offered, and you chuckled mirthlessly in response.

“I don’t want to make him jealous.” and you couldn’t even if you tried, not in comparison to Alysanne of all people “I just want to move on from him.”

“Then you’ll get to show him just that. That you have moved on from him and are already seeing new people.”

His reasoning made sense and you were intrigued, sure, especially considering you weren’t totally over Cregan just yet. But it definitely wasn’t worth the hassle.

“And I’ll help you study for your History of Magic N.E.W.T!” he was quick to add.

Now that was a really tempting offer. History of Magic was one of the subjects you struggled with the most, having a really hard time memorizing all the dates and events, ever since your very first year. And you knew he was well versed in history; he studied the subject even when not required, just for fun. To have someone like him help you study would definitely help you not fail the test.

“Okay.” you sighed out between, biting your tongue “I’ll be your date to the Yule Ball.”

His face lit up then, almost bouncing in his heels from excitement, before feigning indifference.

“Good.” he nodded to himself “We’ll have to spend more time together until then.”

“I didn’t agree to that!” you squealed, the thought of spending any more time than necessary with him making you uneasy.

“We need to be convincing. Otherwise Stark will see right through it.”

He was right. Of course he was right.

“Fine then. When do we start?”

He smiled brightly then, and for a moment you saw that young boy he once was, the one who held your hand on the first train ride to school all those years ago.

“I’ll find you for breakfast tomorrow then and we can go to Potions together. After lunch we can start revising History. How does that sound?”

It could be worse.

“Alright by me, I guess.”

Aemond grinned cheekily, and you knew then that you were screwed.

“It’s a date then.” he sauntered away, but not before throwing you a quick wink to match his smirk.

Oscar was going to kill you.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x f!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond targaryen fic #slytherin!aemond targaryen x hufflepuff!reader #aemond targaryen x tully!reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #hogwarts au

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tsukimefuku · 7 months ago

Text

lollipop kiss 🍭 kusakabe atsuya

summary: your workplace crush, kusakabe, is pretty dense when it comes to romance, so you try to ease things out with a bag of lollipops.

cw: gn!reader x kusakabe, comedy, fluff, this man is completely clueless but reader isn’t making things any easier. making out and happy ending. there is a bartender very invested in the drama. a little suggestive if you squint.

wc: 1.4k

notes etc.: my contribution for the foodies and goodies challenge. i’m not tagging myself because the voices in my head haven’t reached that point yet. special thanks to @jjk-eugie for inspiring me, i had hit a slump on this (you can read their kusahigu fic that saved my life here). song (?) > sugar, sugar (the archies). I had a lot of fun writing this, hope you enjoy it too!

Here’s the thing - Kusakabe was a brilliant sorcerer. He was regarded by all of the other first grades as the strongest first grade there was.

Regarding human matters, though, he could - and frequently would - be dense like a rock.

To put it bluntly - not a door, but just as thick.

So when it came to romance, attempts to get his attention usually fell on deaf ears.

When you realized you had it down bad for him, you knew you were in for a ride, to say the least.

First, there were the coffee attempts. You had to call him out for a coffee around three times before he accepted it - according to him, there was no need to spend money going out for coffee when Jujutsu High provided you all with free vending machine coffee. You had to patiently explain to him that leaving the premises for a while was the actual goal.

Then, came the drink nights. These weren’t particularly hard, given he did like his alcohol, but he always invited someone else to tag along. Utahime had the good sense to stop going after realizing what you were trying to do when inviting Kusakabe out, but you weren’t as lucky with the other sorcerers.

And finally, something about the days you went out together always gnawed at you. You felt like Kusakabe was in an unreadable state of mind. He’d either stare at you when you weren’t looking - fully believing you didn’t notice it -, or be the most unbothered person in that place. Whenever you approached him trying to make a move, he would act like he had absolutely no interest in you.

It was driving you insane.

Tonight, you were both sharing a few drinks after a particularly gnarly day at work, exorcizing curse after curse after curse. It was that time of year, after all. You were a few pints of beer in already, and he had downed at least two gin tonics by then.

“I’ve got a gift for you, Kusakabe!” you chirped.

“Really? What? Is it a special occasion?” he asked while looking at you surprised.

“No, I just saw it and I remembered you.”

You pulled a giant sack of lollipops from your bag and put it over the counter.

The bartender was looking from afar, and had taken the dynamic between you and Kusakabe as a live soap opera of sorts, one new chapter each week. Last week, you seemed particularly annoyed at the sorcerer and he didn’t notice it - as he usually wouldn’t unless you were literally screaming at him.

“Okay...” Kusakabe offered, slightly uncertain as he pulled the bag towards him.

“This supposedly has five flavors - peach, strawberry, mango, pineapple and watermelon. Since you always have a lollipop with you, I thought it would come in handy,” you chimed in, sparing him a smile.

“That’s... thanks,” was all he said, and for a moment you thought you saw his face and the tips of his ears take on a dusty pink tint.

“So... let’s taste it?”

“Hm... what?”

His face grew redder, and you were almost sure it wasn’t your imagination.

“The lollipops, Kusakabe. Taste the lollipops.”

The bartender scoffed from the other side, keeping down a chuckle.

“Oh! Yeah, sure,” Kusakabe replied, pulling the bag open.

And off you two went pulling lollipop after lollipop from the bag, one of each flavor.

After about an hour or so of chatting and candy, he pulled the only pineapple one there was inside the bag and shoved it into his mouth.

“Oh, that’s the only pineapple one,” you noted. The liquor-bought courage was finally kicking in, and you were ready to make a move.

“Hm, really? I’m sorry, I didn’t notice,” he replied, brushing the nape of his neck with his hand.

“Oh, it’s no trouble. Perhaps I can still taste it,” you remarked, a cheeky smile pulling on your face as you edged yourself closer to him.

The bartender heard your words and stepped nearby, fairly ignoring someone that was calling from the other side of the vicinity.

This was it. All the drama and emotional investment... The pay-off was finally coming.

“Oh, sure. Of course,” Kusakabe replied, and he signaled for the bartender, which got you and the bartender thoroughly confused, “can you get me a glass of water, please?”

It all went swiftly, much to yours and the bartender’s shock. Kusakabe got the glass of water, pulled the lollipop from his mouth, put it into the water and pushed it into your direction.

He seemed pleased with himself in finding a solution for a non-existent problem.

This man better be joking.

“Kusakabe, you moron!” You exclaimed angrily.

“What!? What happened? What did I do!?” Kusakabe asked in earnest, which just served to deepen your annoyance.

“I was asking for a kiss!” you furiously retorted.

He only registered the ‘I was asking’ part.

“Why not just ask for what you want?! Why can’t people simply ask for things directly?! I’m not a psychic!”

The bartender’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’ before it got covered with an incredulous hand.

The plot thickens.

“God, you have no ease for subtleties! How is that possible!? Are you even human!?” you were actively yelling at Kusakabe by that point, lifting yourself up from your seat.

“And are you allergic to communicating directly what you want?!” he retorted, feeling unjustly chastised for not understanding something he had no obligation to guess in the first place.

You grunted, enraged, and began stepping away from him, towards the bar’s exit. After you left, he face-palmed, upset that somehow, things went south with you again.

Only then it dawned on Kusakabe you said you wanted to kiss him.

“Fuck, I’m an idiot,” Kusakabe muttered to himself.

“Kind of,” the bartender mindlessly replied, forgetting this wasn’t an actual soap opera on TV, but a pretty interactive show.

“Huh?” the sorcerer questioned, not sure if he heard it right.

“I mean... I can put it all on your tab and you go after... Uh... it’s fine.”

Looking at the bartender, Kusakabe inhaled deeply and nodded, grabbing the lollipops bag, shoving it inside his trench coat’s pocket, and running after you.

“Hey!” Kusakabe exclaimed when outside, seeing you a little further ahead on the street.

You heard his voice and picked up your pace, taking a turn into a smaller, secondary street.

“Come on, I know you heard me, slow down!” his steps came quicker, and in a second he was right beside you, while you huffed and puffed in frustration.

“Just let me go home, Atsuya! This is too humiliating. I thought you liked me, but I think I’m the moron who got it all wrong!”

He held your arm and you halted your stomping, even though you kept staring at the ground, thoroughly embarrassed.

“You... didn’t,” he stated, voice uncharacteristically faltering.

“... What?”

Kusakabe delicately turned you to look at him and cupped the side of your face with his hand. His eyes were locked to yours, and for a moment, you felt your heart fluttering in your chest. You could smell the sweet, alcoholic scent from his breath, and that was when you realized just how close he was.

“I-“ he stuttered for a moment before clearing his throat, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Your breath got caught in its way out for a second before you replied.

“Okay.”

He closed the gap between you both, pressing your bodies together with his hand over your back, and his lips descended to yours softly, waiting for you to meet him halfway. You pressed back against him, drawing both your hands to the nape of his neck, and deepened the kiss instantly, robbing him of a gasp.

Your tongue teased the seam of his mouth, and he welcomed you in, pressing his own tongue over yours.

Oh, you definitely tasted that pineapple lollipop.

His aftershave still lingered on his skin, and it smelled minty fresh, filling up your nostrils in an instant as your lips slid over each other.

You both parted for a moment.

“You know what?” you said with a smirk forming on your face.

“Hm, what?” he genuinely asked.

“I think the pineapple one was my favorite flavor.”

With an amused expression, he suddenly bit your chin, planting quick pecks and kisses down your jawline and neck.

You chuckled, asking, “since we’re out of the bar, would you like to come over to my house? I remember there were still a lot of lollipops in that bag and I don’t feel like leaving them all to you.”

With a mischievous smile on his face, he pressed a quick kiss on your lips before replying.

“Of course.”

Tag list: @strawberry1042 @darkfaerietails @jay220a @fattybattysblog @suguru-nugget

@senseifupa @aleigant @gigiculona @rahuratna

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kusakabe #jjk kusakabe #kusakabe atsuya #Kusakabe jjk #kusakabe x reader #kusakabe x you #Kusakabe x y/n #Jjk fanfic #jjk imagines #jjk drabbles #fuku writes #Tsukimefuku

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geeneelee · 1 year ago

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Judit’s Backstory, or: Why She Supports Harry

This is a post I’ve been meaning to write for a while, especially since it’s apparently not common knowledge in the fandom, but Judit has a developed backstory with Harry that can only be put together through reading one of the case files (so perhaps it’s not that surprising that people don’t know).

We start with Joseph Mills: an idiot and a terrible person.

No, he was awful. Awful sense of humour too. The worst jokes you've ever heard. Really rapey.

Harry can find out about him from reading MURDER IN THE HOOKAH PARLOR from his case files. Long story short, Mills mistook an accidental death for a murder and wasted months on it, only for Harry to identify it as a dumb accident in less than a minute.

What’s more relevant to the present-day is this:

Beaten to death by a throng of Villalobos gang-members when him and his partner J. M. (only initials mentioned) answered a call one night. It's a sad story and it isn't really represented in *your* case files. Stop stalling and get to the MURDER AT THE HOOKAH PARLOUR.

Judit’s partner was beaten to death by gangsters, presumably while she watched. Technically, J.M. could be anyone, but basic narrative rules + a few other hints make me certain that it’s Judit. Most importantly, what she says about Harry after his disastrous call to the Precinct.

"We must help him." Minot looks down at her neatly polished black shoes. There is a quiet firmness to her voice when she speaks.

"I just know we can't give up on him when he's at his weakest. He wouldn't..." The crowd in the room has started fidgeting uncomfortably. Someone's trying to slip out unnoticed.

I’m presuming here that what she’s going to say is “He wouldn’t give up on one of us”. (Side note: judging by the reactions of everyone else, they agree. Pre-canon Harry had his good moments and his bad with the squad).

Judit might be speaking from experience - we know that she’s only been with C-Wing for two months, but why did she transfer? Given how C-wing has been hemorrhaging members, it seems odd. If she was speaking from experience, then the most likely answer is that Harry helped her out after Mills’ death (first on the scene? Provided support? who knows) and Judit, who was now without a partner, decided to follow him to C-wing.

Between her gratitude to Harry and (probably) low standards for coworkers, she’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt more than anyone else who knows him, although depending on your actions you can burn through the good will - calling her the Horse-Faced Woman and asking if you’ve had sex will make her cold towards you.

She’s also aware of Harry’s drinking problem, but has more hope than Jean does - Jean will shoot down any hint that Harry’s changed, but if he’s stayed sober, Judit will hold onto hope that it’ll stick this time

You haven't been drinking, she thinks. So maybe this time...

(Perhaps it’s just because she’s known him for the least amount of time, but it’s still more hope than anyone else in his unit has for Harry).

It’s easy to miss Judit’s implied past with Harry, and assume her patience is naivety or because she’s a mom (which might be the case in a story written by lesser writers) but it’s something more complex than that, and a tiny hint at the better side of pre-canon Harry.

#harry du bois #judit minot #harrier du bois #disco elysium #disco elysium meta #i love how many icebergs of lore there are in this game

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tenjikyu · 3 months ago

Note

Okay! With your earlier reply in mind, here is my second request *slides it across the nonexistent table*

I've been having major Mitsuya brain rot so obviously this request will be about him :>

Picture this: Final timeline adult Mitsuya doing all his fashion designing stuff x house spouse (gn version of housewife/househusband).

Genre can be fluff, maybe a bit suggestive if that's okay with you, I don't mind either way, I am just dying for some Mitsuya works cuz I swear I've read most of the gn and male reader x him fics out there and I am starving for new content with him

Hopefully this was coherent and had at least something you could work with (if you need anything more specific, I can send another request)

— 🎭

𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘍𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ mitsuya x GN!housespouce!reader , pure fluff n slightly suggestive but it’s nothing more then kissing, I 💗 mitsuya omg, still haven’t rewatched Tokyo rev I’ve been slack 🙁, short n sweet but I was struggling to finish it and I didn’t wanna keep the people waiting much longer so I do apologise.

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ I’m so sorry for how long this took!! I desperately wanted to get this out before it hit the 1 month mark but I’ve been super duper busy with personal shit! Hope it’s still good enough lmao.

Takashi ironed the fabric with the upmost care, fondling the silk around the board with a low heat level on. The design itself was a dress resembling a lotus flower. The top was beaded with pale pink rhinestones and the bottom consisted with an array of green silks and gems. It had a sharp yet form fitting feel and anyone could tell the designer put the upmost love into the piece.

A gentle knock came from the other side of his work studio, and there was only one person it could be.

“Here darling, I made you some miso soup to have. Light enough it’ll keep you full but still good for dinner”, your voice charms his ears. Ever since moving in with him, you’ve taken on the role of housespouce. You clean and cook for him, in order to provide the best possible space for Takashi to work in.

It had been twelve years since the two of you got together in middle school. You were the schools vice president, and he was a gang member. Despite the opposite worlds, you hung out frequently and even babysat his sisters when he was unavailable. The day Takashi knew he wanted to some day marry you was the day he came home to his two younger sisters resting in your lap, washed dishes and comfortably lying on the futon.

Now, the two of you reside in an upper class place with lots of room for Takashi’s designs, and none of them are anything short of ethereal. Behind every design he creates, inspiration of you seeps through the thread and needle. Your favourite flower, animal, colour and styles all influence Takashi’s dresses and all of them are of the highest quality.

So, whenever you come into the studio, Takashi gives you a big grin and awaits a hug from his favourite partner.

“How’s your day, darling?” He asks you, and you smile gently at him.

“I’ve missed you, I can’t deny. It seems you’ve been locked in here forever”.

“I apologise my dear”.

“I know another way you can’t make it up to me..” you grin at him, and his cheeks flush with a pink hue.

Kissing his Adam’s apple gently, you guide him up and out of the studio, into your bedroom. Lying his cherished body onto the bed, you feel up his torso as you continue to litter him with small hickies.

He soon follows your lead, pressing a loving kiss to your cultivating lips. You swear there’s nothing closer to heaven than this man’s touch, and you’re convinced you’ve ascended as he grips your cheeks to deepen your kiss.

“I’ve missed you too, darling”, Takashi presses another kiss to your collarbone and manoeuvres his hands around your waist, and you sigh gently at his grip.

“I promise you I’ll give you what you want, after we eat dinner “, you giggle, and his pout is nothing short of cute.

“So you lead me to bed and suddenly leave me high and dry? I’m hurt baby”, he chuckles out, pressing one last kiss to the wedding ring on your finger.

“After dinner, I’ll give you all the desert you desire my love”.

#takashi #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya takashi #takashi x reader #mitsuya x reader #Tokyo revengers #Tokyo rev #Tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x male reader #male reader #Tokyo rev x reader #Tokyo rev x male reader

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bookshelf-dust · 9 months ago

Note

Hii love!! I absolutely LOVE your works and was wondering if you could write a fic where Billy finds the readers s/h scars and asks about it? The reader kinda opens about why they did and Billy is super confused about why you would purposely hurt yourself, but he swears to himself he’d never let you do that again?? If not, that’s perfectly fine, i know this topic is pretty sensitive to people🤍🤍

billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 2,513

warnings: SH trigger warning!! please heed that. mentions of self harm (specifically cutting), scars described, areas on skin. all scars are healed and reader has recovered. please do not read this if this will make you uncomfortable. this is meant to be comforting and let you know that things do get better. it is about acceptance and change.

a/n: anon!! thank you for this idea. i just want to put it out there that i’m not taking requests for the foreseeable future, and haven’t been for quite awhile, but i got sent this and i felt really compelled to write it because it’s something that’s important to me. i felt like i could do it justice, at least a little bit, and i really hope that it will provide you with some comfort. this is something close to my heart, and my goal here is that it will reach someone the right way and encourage them to keep going. i love you all so much!! please go easy on me as i’ve never written anything like this before. also did a bit of a different format! anyway, mwah! 🥰

————

Billy knows you’re shy. Of course he does.

But he wants you to feel as comfortable with him as he does with you. He’s never felt as relaxed and safe as he does when he’s around you. Hell, he’s never allowed himself to let his guard down in this way.

Inviting you to sleep over was his olive branch, hoping you’d have a space where you could be fully you. He has the house to himself, and he knows that will help ease your anxiety. All Billy wants is to give you all that you’ve given him. And maybe more.

Billy had just stripped, pulling on sweats and an old t-shirt, not caring whether you saw him in his underwear. He’s yours anyway. Sure, you haven’t gone very far in your relationship, but he still wants you to see how comfortable you’ve made him. He’s never done this casual intimacy thing before.

“I’ll be just a second, okay?” You give him a gentle smile, feet softly padding against the worn hardwoods, sleeve brushing the door frame as you walk by.

Billy watches you walk out of his room with your pajamas tucked under your elbow. “Okay, baby.”

He busies himself while you’re gone, straightening the bed, finding the tv remote. (He’d never be allowed to roll it into his room if he weren’t home alone.) He figures you’re taking your makeup off too, maybe doing something with your hair, and heads to the kitchen to make some popcorn for you both to share.

In the bathroom, you take a deep breath as you pull on your nightgown. You don’t pride yourself in having nice or fancy things to sleep in, but you felt like bringing this with you because it’s one of the few things you own that makes you feel pretty. Something about a freshly washed face and the soft fabric make you all…content.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. The gown is not tight by any means, and actually a color that brings out your eyes. It has little bows on the sleeves and a tiny strip of lace at the hem. You don’t tend to dress for anyone but yourself, but you do think Billy will like this. Some part of you craves that feeling.

He’s never even seen your legs before, much less your collarbones. And not because you’re trying to be modest, but because it’s been cold and any other opportunity hasn’t presented itself. Showing someone so much of yourself is harder than you anticipated. And you anticipated quite a bit of work.

You inhale and exhale deeply, shaking out your arms. You can’t help but be nervous. You’ve never slept over with a boy before. But it’s Billy. Your Billy. What is there to be worried about?

Billy returns to his bedroom shortly after you’ve sat down and queued up the movie for you both to watch. You take the popcorn he offers you, the socks that are much too big, and snuggle into the worn pillows propped up against his headboard.

You’re sitting too far away for Billy’s liking, munching on your snack and trying to focus on the beginning of Nightmare on Elm Street as if you haven’t seen it over ten times. His eyes can’t stop dragging over your bare legs. This is the first time he’s seen them, and he wants you and all that skin closer.

“Baby,” he drawls.

You can feel his big blue eyes on you, but for once you really are paying attention. “Yeah?” you hum, licking butter from the tip of your thumb.

You don’t even look over at him, and Billy lets out a huff of a laugh. The noise prompts you to spare a glance in his direction, but he’s already got an arm wrapped around your thigh, yanking you across the sheets until you’re pressed against his side.

He tries not to convey how excited he is that he can feel the warmth of your skin on his, how soft your inner thigh feels. He frees you though, laughing at the “Oomph” you let out before settling yourself more comfortably.

You swing your leg over both of Billy’s, handing him your popcorn remains and resting your head on his shoulder. He happily sticks his hand in your little bowl, eating what you’d left behind.

As the movie progresses and Billy finishes all the popcorn, you shift further and further into him. It makes Billy so happy to see you act so comfortable around him. This is everything he was hoping for. He sets your empty bowls on his side table and wipes his hands clean with the wet rag he’d brought with him.

You’re engrossed in the movie, laughing every now and then at something you shouldn’t find funny, or clutching at Billy’s fingers when you get stressed out during a tense moment.

God, he’s so happy to be with you. If he could make this night last forever, he would. Billy kisses the top of your head and wraps an arm around your back, his hand coming to rest on the top of your thigh. You don’t think much of the gesture, only feeling a shiver run down your spine at the contact. At his warm hand on your skin.

Your skin.

Your nightgown has ridden up a bit, and suddenly you register exactly where Billy’s hand is. You take a deep breath, hoping he won’t rub your thigh and feel what you’ve avoided showing him for so long.

You try not to worry, try to keep your focus on the movie, but you can’t. Your bubble has popped. You want to adjust your nightgown, but you’re afraid to draw more attention to the area, afraid to offend him and make him think you don’t want his touch.

Billy’s thumb starts to stroke back and forth on your skin. You can feel the exact moment he registers that it doesn’t feel the way it should. The way your arms do, the way the soft backs of your hands do when he takes them in his.

You feel him sit up slightly, crane his head to look at you. At your thigh.

Upon touching your leg, Billy had expected smooth skin. But he met ridges. Bumps. Lines of raised skin. He knew that wasn’t normal, and it sent a surge of curiosity or maybe even concern through him.

What he sees confuses him. What happened to your leg?

“Baby? What’s that?”

He’s sitting up fully now, prompting you to do the same before you fall against the bed.

The longer he looks at it, the more confused he gets. There are scars on your leg. They’re not big, but there are a lot of them. So many that it’s scaring him. Some thin, some thicker. Different shades of scar tissue and scratched skin that never returned to its original state.

They aren’t fresh, no, not at all. They are all healed. But he’s so confused because he’s gotten lots of cuts and bruises throughout his life, and they’ve never looked like yours do. They don’t look like a normal injury does. These look…deliberate. And he doesn’t understand.

You turn around and sit on your knees. I guess it’s now or never, you think. If you don’t tell yourself that, you’ll probably throw up. And if you hadn’t moved so far past this, you’d feel even worse.

“They’re scars,” you say, rubbing your elbow.

Billy flicks your knee, mainly because he doesn’t know how to react, his other hand rubbing down his face. “No shit.”

Your heart is pounding despite the fact that this is something you have long overcome and are not ashamed of. Even still, there is a part of you that hopes he won’t be disgusted with you. It’s the same part that hasn’t let the relationship go as far as you’d like it to.

“I put them there.”

Billy blinks. Even if some part of him knew that’s where this was headed, he still can’t wrap his head around that. “What?”

His eyes dart to your leg again, wondering if the scars are more extensive than what he can see. He’s scared of how badly you’ve hurt yourself. If he’s not careful, his eyes will glaze over.

“A few years ago. You know how I’ve mentioned my depression and anxiety? And how I have medicine? How it was hard for me to go on dates with you at first or how sometimes I get standoffish?”

He nods, encouraging you to continue.

“Well, you’ve been really good at reassuring me and understanding my panic attacks and stuff, and I’ve gotten a lot better at managing these things. But before all of that, before how I am now, I had no one. I was all alone, and I couldn’t deal with my feelings. So I took it out on myself. I started cutting myself as a way to cope.” You hate to admit all of this, but he deserves to know.

You start fidgeting with your fingertips and break eye contact with him. Billy’s lips have formed a stern pout, his brows knitting together in a way that shows he’s trying to understand you. To him, he really is just trying to comprehend this. But to you, that’s the look of shame you’ve been awaiting. You don’t want to be looked at that way.

You sit on your hands and stare at a string that’s come loose from your worn-in comforter.

“Anyway, I didn’t have anyone to help me. I couldn’t talk about how sad and lonely and angry I was, and I certainly wasn’t ready for a doctor. I kept it all in, figuring it was safer that way. But that got to me, and I chose to take it out on myself. There.” You touch your thigh. “Here and here.” Your fingers brush your stomach and hip. “Here too.” Your forearm. I know it’s horrible, but that’s what I chose to do. And I wouldn’t ever want someone else to choose that.”

“I didn’t want to die, I just wanted the hurt to stop. I needed an outlet for all of those suffocating feelings, and that was what I did. Hurting myself helped me feel better because at least I was expressing something. And I was able to punish myself for being so unlike everyone else. So quiet, so hard to love, so different.”

Your heart is pounding but you steal a quick glance at Billy. He can’t fight the emotion from showing on his face anymore. He feels his eyelashes getting thick with tears that are threatening to spill at any moment.

“I know this is probably hard to understand. I know you might be disgusted with me. But I guess it’s better that you know, right? I should’ve been more open about it with you sooner to avoid it being so…complicated.”

You stop, not really knowing what else there is to say. You’re hoping that this will encourage him to say something. Anything. You’d be happy to answer a question at this point.

Billy brings the hem of his shirt up to wipe his eyes. You wince, feeling awful for making him emotional over this.

He takes a moment to try and wrap his head around what he’s just heard. He’s had a habit of self-medicating with alcohol, with cigarettes, hell, even ego lifting shit he shouldn’t at the gym. But everyone copes differently, right? You wouldn’t do what he does. He wouldn’t do what his dad does.

He just can’t bear the thought of thinking that someone would physically do that to themselves. That you, his perfect girl, would be feeling so low that you’d make yourself bleed just in search of relief from the pain. He can’t understand it, but at the same time, he sees that it comes in different forms.

Billy reaches out for your hands, waiting for you to take them. The pressure behind your eyes immediately softens at the gesture.

“Don’t apologize to me, okay? I’m just trying to process.” He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your warm skin.

“Okay.”

He kisses each of your knuckles in turn, maintaining eye contact all the while. He straightens, not letting go of your fingers. “I don’t like to think about you being in any sort of pain. Imagining you doing that to yourself…fuckin’ breaks my heart.”

You tilt your head, scanning his face. He’s hurting for you, and you want to take it away. “It’s okay, Billy. I’m so much better now.”

“But I wish that I’d known you when you were hurting so damn bad. Y-you were alone, and I’m angry that no one was there to pull you out. I would’ve helped you.”

You squeeze his hands. “Billy, baby. I wouldn’t have let you help me.”

“Why?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“Because I didn’t want to get better. I was comfortable in an endless cycle of hurt, and I had to be the one to finally change something.”

Billy leans forward until his forehead is resting against your chest. “I’m so sorry that you had to deal with that, and I know you sure as hell don’t want my pity, but I just can’t have you ever be in pain.”

You weave your fingers into the hair at the base of his neck. “I know, Billy. I’m okay, I promise? I’ve worked really hard to be okay.”

He straightens, cupping your face. “God, I know you have. I’m never gonna let you hurt like that again, you hear me?”

“I hear you, Billy. That’s not a place I ever want to return to.”

He leans in and kisses you with so much passion, using his lips to say more than he could ever form into words, that it leaves you feeling dazed. Loved.

“I’m so proud of you,” Billy says.

You smile at him, and if he weren’t already sitting, he’d need to because of how weak you make him.

“Thank you for respecting me and not treating me differently. You have no idea how much that means.”

Billy’s hands slide down to rest on your collar bones. “Why on earth would I treat you differently? Have people before? If anything it shows me how much of a fucking star you are, because you got through that all on your own. You got through it and now I have the pleasure of being yours.”

You feel like someone’s poured warm water down your back. “People are usually awful about it, yeah. But that doesn’t matter. I’m grateful that you’re so accepting. And I want to be more open with you.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about that, baby. I’m working on my patience, so I’m happy to wait and learn every inch of you. Inside and out.” He winks at you, hoping to coax out a smile. It works.

“I’m so glad I got to this point,” you admit to him. You never say that out loud.

“Fuck, so am I.” He kisses your forehead. “My best girl.”

#tw: self harm #tw: scars #trigger warning: self harm #savannah’s fics #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x fem!reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove comfort #billy hargrove fanfic #billy hargrove fanfiction

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caius-hhhhhh · 6 months ago

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As promised, I’ve gone and stuck my shelved but still finished chapter of a Blitzstone fic on AO3 because… that’s literally what it’s for. It’s the origin story of how Hearthstone fell to Nidavellir and how Blitzen learned ASL. 5,349 words, originally completed in late December 2023.

Blitzstone nation, my darlings, my dearests: I’m passing through but not super active in your fandom. I hope you like my contribution.

My regular followers, number one you should read Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard. But if you haven’t and want to read this anyway? I’ve included a handy summary containing pertinent information below the cut <3

Yes, the name Blitz has some overlap. They have nothing in common. This Blitzen is a dwarf. Dwarves turn to stone when they are exposed to sunlight. This process can be reversed by submerging the statues in water. Their world (one of the nine in Norse mythology) is completely underground. Dwarves are revered for their ability to craft exceptional items. Canon doesn’t expand upon this, so I’ve invented the idea that Svartalves (singular Svartalf, it means “dark elf”. Yes, this character is Black. Yes, that’s jank as hell.) are a different race of dwarves with a distinct culture from Nidavellir dwarves. “Svartalf Mart” is a canon location, but I’m not actually sure if the equivalent is supposed to be “Asian Market” or “Human Store”.

Midgard is the world of humans. Most Norse creatures can travel between the nine worlds, although such travel is not always advisable.

Elves are creatures of light. Their world, Alfheim, is made of sunlight; because Frey is the patron god of Alfheim they have safe haven in his sister Freya’s world, Folkvanger.

This is not revealed in my work: Hearthstone has been severely abused by his family. They have shamed him for being Deaf, refused to learn ASL, and made him believe that his basic wants and needs like food and shelter were transactional. There is a moment in my fic where Hearthstone is given some coffee — he has never been given that privilege before. Luckily canon goes about showing this in a really hyperbolic manner that, to me at least, avoided being triggering by being so exaggeratedly Evil. (If you’re interested in reading MCGA but this subject is difficult for you, please, DM me: I’ll provide you with more detail and context. I did not find it hard to read, but you may.)

Near the end of the fic, Blitzen references Gleipnir: this is the divine rope that binds Loki’s son Fenris Wolf, who will swallow the moon at Ragnarok. His confinement is essential to preventing the worlds’ destruction.

If I’ve done my job correctly you should be able to intuit the majority of other information from either the work itself or your likely knowledge of Tolkien. (I, actually, had to get a lecture from my close associate SpaceWall as I don’t read LOTR.) Although it’s safe to bet that if you don’t know what a word is referring to, it’s more likely a reference to fibre arts.

#blitzstone #mcga #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #original work (regrettably)#um jamma lamy

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reigningqueenofwords · 6 months ago

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I'm Disappointed

Pairing: Bruce x Reader, Martha x Thomas Word count: 4,912

Read on AO3

Part 15 of Without Me

Your father was sipping at his water when you walked up. “Hi.” He gently brought you into a hug but it was stiff. “Congrats.” He said gruffly.

"What's wrong?" You asked. "Why are you upset?!"

He sighed. “I’m happy for you, I am. I just think it’s too early. You haven’t even been married a year. How do you know it’ll last with Bruce?” He asked.

The hurt spread across your face in an instant. "Funny, you guys had Nichole maybe a few months after getting married." You countered. "That wasn't too early, now was it?"

“Things were different.” He shook his head. “We didn’t have access to the best birth control.” He told you. “And I wasn’t a known playboy.”

You clenched your jaw. “We planned this, Dad.” You told him. “For months we talked about it before deciding to try. And clearly, you don’t think very highly of my husband.” You said angrily. “I thought you’d be happy he could provide for us!”

“I wanted you to not have to rely on some man. You’re throwing your dreams away. You don’t think he’s going to make you be a stay at home mom?” He scoffed. “The company will be his priority in the years to come.”

“No, he won’t.” You countered. “I get to choose what I do. We chose to wait for me to finish my degree so I could go to work!” You shook your head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, and you’re making it sound like I’m being an idiot. Which, if I was, I clearly inherited that from you! With the way you’re acting.”

He huffed. “I’m just disappointed.” He shook his head. “You know mom and I will help you. Always. But I wish you thought more about this.”

“I did. I just never thought you’d be upset to know you’ll be a grandfather.” You said sadly, walking away to find your mom.

She immediately hugged you. “My baby, I’m so happy for you!” She said instantly.

You hugged her back. “At least one of you is.” You sighed.

She kissed your head. “Your father is just worried and he gets angry when he’s worried.” She reminded you. “He’s always been like that.”

“He called Bruce a playboy, said I’ll be forced to stay at home, and said that his focus will be the company.”

She gave you a soft look. “It’s not far fetched but I’m not focusing on that. I’m excited to be a grandmother.”

You stepped back and shook your head. “So, both of you were bullshitting me.” You scoffed. “Acting like you like Bruce. That you didn’t believe all the shit you heard. Nice. Real nice, mom.” You walked away, angry with your parents.

Your mother sagged slightly, wishing you could just see their worry. She hoped that you didn’t stay angry at them too long. She already loved her grand baby so much and didn’t want you to keep them from her and your father. Sighing, she went to find her husband.

You were still fuming when you went back inside to find Bruce. Finding him, you pulled him into a kiss.

He made a noise of surprise but melted into it, holding your hips. Pulling away, he pecked your lips once more. “What happened?” He asked, cupping your cheek.

You looked at him tearfully. “They don’t approve.” You shook your head. “At all, and it’s obvious they never did.”

He frowned. “Of me? Why? I feel like I’ve shown them I can take great care of you and our future family.” He was confused. He thought that they liked him.

“He called you a playboy, said that I’ll be forced to be a stay at home mom, that you’ll be focused on the company, that it’s too soon….” You shook your head. “Mentioned that we hadn’t been married even a year. I pointed out that they had Nicole just a few months after they got married. So, I went to my mom. Who was all excited, and when I told her what he said she said ‘he’s not too far off’.” You said angrily. “I said they were both bullshitting me and walked away.”

He sagged a bit. “I’ve changed. Yeah, we have the company but I’m not taking your life away. Right?” He asked.

You shook your head. “No! Of course not.” You cupped his cheeks. “You’re adding to it.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t force you to stay home, either. I figure our parents can help and Alfred does good. And then day care.” He hugged you. “I’m sorry that they feel that way. I promise that my ‘playboy’ ways are behind me. Except when I see you in yoga pants. Then, I can’t be held responsible for my horniness.” He teased.

You chuckled weakly. “I just can’t believe them. You’re my world.” You assured him. “You and our growing family.”

He kissed your head. “What matters is we love each other. My parents are thrilled at least.” He reminded you. “I’m very glad my mom now wears lipstick that doesn’t come off. Or my face would look very different right now.”

You laughed at that. “I would love to see you covered in kisses.” You told him. “Because that would seriously be the best thing ever right now.”

He grinned. “I’ll make that happen for you one day.” He promised. “Now, let’s go see Maryanne. I’m sure she would love to gush over babies with you.”

You nodded, happy to have a friend. “Let’s.” You wiped your cheeks, not wanting to go out making it obvious you’d been getting emotional.

He gently kissed your forehead before leading you out.

The rest of the party went much better, thankfully. You and Maryanne set up a girl’s day for the following week, which Bruce was completely on board with. He told you that you definitely deserved it and offered to pay for a special spa. He would stay home and play house dad to the dogs that day, unless he was told to go to the office.

That night you were looking up baby things while Maryanne helped put away leftovers. “You really don’t have to.” You told her.

“I missed doing normal things at school so shush.” She smiled. “I’ll be out of your hair soon, I just needed company.” She told you. "I'm looking forward to our girls day. I'm hoping we can be friends."

You nodded. “I’m hoping we can, too. It’s nice having someone.” You smiled. “Especially someone who knows the life I married into.” You chuckled. "I am so not fancy."

She chuckled as well. “That’s okay. It’s not for everyone. I like your style.” She said easily. "Comfort is underrated these days."

You nodded. “Sneakers all day, everyday.” You grinned.

She laughed. “Okay, can I use the restroom before I leave?” She asked.

"Of course. Down the hall, first door on the left."

“Thanks!” She ran off.

You smiled and scrolled through the endless page of Pinterest. You had plenty of time to plan, but were eager to get ideas. You had created endless boards and couldn’t wait to show Bruce. You told him you wanted to do the planning and decorating yourselves so it was all you. He was currently out back with Happy and Lucky, being a big kid.

You gently closed your laptop after a moment and stretched. It had been a long day. You couldn’t wait for some sleep. Curled up with your husband. You got some water before heading upstairs. You hoped your parents would come around soon, as well. While your mother was at least excited, you felt it was forced. At least Nicole wasn’t there, and you wouldn’t have to hear her mouth. You could only imagine.

You began your night routine once you were upstairs and yawned, fighting sleep. You wanted to wait for Bruce. You sat in bed, rubbing lotion onto yourself and waited.

Bruce let Happy and Lucky in, chuckling at how they shook their fur off instantly. “Alright boys, time for bed.” He led them to their beds. “Not sleeping with mom and dad tonight.” He told them.

Both dogs whined and Lucky got onto his leg. He pawed at him. “Someone like sleeping in your room, too?” Maryanne teased, coming back down the hall.

Bruce jumped slightly. “Oh hey, sorry didn’t know you were still here. Yeah, we spoiled these pups.” He chuckled. “But who can say no to those faces.” He shrugged. “I try, but doesn’t always work.”

She laughed. “I’d struggle to say no, too.” She bent down to pet them. “Aren’t you the sweetest?”

Bruce smiled. “They are friendly.” He said as Lucky licked her face. “We wanted to keep them together since they’re brothers. I think they like that.”

“You’re so sweet for doing that.” She stood with a smile. “Can you lead me out? I didn’t realize it was getting dark.” She asked.

“Yeah, of course. The driveway lights up thankfully. Stay.” He told the two dogs before leading her out. “Thanks for coming over for a bit. I know Y/N likes your company.”

“She’s sweet, I can’t wait for our girls day.” She nodded, playing with her keys. “It’ll be nice to have someone to talk to that isn’t all about money.”

Bruce chuckled. “That’s why I love her. She doesn’t give a shit on what you make money wise.”

“Which means no expectations.” She nodded. “She’s good for you.”

“Thanks.” He opened her car door for her. “Have a safe drive back.” He said kindly.

She smiled and got in, waving. Once the car was started, she watched him head back inside. She hummed to herself and nodded. Pulling away, she looked forward to seeing you both again.

Bruce checked on you a week later, patting your head with a towel. “I can stay, babe.”

You shook your head. “Just morning sickness.” You assured him. “I’ll be okay eventually.”

He kissed your cheek. “Alright, but I’ll race home if you need me to.” He told you. "I promise."

You nodded and closed your eyes. “Thank you.” You sighed.You knew you’d be in bed majority of the day. You planned to watch Netflix and cuddle your boys.

Bruce sighed in worry and finally left to work. He hoped that this let up soon. He’d hate for you to be miserable for your pregnancy. He decided to bring you home some flowers that night. And ask his mom for home remedies. Anything to help.

For the next couple of weeks you felt sick majority of the morning but thankfully the afternoons were getting better. Alfred had sent you a tea that was helping. One evening, Bruce was working late, so you decided to bake Alfred some cookies. You took special time baking and decorating them, wanting the best for the man. He was family now.

You packaged them cutely and set them out to take to the man the following morning. You hoped he enjoyed them. You finally heard Bruce pull up and warmed up dinner for him. You wanted to try to make sure to have home made food most nights. Especially now for your little Wayne.

Bruce sighed as he came in, hanging up his coat. oat. "Hey, babe." He greeted you. “Smells good in here.” He pecked your lips. "How's our baby treating you?"

“Better this afternoon.” You smiled. “That tea is really helping.” You wrapped your arms around him. "How was work?"

“Busy today.” He nodded, kissing your forehead. "Couldn't wait to be home!" He hugged you tight. “Oh, cookies.” He worked up.

"Those are for Alfred." You told him.

He pouted. “None for your husband?” He asked.

“I can bake you your own after dinner.” You kissed his cheek.

He shook his head. “You need rest instead.” He squeezed your hip. “I don’t need cookies.” He shrugged.

You giggled. “Babe. I’m not that far along. I’m just getting a tad chubby. Resting is for when I’m huge and it hurts to walk.” You teased him. “How about you can help me make them?”

He rubbed your back. “Alright. And I just worry.” He said with a pout, nudging your cheek. “I’ll always worry.”

“You’re cute.” You kissed his jaw. “Now eat while I get things started.” You patted his chest. “I snacked while I cooked.”

He smiled and nodded, washing his hands before sitting at the counter. “I can’t wait to see what you made.”

You handed him his plate and soda, winking before going to pull your baking. “Hope you enjoy.” You said over your shoulder.

“Always.” He mumbled as he dug in. “So good.” He sighed happily.

You felt pride and hummed as you baked. The dogs yipped happily when they passed by and saw Bruce. “They missed their daddy.”

He smiled and pet them both as they jumped. “Hey boys.” He was glad that the pair of you got such happy dogs. They brightened everyone’s day.

As the weeks passed, you became really close with Maryanne, and you were excited to tell her what you were having. She had been there by your side when you had rough mornings and she’d be the first person outside of Bruce to know. You’d be having dinner with his parents that night to tell them.

Maryanne was practically bouncing when you met up for lunch. “Tell me!” She beamed.

You grinned, just as excited. “A mini Bruce.” You said softly. She pulled you into a hug, which you eagerly returned.

“I’m so happy for you.” She squeezed you gently. “Motherhood fits you so well!” She said happily. “I can’t wait to see what you do for his nursery. Any names in mind?”

“No names yet.” You shook your head. “But I want to do something cute for his nursery.” You pulled up your phone to show her Pinterest ideas. “He’s off tomorrow, so I think we’re gonna get some stuff done.” You told her. “He’s gonna hire some painters before we set anything up.”

“Sounds wonderful.” She smiled. “His parents are going to be thrilled.” She told you. “He’s going to be a great dad!”

You nodded happily. “He is.” You sighed in content. “Tell me about your new job at the company?” You put your phone away as the pair of you made your way into the restaurant.

She sighed. “It’s nice. But it’s not something I want to do forever.” She admitted. “Not even close. I’m grateful for the job, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not what I went to school for.”

You nodded. “An in between job.” You stated. “At least you can find something while still making money.” You smiled. “It’ll help keep you busy.”

She smiled. “I’m constantly looking and sending resumes.” She admitted. “I’m hoping to be into my long term job soon.”

“It’ll fall right into your lap I’m sure.” You encouraged. “I’m doing free lance work for now, and I’ll go back to work, like actual work, once he’s probably about a year.” You wanted time with your son, and felt that was a good time frame.

She nodded. “That sounds great.” She smiled. “Is Bruce taking time off?”

“I think he’s trying to work out his schedule next year.” You nodded. “I know he gets leave, so I’m thankful for that.”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded. “That’s so great.” She agreed. “How long will he get?” She was curious.

“I think 9 months. He’s just trying to figure out which 9 he wants probably.” You nodded. “Which, as long as he’s home the first couple weeks, I don’t care how he works out the rest.” You chuckled.

“I’m sure he’ll make that happen.” She chuckled. “There’s no way he would miss out on such an important time.”

“True.” You smiled and got ready to order.

Bruce was running late that night, so he texted you not to make dinner. He said he would eat at the office. You were glad you had the dogs company and figured he was building up time to take off. You were asleep on the couch when he came in.

He carefully lifted you and carried you up before tucking you in. “Night.” He whispered. He would shower and join you shortly. He checked his phone as he plugged it in to charge and cursed. He had forgotten you had dinner with his parents that evening. However, his father hadn't said anything, either. He wondered if you had cancelled for the both of you. Sighing, he quickly went about getting ready for bed before joining you.

You snuggled to him automatically in your sleep. He kissed the top of your head, holding you close.

Thankfully, Bruce didn’t have to work late a lot, but you missed him when he did. He was your world and it sucked not having your best friend around all the time. You got to hang out with Maryanne a lot, too, but it wasn’t the same.

The nursery was painted a baby blue by the time you were 22 weeks, and he had put together his furniture not long after. You had filled it with baby books and stuffies, excited for your little boy to grow into it. You hadn’t gotten his bedding yet, and hoped that Bruce would like to do that the following weekend.

He had recently picked up more hours so he left earlier in the day and came later in the evenings, but you were making it work. You tried every night to stay up for him, and half succeeded finally. Your eyes were drooping as he opened the door.

“Hey.” He smiled. “I’m gonna jump in the shower real quick and be with you in a minute.” He told you. “Then we can cuddle and get some rest.”

You nodded sleepily and hugged his pillow. You planned to ask him to take it easy the following week. You’d like some time with him where he didn’t have any obligations. You didn’t want him to burn himself out.

Bruce emerged from the shower eventually and crawled into bed with you. “There’s my wife.” He beamed.

“Hi.” You said tiredly. “Glad I got to see you at least.” You gave him a soft smile. “I miss you.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I miss you, too.” He hugged you. “I’m here now, okay?”

You nodded. “Be here more next week? Take a little break.” You asked softly. “Please? Spend some time with me and the boys?”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.” He promised. “I’d love more time with my growing family.” He pecked your nose. “I’ll let you know tomorrow, okay?”

“You’re the best.” You beamed. "I love you. Pancakes for breakfast?" You offered.

“Sounds great.” He kissed you gently. "Now let's get some sleep, Mrs. Wayne."

You nuzzled into his neck and fell asleep almost instantly. He comforted you, and made you feel safe.

Bruce held you all night, getting rest himself. He really would do everything to be with you more.

The next morning, Bruce went in later than usual, getting to actually enjoy the morning with you. It helped your mood drastically. "Can I come join you for lunch?" You asked as he got ready for work. "I can pack us something."

He hummed. “Maybe tomorrow? I have a staff meeting today I think.” He gave you a 'sorry' face. "Then I can plan it so no one bothers us, too."

“Alright.” You pouted. “I guess I’m grateful for breakfast at least.” You knew you had to get used to this. He didn't have a set schedule like most husbands would. “Maybe I’ll ask if Maryanne is free.” You hated being alone these days.

"Think she has to work, but I'll try to get her off early and send her over." He kissed your cheek.

“Thank you.” You smiled as he crouched to say bye to your son. You ran your fingers through his hair gently, enjoying the moment

He kissed your bump. “Take care of your mother.” He smiled as he stood. “I’ll text you when I can.” He promised, kissing you. "And I'll bring home dinner. Don't cook."

You smiled. “Can I pretty please have pasta from my favorite place?” You asked sweetly.

Bruce chuckled. "If that what my wife wants, that's what she'll get."

You grinned. “Thank you.” You kissed him once more before he left, leaving you with the boys. You sighed. “You and me again boys.” You told them. "Wanna go for a walk?"

They were always up for anything and looked at you excitedly. Happy barked, heading towards the door, tail wagging. You giggled and led Lucky to follow him, hooking up their leashes. At least you'd get your exercise. You hoped Maryanne could stop by today.

Bruce and Maryanne came at the same time, surprising you. “Hi!” You said after a moment. “What a surprise!” You smiled. "Joining us for dinner?"

“If you don’t mind! I ran into this one in the parking lot.” She smiled. “Said you might need company.” She told you. "We stopped and got dinner."

You looked at Bruce. "The pasta?" You asked, hopeful.

“The pasta.” He nodded with a smile, chuckling when you clapped. "Let's go eat, I'm sure you've been looking forward to this all day."

“I have.” You said honestly, going to set up. "Beer, babe?"

“Sure.” He smiled and unpacked. "How was your day?"

“Long.” You admitted. “Looking forward to the cool weather. I find myself overheating now.” You sighed. "And it's only the start of the hot weather."

Maryanne pouted. “I can look up remedies.” She offered. “I’m sure there are some.”

You smiled thankfully at her. “I did that earlier.” You admitted. “Tank tops, shorts, fans, ice water, and ACs.”

“Anything a big credit card limit can buy?” Bruce smiled. “Because I’ll buy it all.”

You smirked. “Buy me an igloo for when you’re at work.” You teased.

“Don’t tempt him.” Maryanne chuckled. “He will try.” She looked at him.

He smirked. “I will. I’ll find something.” He promised. “Now, let’s eat.” He pulled out a chair for you before sitting down himself.

You smiled happily, loving the company.

Bruce walked Maryanne out to her car while you showered, looking forward to getting to spend the evening with him. You had plans as you shaved and put your nicest smelling products on. Getting out, you dried off and slipped only your silk robe on. You sat on the bed in what you hoped was a nice pose and waited. He shouldn't have been taking all that long. You pouted and got a bit restless, getting up to call Lucky or Happy. “Check on your daddy? Go outside.” You gently told them, happy they were somewhat trained. They both ran out once you cracked the door, nearly tackling him.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Bruce chuckled, smiling as he saw you. “A light went off in her car and I had to pretend to know what I was doing.” He explained.

You bit your lip, wondering if he just spaced on what you were wearing. “Oh...okay.” You shrugged. You played with the hem of your robe, feeling self-conscious.

He kissed your head. “Let me shower and I’ll be right back.” He squeezed your back side.

“Kay.” You said softly, looking down at yourself and shrugging as he walked away. You’d change into a t-shirt while he showered.

Bruce raised his eyebrows as you were under the covers but quickly got under with you. “Said I’d be right back.” He pulled you close.

You shrugged. “It’s okay.” You mumbled. You put your hand on his, getting comfortable.

“I just wanted to make sure I was clean for you.” He kissed your neck. “Especially with how you looked.”

“You didn’t say anything…” You shrugged again. “Figured you didn’t notice.”

“You think I didn’t notice my wife all sexy’d up for me?” He nipped your neck. “Wearing nothing but that robe?” He groaned. “I had to run to the shower before I took you right there.” He told you. “You looked so clean, I had to be, too, babe.”

“Alright, alright. Sweet talker.” You turned to face him. You pecked his lips softly.

He smiled against you, taking it as a win. He would take all night proving to you he had seen how you were looking.

It didn’t take long for you to forgive him.

Walking into Wayne Enterprises at nearly 32 weeks pregnant, you smiled as people waved to you. Specific people you always met with cake to ask how you were. “I’ll let Bruce know you’re here, or is it a surprise?” One of the interns asked with a smile.

You chuckled. “Surprise.” You told them, holding up a cooler. “I made him his favorite lunch.”

A few people ‘awe’d’ and let you pass. “How sweet.” They whispered.

On the way up to his floor on the elevator, your hand was on your stomach as your son moved. He was active today, making you smile. “Just not the bladder okay?” You giggled. “Let mommy have lunch with Daddy.” When he kicked a different spot, you laughed. Finally the doors opened to his floor and you eagerly went to his office. He wasn’t there, confusing you, so you went back out to his secretary. “Tiffany, is Bruce in a meeting?”

She hummed. “No, he shouldn’t be.” She clicked around on the computer. “Nope. Want me to page him?”

“Please?” You went and sat in his office to wait for him. You looked around, appreciating how you could tell it was his area. Your wedding picture sat on his desk, right next to one of him holding your bump. You beamed and figured you could leave him a cute note to find. You’d wait a few minutes, and if he didn’t show up, you’d leave a note, and his lunch. However, you weren’t sure where he’d be.

Tiffany came in. “He said he could here in twenty? He’s out of the building.” She told you gently.

It was odd that it was phrased as a question. “No, I’ll leave this here, I guess.”

“Alright, I’m sorry you missed him.” She said with a sad look. “It was nice to see you, though.” She said sweetly. “He brags about you all the time.”

You felt a bit better at that. “Thanks. I should call next time.” You shrugged a shoulder. “How’s the family been?” You asked, scribbling him a note.

“Good, thank you.” She beamed. “All good.” She told you.

Bruce missed you by five minutes by the time he got back into his office. He groaned, feeling guilty as he saw the lunch. Picking up the note, he read it.

Wanted to surprise you with your favorite lunch, but you were out. I hope it’s still warm whenever you get back in!

Love you.

He pouted and called you, hoping he’d find you.

"Hey, Bruce." You answered. "I just left to get myself lunch."

He whined. “I’m sorry, baby. I was off site.” He told you.

"I know." You half teased. "Tiffany seemed surprised."

“It was a last minute meet up with a potential donor.” He explained. "I didn't have time to stop and explain." He told you, sitting behind his desk.

“It’s okay. I should’ve called. Surprises aren’t your thing.” You said gently. "I'll visit again soon. I have my appointment next week, so maybe I'll stop in after."

“An appointment? Shouldn’t I be at that?” He asked. "What time?"

"It's just a quick monthly one." You told him. "Just to check how I'm doing, check on him, who needs a name, and that's it."

“I should be there. What time?” His voice had grown a bit irritated.

You furrowed your brows. "10. But why are you getting upset with me?"

“I just feel I should be at every appointment no matter what its for. Were you going to tell me?”

"I told you when I made it." You told him. “It’s written on the calendar at home. Don’t get mad at me when it slipped your mind.” You countered. "I keep you up to date on all things baby."

He rubbed his face. “I need to meet with Tiffany so it can show up on my phone.” He sighed. "I want to be there by your side."

“Yeah, if you can make time.” You told him.

"What's that mean?"

"...when's the last time you were home for dinner?" You asked softly.

“Just the other day.” He said easily.

“On time. Where I don’t have to reheat it or keep it in the oven.” You sighed. “And I know it’s only going to get worse.” You licked your lips. "I'm not mad at you, but I also don't want you saying you'll be there and not being able to."

Bruce frowned and rubbed his forehead. “I’ll make time, okay?” He didn't want to turn into his father.

“Yeah, okay.” You said softly. "I'll let you eat your lunch. I'm at the pizza place I was looking for."

“Eat well.” He said sadly. “I love you.”

"I love you, too." You said gently. "Weekend together? Just us and the boys?" You asked, hopeful.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make it happen.” He promised.

After hanging up, he sat back in his chair and sighed. He had to make things better. Your son would be coming soon and he had to prepare to take time off.

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader

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twistedminutia · 8 months ago

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A Million and One Minutia: Nuclear Weaponry

Read the previous chapters here: Ch. 1

Gray teaches the Heartslabyul upperclassmen about nuclear power and weaponry.

The school library is where I spend a majority of my time, much to Grim’s protests. I’m not exactly sure what irritates him so much about it- maybe it’s just the principle of the thing, because he naps most of the time anyway, and it’s more comfortable than Ramshackle. Fall has set in pretty firmly, and the dorm’s walls do not keep out the chill. The library is warm, comfy, and I don’t have to worry about a leaking ceiling if it rains.

It’s also the only place on campus I can get internet access from. I don’t have money for a phone, and even if I got one for free, I can’t pay for an internet plan. Crowley hems and haws whenever the subject comes up, so I’m not holding out hope. So. Library computers it is.

Naturally, the internet itself is recognizable, but weird. Like most things here. The search engines are different, but have a similar format to what I’m used to. The websites are different, but they’re clear analogues of websites back home. It’s at least intuitive to navigate, if a little strange.

Research provides me with some details, but the more I look at, the more incomplete it feels. I can’t explain it quite right, but it feels a little like trying to read a detailed fanfic for a series of movies you haven’t seen. I can intuit a lot of it, but then a website will casually mention something I don’t know about at all and I’m completely lost again.

I’m in the middle of trying to figure out if hippogriffs are real actual animals here or just some sort of cryptid when I hear footsteps nearby. I glance up at the right moment to make eye contact with Cater, who waves enthusiastically. Trey follows his gaze and gives me a wave of his own. They pause near me, and I nod at Riddle, who’s the last member in their little group. He nods back.

“How’s it going?” Trey asks. “Ramshackle’s all right? You’re getting enough to eat and sleep?”

Ever since Trey learned that I am not of this world, he’s been subtly momming me. It’s nothing too bothersome- just frequent questions about how I’m doing, if I need anything, if I’m taking care of myself all right. Usually it’s no big deal, though I did get an impressive lecture once when I’d been in such a hurry that I hadn’t brushed my teeth when leaving Ramshackle in the morning. Apparently, anyone in a leadership position at Heartslabyul has formidable scolding abilities.

Still, it’s not like I don’t appreciate the gesture. Not least of all because Trey has been slipping me baked goods. Keeping them away from Grim so that I can get even one bite has become a full-time job.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Are you here to get some studying done?”

“More or less,” Trey says. “Riddle and I are trying to get a study guide set up for the exams coming up, so the freshmen will have something to follow during the study groups.”

“I’m just here to snap some Magicam pics,” Cater says, holding his phone up to get a shot of himself against one of the bookshelves. “Dark academia is super trendy right now.”

“You’re going to study for exams and set up a guide to help other people study?” I ask, ignoring Cater to level a skeptical look at Riddle and Trey. “Don’t you ever give yourselves time to rest?”

“Of course. A certain amount of rest ensures that the brain is functioning at peak level,” Riddle huffs. “I have a half an hour of leisure before bed every night. And helping other people study is shown to be one of the most effective forms of learning and retaining information.” He draws himself up, heels clicking together. “I’m going to get the class textbooks for the basic freshmen courses.”

He heads off down the rows of bookshelves, heels clacking against the ground. I share a look with Trey. “He is actually doing okay, right?” I ask.

“I’ve been making sure he doesn’t push himself too hard,” Trey says. “Cater’s been helping keep things in order too.” “Gotta keep the housewarden happy,” Cater agrees, thumbing through the photos he’s taken. I take the opportunity to sneak a glance at Trey’s bag. It’s gotten to the point where my mouth starts watering when Trey shows up. He’s completely Pavloved me. Assuming that Pavlov is still a thing in this universe. Probably not. I wonder what classical conditioning is called here. Probably just ‘classical conditioning.’

Trey catches me staring and shakes his head. “I gave you a dozen cookies three days ago.”

“Yeah, and I live with a furry black hole,” I say, jerking a thumb toward Grim. He rolls onto his belly, mumbling something indistinct.

Trey laughs. “Well, I don’t have any food on me.”

“Even if you did, you probably shouldn’t have it out here,” Cater says, glancing deeper into the library. “Riddle’s going to be back at any moment.”

Good point. Biggest, most well-known rule ever: don’t bring food into a library. “Oh, right,” I say. “I guess Riddle would go nuclear if he saw someone eating in here.”

I thought it was a fairly reasonable thing to say, but apparently not, because both Cater and Trey swivel toward me with identical looks of bewilderment. “What?” Cater says.

Oops. Maybe making fun of the housewarden is only for the people actually under his rule. Deuce and Ace never had a problem with it- though their relationship with Riddle is often contentious and they’re perhaps not the best examples to look toward for the appropriate treatment of housewardens. I shrink down in my seat. “Uh- Y’know, was just saying that he’d be pissed if we broke a rule- I didn’t mean anything by it, really- I guess I’ve just been around Ace and Deuce and they complain about him all the time so I thought-” You’re throwing your friends under the bus, stop talking! “It wasn’t an insult toward him or anything-”

Cater waves a hand. “No, I mean, what does ‘going nuclear’ mean?”

I pause, giving time for my scrambled brain to slip back on the tracks. “Wh- going nuclear?” I glance at Trey, but he’s clearly just as mystified as Cater. “You know. Blowing your top. Going ballistic. Freaking out. He would have gotten really mad.”

“Huh,” Trey says. “I’ve never heard that one before.” “I guess it’s not a terribly common phrase,” I say.

“Nu-cle-ar,” Cater says, rolling the word around in his mouth. “Huh. Is that another word for angry in your world?”

“No,” I say, a little caught off guard. “You don’t know what nuclear means?”

Trey shakes his head. “I just said I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Yeah, but I thought you just meant in that context, not that you didn’t know what nuclear was.” I look at Cater, but he just shakes his head at me.

“What is it?” Trey asks, settling into a computer seat next to me. Cater perks up and leans in.

“W-well, it’s-” Uh. Crap. I know what nuclear means in a very general sense, but not enough to describe it with any sort of accuracy. My first instinct would be to look it up, but I’m not sure how useful that’s going to be- if Trey and Cater haven’t even heard of it, is it something they’ve even discovered here? “Um. So. I only learned about this briefly once, so this maybe isn’t all that accurate. But I think it’s… some kind of atomic thing? Like, if something happens on an atomic level, then you get a substance that produces radioactivity, which can be really dangerous, and people use it for power and bombs and things…” I pause. Cater and Trey are just staring. “Okay, uh. Do you know what atoms are?”

Trey nods, but Cater just shrugs. “I never paid attention in science class. They’re really small, right?”

“Yeah, they’re the smallest substance. I think, if something happens to the nucleus, then you get radioactivity, which is a kind of dangerous energy that you can use for… some things, I think. X-rays are radioactive, and that’s why you have to use a lead blanket when you have them…” Cater and Trey are still staring at me like I’m speaking gibberish. In fairness, I barely understand what I’m saying. “I didn’t really pay attention in science class either, okay? I’m not very good at explaining this stuff.” There’s the ‘click click’ of approaching heeled footsteps and Trey looks around me. “Hey, Riddle, do you know what nuclear means?”

I spin around in time to see Riddle placing a stack of books on the table next to him. He’s using magic to carry it, presumably because the stack is almost as tall as he is. It makes quite an impressive thump. “Yes. I’ve done some reading on nuclear physics, so I’m familiar with it, though I’ll admit it’s not a subject I’m all that interested in. Why?”

It figures that Riddle would casually bring up reading about nuclear physics. I bet he was reading science textbooks for fun at age six. “We were just talking about it,” I say. “I mentioned it and Cater and Trey didn’t know what it meant.”

“I’m not surprised,” Riddle says. He goes up on his tiptoes to reach some of the books at the top of the stack. His fingertips don’t quite touch the cover of the topmost book. “It’s- ugh- not a subject most people bother with.” He makes one final grab at the book, then gives up in the most dignified, I-meant-to-do-that way, and just magics it down. “I’m surprised you know about it, considering…” Riddle trails off, apparently realizing there’s no way out of that sentence that isn’t an insult. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Just. Considering.”

“Everyone knows about nuclear power where I come from. I mean, not everyone. But most people. There’s a big debate over whether or not we should use it for power right now, which freaks some people out, but-” I stop. Riddle is giving me the sort of horrified look usually reserved for when a person has a cockroach the size of a hot dog crawling up their back. “What?”

“You’re trying to use it for power generation?” he says, aghast. “Why? Nuclear materials are highly unstable and dangerous! It’s a fascinating hypothetical subject, but no one’s willing to put money into such a volatile substance, and certainly no one would agree to use it over magic-generated power.”

“Well, my world didn’t have magic,” I say a little sulkily. “We kind of had to make do.” Riddle frowns, looking vaguely disturbed. “It being dangerous is why there’s such a big debate over using it- no one wants to use a substance that could poison you near their homes, but it produces a lot of energy and it’s less harmful in the long term than things like oil. And people are careful with it. It’s not the same as getting power from a nuclear bomb or something.” Riddle’s expression sours further. “A nuclear… bomb?”

“A bomb that utilizes the energy of a split atom or something. It’s supposed to be insanely powerful, and even if you don’t get blown up by it, it irradiates the surrounding area, and then that radiation makes people sick, so it’s a pretty effective weapon.” I grope for an appropriate metaphor. “It’s… um, it’s powerful enough that if you dropped one on NRC, the RSA would get hit by the shockwave. And it would probably give any survivors radiation sickness.”

“Woah,” Cater says. “Why would you make something like that?”

I shrug. “There wasn’t that good of a reason- it was made in a war that a lot of people were trying to win and it sort of… happened because people wanted a weapon that would end the war. But then people started making more of them, because everyone was scared of having it used on them, so they needed one of their own to protect themselves, and then everyone ended up with so many of them that they were an apocalyptic threat so no one could fire them. It all just sort of snowballed.”

“Huh,” Trey says. “That actually reminds me of the end of the war between the faeries and the humans.”

“Really?” Cater says. Trey swats him gently with a scrap piece of paper.

“Trein was just talking about it in class last week. Toward the end of the war, humans and faeries were using such destructive magic against each other that battlefields were tainted with blot and destroyed. The battles were almost always stalemates, and no one was winning anything. It’s one of the main reasons the peace negotiations started to gain some traction.”

Riddle nods. “There were other political reasons, of course, but that was where the biggest push for peace started. The first major act of human and faerie cooperation was restoring areas of land that were damaged by blot and magic.”

“Did it work?” I ask.

“For the most part- I think the Jupiter Corporation assisted heavily with the cleanup, and there are still a few areas that need restoration. But it’s largely healed now,” Riddle says.

“Then you’re doing better than we are,” I say ruefully. “You can’t really clean up radiation that way. Once it’s there, it’s there. The only thing you can do is wait until it fades naturally.”

“What does radiation do?” Cater asks. “Is it like blot?”

“It makes you sick, I think. There’s radiation in a lot of things, like sunlight- I think that’s why it can give you sunburns. But the kind of radiation the bombs used would make you sick. Deadly sick. That was one of the big concerns with them- even if people don’t die in the initial blast, the radiation would kill them off.” That and the nuclear winter, but I don’t mention that bit. All three of them look vaguely unsettled anyway.

“But that never happened,” Trey says, a little like he’s trying to reassure himself as well.

“No. And they decommissioned enough bombs that even if we had a war now, it probably wouldn’t kill everyone.” I consider. “Maybe. There’d probably be pockets of people who would survive. Civilization would definitely collapse, though. And radiation takes thousands of years to go away, so there’d be big parts of the world that would just be uninhabitable.” The three Heartslabyul boys exchange uncomfortable looks. “But it’s fine now. Mostly.”

“It’s impressive,” Riddle says after a moment, “what your world has managed to achieve without magic. I never would have thought that a place like that could become just as advanced as our world.”

“Thanks,” I say, uncertain what else to respond with. It’s not like I personally did any of the advancement he’s talking about. “Just being in a world where magic exists is pretty incredible to me. Thought it’s a lot to learn, since I’m not familiar with the history or how magic works or any of that…”

Something in Riddle’s eyes sparks and I trail off, trying to figure out exactly what I said. “Then you will join us for our study session. With midterms coming up, there isn’t a moment to waste, and having a remedial student will help Trey and I practice teaching the rest of the fist years.”

“Remedial student?” I sputter, indignant. I’m doing pretty well, considering I’m having to relearn everything from scratch in a high school setting. Then I realize that Riddle has just sentenced me to a study session from hell. “Uh, actually, I need to-” My gaze falls on the snoozing cat-beast next to me. “Grim and I should be getting back to Ramshackle before it’s too late, you know, we have to make dinner and there’s cleaning to do and-”

“Nonsense,” Riddle says, waving me off. “Trey has already made a nutritious meal back at the dorm, and I’m certain there’s enough for you to take part.”

I shoot Trey a pleading look, but he just nods. “There’s enough.” I glare at him. He shrugs back.

“And the cleaning can wait until midterms are over. There’s nothing more pressing than your studies.” Riddle waves his pen and the pile of books next to him starts hovering again. “We’ll head to the dorm once I check these out.” He pauses, then hands me a book on the top of the pile. “You can start with this basic overview of magical energy and its formation in nature.” He heads off to the front desk without waiting for my agreement, the book tower floating along next to him.

“Thanks for the help,” I mutter to Trey and Cater.

“It’s not that bad,” Trey says. “Riddle’s a good teacher. And even if you don’t need the help, it’ll be good for Grim. He could use the review- Ace says he barely stays awake during Trein’s lectures.”

True enough. Though it’s irritating that I have to be roped into it as well. “Fine, fine. C’mon, Grim.” I poke him. “We’re studying.”

“Myahhh,” he mumbles, shoving his face into his paws. “Five more minutes.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re going to Heartslabyul for dinner. Trey made it.”

He shoots to his paws. “Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go!” He hops down from the desk and starts booking it toward the entrance of the library. I pick up the book Riddle gave me and join Trey and Cater in heading toward Riddle. Hopefully by the time Grim realizes we’re actually attending a study session, he’ll be too full and scared of getting collared again that he won’t make a fuss. Maybe. It’s a bit of a long shot. Whatever. Trey will probably give us dessert, and that’s enough of a win to make the whole evening worth it.

Read the next chapter here: Ch. 3

#twisted wonderland #twst #a million and one minutia #yuusona #twisted wonderland headcanons #riddle rosehearts #trey clover #cater diamond #twisted wonderland fic #twisted wonderland fanfic

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featherymalignancy · 10 months ago

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Okay like if you agree, but….

here are 3 trends that I wish the fantasy genre would take a break from for a little while.

*Quick disclosure, this isn’t meant to feel overly negative, I mostly want to hear other people’s opinions on these trends and others!*

Hungry Games-esque “a competition with deadly stakes” plot lines. On the one hand, I get it, because like the rest of the world, I was totally enthralled by this premise when it was first introduced in the 2000 Japanese film Battle Royale and later, the Hunger Games. However, at this point the idea of the main character entering into a deadly competition feels a little tired and predictable, and unlike Battle Royale and The Hunger Games, the many of the latest iterations lack the searing social commentary which made the premise so compelling. Notable Examples: Serpent and the Wings of Night, Lightlark, The Jasad Heir

Motherfucking EPIGRAPHS. You know, that line or paragraph of text which proceeds every chapter. In the fantasy genre, often it is an except from a historical or religious text from the world in which the book is set. And here’s the thing—it’s not that I hate epigraphs, or that I don’t understand their purpose. They can be an elegant way to add context to the story without burdening the main narrative with too much exposition, and they can also help the created world to feel more “lived in”. Having said that, I feel like they are starting to get way overused, and for me, they’ve gone from feeling like a cool way for the author to provide context and add meta commentary to their story to serving as a slightly less clunky vehicle of info-dumping. Like…am I supposed to be remembering the characters of this lore which I only ever hear about through these epigraphs, because I can assure you, I am not. In other instances, they can feel like an authors lack of faith in the reader, as if they are afraid we might miss the point if they don’t include an unsubtle cue as to where we ought to focus our attention at the start of every chapter. I respect the role epigraphs have played in fantasy classics like Dune and Wheel of Time, but I currently feel the number of novels employing them has become fatiguing, and I hope the trend of including them decreases, at least in the short-term. Notable examples: Fourth Wing (Empyrean Series, Swordcatcher, Furyborn (Empirium series)

A [Blank] of [Blank] and [Blank] Not much to say here other than…when are romantasy authors going to let this go?? 😮‍💨😮‍💨 While you could argue the true genesis of this title naming convention could be GRRM’s A Song of Ice of Fire, I think we can all agree that—for better or worse—it was the popularity of ACOTAR that sent this title style into the stratosphere, and at this point, it has become ubiquitous to the point of literal disorientation. To me there is nothing inherently wrong with this title style (though I would also argue there is nothing particularly gripping about it, at least not enough to warrant a trend of this size) but it basically renders all of these books—which are already of a similar vibe and style—virtually indistinguishable. As a reader on the hunt for new books to scratch that romantasy itch, it’s nearly impossible to tell the dozens of titles bearing this title apart, which means I have no sense which which ones I’ve read, which I haven’t, which caught my interest, which I started and didn’t care for, etc. I have idea how much of this is a consequence of publishers trying to capitalize on a known entity in order to make the most money and how much is just the fact that naming a book is really fucking hard, but good lord, what is it gonna take to stop this madness? Notable examples: quite literally too many to name

What do yall think? Do you agree, disagree? What are some fantasy trends you’d like to see go away/make a comeback

#feathery asks #fantasy genre #fantasy trends #iron flame #SJM

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accirax · 10 months ago

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DRDT Secret Swap AU: For Better and Worse

The following is an ask sent to me that, while numerically present in my inbox, is invisible and inaccessible, and thus, I was only able to read it through its corresponding notification email. Tumblr be a functional website challenge; level impossible.

What a great question! Up to this point, I’ve been more of an AU enjoyer than an AU creator (other than the BNHA thing), so this will be an exciting foray into the realm of possibility! The task of creating both the best and worst outcome also provides a lot to think about when it comes to characterization. I’m excited to get talking about this! But first, some rules.

(And the usual CW for DRDT spoilers, as well as mentions of murder, suicide, self harm, eating disorders, and implied homo/transphobia. You know, standard business for DRDT secret discussion.)

To keep things simple, I’m going to be assuming that the true owners of the secrets are as follows:

While I’m by no means asserting that this interpretation of whose secret is whose is 100% accurate, it’s what I see widely agreed upon by the fandom, and what I currently believe myself. Having to factor in a bunch of different permutations of secret distribution seemed terribly complicated, so I decided to avoid it. If anybody disagrees with where I’ve placed any of the secrets, please just consider it as another facet of the alternate universe.

Additionally, I’ve kept up the “rule” that no one is allowed to receive their own secret. I’m also assuming that everything is the same up until when MonoTV hands out the motives, such that Xander and Min are still dead. However, a different distribution of secrets could have changed the details of the Chapter 2 murder, so I kinda have to speak about it in hypotheticals. I was just talking about how I didn’t want to make things needlessly complicated, so I’m not throwing in a bunch of speculation about how the secrets may have factored into the AU killer’s motives when I can’t even say for certain who the canonical killer was.

I also decided to interpret the prompt as “what’s the best/worst overall shuffle” as opposed to “who is the best/worst recipient for each individual secret.” The latter seemed like it might repeat characters too many times, and “the ch2 secrets [getting] swapped in a different way” implied to me that each character was still limited to receiving one secret. Hopefully that’s what you were going for with your ask!

Okay, I think that’s it. Let’s get started with the best case scenario, given that I think that’ll be easier. I’ll go through the characters’ secrets in the order they’re listed in on the board, so that it’ll hopefully be easier to follow along.

The Good Timeline

Eden receives Levi’s secret

If someone was going to have remorse for the remorseless killer, I think it would be Eden. Even if the concept of someone killing in cold blood might frighten Eden, the pair is already off to a good start with the conversation they shared at the beginning of Chapter 2. Eden knows a bit more about Levi’s family situation (which may have been the cause of his callous killing) and how he is trying to be a good person, even if he feels like he might be failing. Compared to others in the cast, I feel like Eden might be more willing to hear Levi out.

Specifically, we know from canon that (under David’s encouragement, at least) Eden planned to share her secret– which was a pretty severe one already– in a closed environment with just her and the secret’s owner. Of course, we haven’t yet seen from canon how Levi would react to getting assigned this secret, so it’s possible he could flip out in a similar manner to how Arturo did when Eden confronted him. However, I think there’s a good chance that he would be more resigned or neutral, which might also give Eden hope that he isn’t a lost cause… again, under the assumption that he isn't. This secret does have a chance of backfiring, but I’m making the choice to have faith in Levi– much like I think Eden would if she saw his secret!

Nico receives David’s secret

Now this is kind of an unconventional one, but, hear me out.

I don’t know if there really is a “good option” for David’s secret in the sense that I think anyone who would choose to reveal the information to the group would be the type to do so in an accusatory, non-constructive way. Similarly, a lot of people who wouldn’t reveal the secret might face problems if it caused them to quietly simmer in their distrust. That suppression of emotions could lead to a big blow up in the future.

Because of that, you might be wondering why I didn’t assign this secret to one of my throwaway slots– namely, Xander, Min, or Rose. Well, it’s because I also wanted to consider what would happen if, even in this good universe, some number of students still needed to attend a Class Trial where the secrets are unknown. Certain secrets, if left unassigned, would lead to paranoia and distrust amongst the students. And, by throwing this secret away, this secret could basically never be confirmed as David’s other than by process of elimination or (highly unlikely) self-assignment. Therefore, all of the students would have to assume that anyone whose secret isn't known has a decent chance of believing that everyone exists to be manipulated. In my opinion, that would make productively discussing a murder really difficult.

So, I decided that the best course of action would be to give this secret to the person who would make the smallest deal out of it, and that turned out to be Nico. Nico already believes that socially interacting with other humans is a complicated and confusing process, the rules of which force you into expressing yourself in a specific, “acceptable” way. Basically, I think that Nico might already see a lot of conversation as manipulation, and themselves as the manipulee. The secret says that David is really good at interpreting those rules and acing the bullet points of “acceptable” conversation? No shit, he’s the Ultimate Inspirational Speaker.

I’m not trying to say that Nico is “dumb” enough to not realize that this secret is generally threatening, but I think that, if word of it were to come out, Nico would present it in a subdued enough manner that it wouldn’t make things worse than they need to be.

Hu receives Ace’s secret

Oh boy, this is a dangerous choice given Ace and Hu’s tumultuous relationship. Although, to be fair, I don’t remember exactly how established that rivalry was prior to the distribution of the canonical secrets. To the extent that they didn’t already hate each other to the point of no return, I chose this one because I think that Hu having the context of Ace’s secret might actually help to mend their relationship.

As I said up top, this AU is predicated on Hu having the “hopeless child” secret. Thus, in this AU, we can say for certain that Hu has a prior history of self harm/self destructive tendencies. If hopeless child Hu does turn out to be canon, it would support the theory that part of the reason why Hu won’t share the “harm yourself for fun” secret is because she knows that mental health is a sensitive subject, and doesn’t want to force someone to open up about it. Given that eating disorders are a form of self harm, we can rest assured that this isn’t a secret Hu would share, no matter how much David suggests that she does.

Given Hu’s history, she might be one of the people in this cast who could best understand Ace’s plight. With this additional context, his quest for power over something in his life might feel more sympathetic, and Hu might be able to muster more concern for him. And, I’m not gonna lie, part of this assignment was granted in the slim hope that the Ultimate Mom Friend Hu would be able to make a big grandma-style meal for Ace to enjoy. They could be an improbably wholesome duo if not for… The Circumstances.

Those circumstances won’t fade anytime soon in canon, but exploring hypotheticals like this are the whole reason why AUs exist!

J receives Eden’s secret

Compared to everyone else, Eden’s secret is a pretty nonthreatening one that, especially among this pretty queer cast, shouldn’t raise a whole lot of issues. The biggest problem I can see arising from it is if someone decided to out Eden, sort of like what happened to Nico. Therefore, I wanted to give Eden’s secret to someone who would be unlikely to share it without Eden giving the okay. And, J seemed to fit that description pretty well.

Obviously, some of J’s canon behavior was spurred on by the fact that Arturo non-consensually revealed her secret (which, spoilers, will not be happening in the blessed half of this AU). But, given J’s preference for privacy, I don’t think J would jump to sharing even a “harmless” secret. We directly saw that J only revealed Charles’ secret once he gave express permission for her to do so, which is what I would ideally want for Eden. Eden’s secret being given to a girl who would presumably be cool with her lesbianism is an added bonus to assuage her fears that (straight) girls who know she’s gay wouldn’t want to be her friend.

Unless, of course, J is also a girlkisser… then maybe the motive secrets could turn into a meet-cute…….. (/j)

Rose receives J’s secret

Finally, our first throwaway slot. After what J’s been through, I think she deserves to have her secret not be a topic of discussion at all– or at least not until all of them are listed out on the board.

There is also some logic behind which secret I gave to Rose as opposed to Xander or Min. We didn’t really see this in canon, but if Whit had let his secret go unclaimed, I could see some people being mad at Rose for inadvertently throwing away valuable information. This sentiment would only increase if Rose’s secret was something more relevant to the case at hand. Like, could you imagine how mad Teruko would have been if Rose had received the “murderer without remorse” secret? They could have had the answer to which person among them was a murderer without remorse, but Rose just carelessly threw it away because she was worried about people’s privacy?!

Therefore, I think the best case scenario for Rose is to receive one of the low-stakes secrets. In the case of J’s secret, it’s possible that someone like Arturo would be able to figure out that it was J’s secret without any confirmation from Rose as long as he had the information that someone in the cast was Mariabella’s daughter. No harm, no foul if Rose throws out the secret only for it to be instantly solvable anyway.

By giving J’s secret to Rose, J gets the blessing of privacy for as long as the secrets don’t become public knowledge, but Rose also doesn’t garner any backlash if they do, for one reason or another.

“Xander” receives Arei’s secret

Just to clarify, there isn’t any meaning behind which secret Xander vs Min got; they both just mean that the secret is un-confirmable.

Arei’s secret is a good one to bury because of how easily it can be misinterpreted. From the phrasing of the secret, nobody would know that Arei’s sisters abused her unless Arei told them herself, and without that context, Arei appears quite villainous. Hell, some people believe that learning of this secret was a reason why Levi would have chosen to kill Arei! If this information about Arei just isn’t out there to be known, then nobody could make that fatal oversight.

Also, Arei already knew what the vague contents of her secret would be, presumably without having seen the actual text. In Ace’s flashback, she quotes David’s secret from memory (because she read it), but when she unveils her own secret, she throws in the detail about reform school which isn’t at all present in the secret’s text. I think it was really important for Arei’s development that she had the agency to reveal her secret at her own pace. By making her secret inaccessible, it removes the possibility that someone else would reveal it before she’s emotionally ready.

Arturo receives Min’s secret

Look at me, pairing Arturo and Min together yet again. What is it about these two that causes me to keep coupling them…? Well, at least this time, they’re paired up because they, like, never talk in canon.

Arturo has proven himself to be a problem when it comes to revealing secrets. Even if he hadn’t been handed Miss Rosales’ dirty laundry, I would believe that he would air out the secrets of whichever nobody he learned about simply due to disrespect. Therefore, I think that giving Arturo a secret that really doesn’t matter is the best course of action. Whether he reveals it on the day the motives were distributed or the day of the Class Trial, most people probably wouldn’t make much of a fuss about an already-dead student’s secret, least of all Arturo. If he doesn’t care about what Min was up to, he wouldn’t stir up any drama by revealing or concealing information.

David receives Xander’s secret

Not gonna lie, I mostly gave this one to David as a form of damage control. I don’t know what he’s going to do with the secret he did canonically receive in the future– whether it belongs to Teruko or someone else, or whether he’s dying immediately or in it for the long haul– but giving David the silver bullet of “the killing game is all your fault” seems like way too much power to hand over. With a dead student’s secret, he doesn’t gain much by telling the truth or have much of a basis to execute a good lie.

The elephant in the room, of course, is that David received Xander’s secret, which is all about the tragically heroic backstory that probably led him to find comfort in David’s speeches in the first place. (And it does paint Xander in a decently positive light– “it wasn’t your fault” erases the possibility that Xander killed his family or whatever.) I imagine that, had David received this secret on the first day, basically a little buffering symbol would appear over his head and he would have to go lie down and stare at the piece of paper for a few hours. Or days.

By distracting David, we can hopefully avoid any of the decidedly negative side effects that him attempting to deduce and reveal everyone else’s secrets caused. While everyone else is growing as a person and whatnot, David can just be… looping the Literature Girl Insane MV in his head, or something. Is that really good for him? Probably not, but these are the heights you can reach when you set out to cause problems.

Arei receives Whit’s secret

Arei already didn’t reveal whose secret she had to anyone, as far as we know. So, if she had the secret belonging to Whit, arguably her closest friend at the start of Chapter 2, I really don’t think she would say anything. That’s good for Whit, because, similar to what I said about Arei herself, I think it’s better for him to have the ability to come forth with his secret when the time is right. Anything else and it might shake up his persona too suddenly and send him fight or flight mode.

I think the biggest potential flaw here is that we don’t know how Arei felt about her mom. Arei is willing to go confront other people about their secrets, so if Arei either really loved or really hated her mom, maybe that would lead her to go confront Whit about what his secret meant. And then, that could lead into him deflecting and looking shady.

That’s not really a huge liability to me, though, so I think this one will be fine.

Veronika receives Charles’ secret

Veronika is a weird case, because whether or not she reveals a secret seems to be based solely on entertainment value. In canon, we’ve seen that she hasn’t yet revealed the “hopeless child” secret because, for whatever reasons, she thinks that’ll make the killing game more interesting. But presumably, if she thought that revealing someone’s secret would make the game more interesting instead, she would have done that.

Because Charles doesn’t remember his brother’s death himself, I don’t think Veronika would see much value in holding it over his head, saving it for a dramatic reaction down the road, or whatever the hell she was trying to accomplish by not revealing Hu’s secret. Therefore, I think Veronika would find it most entertaining to see Charles’ reaction to learning about his amnesia, and tell him pretty quickly.

On the surface, that seems bad. However, I actually think that Charles learning about his secret is… for the best? If you assume that Charles is going to have to learn about this factoid someday, it’s probably better for him if he does it before a Class Trial is called, so that he can be in a more stable mental state. It’s also better for him to do it while he has Whit there to support him, and who knows what could happen between those two in future chapters? Much like Arturo’s assignment, we defuse Veronika’s chaotic power with this one, with the added benefit of potentially helping Charles on his journey to self-understanding.

Levi receives Arturo’s secret

Arturo’s secret was a hard one, because I think most people would react to it pretty negatively, especially with the confirmation that it belongs to Arturo of all people from the start. You could leave it with Eden as someone who seemingly didn’t judge, but given how poorly that situation played out in canon, it felt wrong to leave it in her hands.

Therefore, I gave it to someone who could potentially relate: Levi. He, too, came from a tense family background which he had to leave, and as such, he might better be able to put himself in Arturo’s shoes. While it is possible that Levi could resent Arturo for “ruining” a “good(?)” relationship with his sister (given how Levi struggled to coexist with his siblings), I don’t think it would irk Levi so much that he’d take drastic action against Arturo.

At the very least, we saw that Levi didn’t spill the beans about Arei’s similarly anti-sister secret. By that logic, he probably wouldn’t tell anyone about it, possibly including Arturo. In that case, we avoid Arturo blowing up on whoever was unlucky enough to have to break the news. And, even if Levi did tell Arturo, and Arturo decided to attack, I trust that even an injured Levi could defend himself far better than Eden could.

Ace receives Veronika’s secret

I just don’t think anything particularly bad would happen here. When I imagine Ace receiving this secret, I kinda just think of him going, “what the fuck?!”, and then putting the paper away. As someone who cares immensely about his own safety and image, I can definitely see this secret confusing Ace, but I don’t think to a point where it would really mess him up. It might make him think that Veronika is dangerous and weird, but… well, he already thought that.

Speaking of, especially with this information, Ace is too afraid of Veronika to try to bully her in the same way that he did with Nico. I don’t see any reason why Ace would benefit from revealing this secret, so it would likely remain hidden, which is probably for the best. Honestly, I don’t know if Veronika would care if this secret of hers got out, given that the main reason why people think this is hers is because of the similar sentiments that she already shared with Teruko in a public location. But, regardless, it takes away any ammo Ace might have by making his only target someone who he’s too afraid to take shots at.

Teruko receives Hu’s secret

Completing our little triad of sadness, this is the third instance of me giving a secret involving self harm to someone else who engages in self destructive practices– first Hu with Ace, then Ace with Veronika, and now Teruko with Hu. It obviously sucks that there are so many people in this cast who are struggling with this same issue, but I think it works out well to have them overlap. They’re probably the ones who best grasp the severity of each other’s problems, so they understand the gravity of sharing the information and would take steps to avoid doing that unnecessarily.

But, yeah, there wasn’t much of a reason beyond that for me to assign Teruko here. As a further extrapolation of the above point, though, if Teruko decided to ask Hu about her secret in the same way that she did with Rose, maybe Teruko could provide Hu some comfort about the situation and they could become friends.

Although, thinking about it more, that would actually have a decent chance of backfiring, as Hu might not appreciate having to take on the role of the helped as opposed to the helper, and Teruko might freak out if she felt herself letting her walls down around Hu. But that’s only if Teruko chose to talk to her about it, which is dubious in the first place. I don’t think Teruko would intentionally use this as any sort of weapon against Hu, which is the main criteria I was looking for.

Charles receives Rose’s secret

More unproblematic people being unproblematic. I don’t know if anything weird would happen as Charles’ upper-class upbringing came into contact with Rose’s cash-strapped past, but if it did, it would probably be a positive development for Charles. Y’know, like “realizing that it’s not only wealthy academics who can have talent” or “further learning to recognize his privilege and have sympathy for other people.” Much like what Charles canonically did with Eden’s secret, this one would probably go under the public radar until a Class Trial occurred, at which point Charles would reveal it. And, hey, that’s kind of like Rose’s secret’s canonical fate as well.

I also don’t think that we’d run into any trouble with Teruko possibly learning this one from the note that Charles passed her either, because… again, this was Teruko’s canonical secret, and nothing bad happened. Sometimes no reaction is the sweetest reaction of all.

Whit receives Nico’s secret

Yup, like you implied, Whit receiving Nico’s secret would probably be one of the best options for them. It’s not too much of a surprise. Whit seems to be a pretty securely out bi guy, so he would obviously support of Nico’s identity, and possibly even be someone Nico could look up to for being confident in who they are. On top of that, Whit greatly values privacy, and thus wouldn’t go around immediately shouting, “wow, Nico, it’s so awesome that you’re nonbinary!” He’d only do that if Nico wanted him to, after asking them first. I’m not even sure if Whit would contact Nico about it directly, but even if he didn’t, I feel like Whit would try to find ways to subtly encourage Nico so that they would feel safe coming out themselves. At least, that’s what my bias is telling me.

As a side note, I’m still playing with the rule that Arei sees whatever Whit’s secret is over his shoulder, which is actually what gave Nico’s secret the nod here over Eden’s. We saw that Ace, along with some others, were confused about what exactly the text of Nico’s secret meant. Meanwhile, if attached to Eden, her secret is pretty explicitly about her being sexually attracted to women, and therefore homosexual. I’m not at all calling Arei homophobic (in fact, the concept of doing so makes me very uncomfortable, so please don’t joke about it), but given that the two had been fighting beforehand, it’s possible that Arei would have tried to use the content of Eden’s secret against her somehow (but again, not in a homophobic way).

At the very least, Arei would know something about Eden that Eden might not want her to know, which is bad. I’m not sure if Arei would inherently understand Nico’s secret enough to gain anything of use from it, while Whit and his intuition would definitely understand what’s going on.

“Min” receives Teruko’s secret

Here we go; our other throwaway secret! Part of the appeal of leaving this one in the dark is because… well, we don’t know if it’s true. While the secret doesn’t explicitly state that its owner is the mastermind of the killing game, it’s definitely designed to make you think that’s the case. And, uh, I don’t know if Teruko is the mastermind or not. I recently wrote 1000 words about it, which is equal to one picture.

So, let’s explore both avenues. If Teruko isn’t the mastermind, then sharing this secret around is obviously bad. It would cause people to unwarrantedly distrust Teruko, and possibly even cause Teruko to distrust herself. That could impede the progress of Class Trials, if people don’t trust Teruko’s reasoning anymore, and the progress of deducing the actual mastermind. Therefore, by taking this secret out of circulation, we stop the misinformation from spreading.

Alternatively, if Teruko is the (evil) mastermind, then… aren’t I doing a disservice by not allowing the students to encounter this information? Well, yes, and no. I am preventing them from accessing the deus ex machina of David just outright saying, “oh, and by the way, Teruko is the mastermind!”; that much is true. But, by leaving that information out… aren’t I just leaving them in the same position that most killing game casts are in? They know that one of them is the mastermind, they just don’t know who. And, actually, they have a leg up on the other casts because the mastermind’s identity would still be a logically deducible fact that they could basically confirm if they all worked together. I don’t think it’s too much of a blow to the innocent students if we leave this one out, is what I’m saying.

So, that’s the good ending! A quick graphic to show how everything shook out:

(I swear, I didn’t mean to make it look like Whit was laughing at Nico’s identity. I just reused the sprites from my archetype analysis because I was too lazy to go get new ones…)

Now, on to the bad ending. This one was a lot harder to assign. Given that these secrets were meant to sow discord, there are only so many ways that things can play out well. There are lots of ways that things can play out poorly.

But, hopefully I’ve found the aggregate worst answer! Given that this is, you know… the one where things go horribly wrong, things may get pretty dark in this section, so proceed with caution. Nobody’s going to die or anything like that, but know that your faves may not be depicted in the most positive light in this section. Grab something comforting and put on some happy music, or lean hard into the angst, ‘cause we’re about to get started.

The Bad Timeline

Ace receives Levi’s secret

Look. I 100% agree that the whole Ace/Nico situation is a Major Yikes Situation /pos. However, I’m hopeful (in the sense of trying to craft the worst possible outcome) that we could still get a More or Less Yikes Situation even without the pair obtaining each others’ secrets.

Although Ace revealing that he was in possession of Nico’s secret closely preceded Nico’s death threat, that wasn’t actually what specifically led Nico to intimidate Ace. It was Ace’s comment that Nico was such a weakling that they could only solve their problems by getting people like David to help them, as well as the culmination of several days of Ace’s torment beginning in Chapter 1, which led them to do it. What I’m saying is, Ace and Nico were already rivals before the secrets even came out, so even without the direct connection to one another via the motive, it’s possible the high tensions would still cause similar events to unfold.

All that preamble hopefully helps to justify my choice to put Ace on Levi’s secret, because, my god, you can open a whole other can of worms with this one. Ace gaining the knowledge that Levi is a killer without remorse the day after Levi threatened to kill him would freak Ace out like nothing else. Being as loud as he is, I would think that Ace wouldn’t be able to stop himself from sharing this one with the class, starting a conflict right from the start.

While do I think the other students would believe Ace in the end– especially if he showed them the paper on which Levi’s name was printed– I also think that some people might doubt Ace’s words at first, thinking he’s overexaggerating as usual. However, that moment of being Boy Who Cried Wolf-ed by everyone else would also really fuck with Ace. He’s literally right, and has the paperwork to prove it, and yet people are still disinclined to believe him because they see him as a fool. It would draw an even deeper wedge between Ace and his classmates than we saw in canon.

Tying back around to the beginning, I think that this extra layer of powerlessness would just make Ace even more inclined to seek out a feeling of power elsewhere. So, I’m thinking that would still result in Ace bullying Nico, and, assuming he still keeps it up for long enough and calls Nico a weakling, we might be able to loop back around to Nico’s death threat anyway. Major Yikes Situation not averted!

Veronika receives David’s secret

Here’s a chaotic choice. Given how open-ended and accusatory David’s secret is, I definitely think it’s one that Veronika would have chosen not to reveal. However, just because she doesn’t want to reveal it doesn’t mean that the information won’t get out… in a way.

We’ve seen time and time again that Veronika is fascinated with morally questionable people, first with Arturo and later David himself once she knew about his secret. Therefore, if she knew about David’s secret from the start, I don’t think she would be able to stop herself from following him around and making some clever comments here and there. Can you imagine how concerning it would be to watch David try to give hope speeches and guide people while Veronika is peering over his shoulder and grinning at him, refusing to elaborate?

It would definitely be worrying, but I don’t think it would fully stop everyone from listening to him– but in this case, that’s a good thing! David’s tactics wound up causing more harm than good, so it was important for me to give his secret to someone who wouldn’t call him out immediately and stop him from enacting these bad policies. Veronika is a great choice for allowing that to happen, but also causing a lot of stress and doubt speculating as to what exactly Veronika could know about David that would make her act this way. Honestly, it might be the worst for David himself…

Levi receives Ace’s secret

This one isn’t that terrible on its own, but in the context of Ace also having Levi’s secret, I think it gets pretty hairy. I can’t really see any scenario where Levi knowing Ace’s greatest secret goes over well for them. If Ace blows up at Levi right out the gate, there’s a definite possibility that Levi can’t keep his cool and winds up firing off Ace’s secret in front of everyone else as retaliation. Betraying Ace’s trust like that (even if Ace was the one to mouth off first) would make their relationship even more unsalvageable.

Even if Levi did manage to keep his mouth shut, knowing Ace’s secret would just generally make it harder for Levi to talk to Ace when explaining himself or trying to make amends. Like I discussed with Hu in the good timeline, there’s a lot you can learn about Ace in the contents of his secret and the way it’s phrased. I feel like Levi would be able to pick up on some of that knowledge, but he would then find it even harder to interact with Ace without accidentally spilling the beans on some of that newfound understanding. This secret shuffle would make their relationship basically irreparable in my opinion, and the increased frustrations from both boys might make one of their tempers flare and lead them to do something inadvisable.

“Xander” receives Eden’s secret

First of all, giving “Xander” this one means there’s one less problematic person who could draw a relatively harmless secret, which is a pro in this scenario. Leaving this secret unconfirmed could also cause problems in a Class Trial. Given that this secret doesn’t include murder, blackmail, manipulation, etc, it’s a pretty nice secret to claim for yourself, even if it can basically only be claimed by one of the girls. This means that, even if Eden tried to be truthful about her secret, people might believe that she’s lying.

Furthermore, the DRDT cast seems to be a pretty queer group of people overall. 6/15 of the non-Edens are confirmed LGBTQ+ themselves (even if not all of them are out), and everyone has treated Nico and Whit’s identities with respect since learning about them. Canonically, I would say that Eden has nothing to worry about with regards to the other girls treating her differently for being a lesbian.

So, by making Eden’s secret far less accessible, it becomes less likely that she’ll ever get that moment of recognition and affirmation. Instead, as Eden’s secret remains hidden and irrelevant, it becomes easier for her to stick to what she knows is safe. An accepting environment was right there in front of her, but with the convenience of periphery, she might not ever see it.

Arturo receives J’s secret

Yeah, I agree with you on this one– J truly did roll a crit fail. I did consider giving J’s secret to someone else, as long as they would definitely publicly spill the beans, if it meant that Arturo could learn the content of J’s secret while receiving an additional bad secret as well. However, I couldn’t think of anyone who would be so guaranteed to tell everyone about J’s secret that I could be confident Arturo would hear of it, nor could I think of any particularly catastrophic secrets I’d rather give to Arturo. So, this one stays. J really is living in the worst timeline already– like if you cry every time.

Hu receives Arei’s secret

Hu was a tough nut to crack, because I think the ideal bad situation for her is that she gets a secret that’s problematic enough that it would cause major issues if news broke, but not so problematic that she wouldn’t be willing to share it as a part of David’s “let’s tell each other about our secrets” plan. Operating under the logic that the mention of self harm was the reason why she wasn’t willing to share the secret she got in canon, 3/15 options immediately disappear. More options vanish when you start eliminating not-super-problematic secrets like Xander's family, Charles’ brother, or Rose’s debt.

After some consideration, I landed on Arei’s being the best balance of thorny and not. It’s a secret that discusses a serious crime without incorporating murder, and there’s lots of room for public interpretation that could cause things to go really poorly for Arei if folks jump to conclusions. Given that Hu already didn’t super like Arei (I’m basing this off of her chastising Arei for bullying Eden), I could totally see her being willing to share this secret publicly in order to help everyone see that Arei is someone not to be trusted.

Making Arei’s secret publicly aired also removes the very important aspect of Arei’s agency that I wrote on in the good section. If Hu is sharing this secret, it’s probably pretty early in the chapter, which means that Arei might not be prepared whenever the news drops. The context of the secret sharing doesn’t involve Eden at all, so Arei might have a harder time putting two and two together about why she acts the way she does and how she wants to change. Not to mention, if Hu shares the secret in a way that directly agrees with David’s scheme, it automatically pits David against Arei, which means that he can’t offer her any help (to the extent that what he said helped her canonically). It’s just bad all around. But that’s why I’ve come to feel pretty confident in this choice.

Rose receives Min’s secret

Following up on Rose’s last entry, this is not one of the secrets that the rest of the students could either easily deduce or ignore. It would be very easy to assume that the owner of the poison secret was a murderer– possibly a mass murderer, and even one who didn't regret what they did. Even if poison wasn’t used in the Chapter 2 murder, people might suspect this person of being the killer, and/or it could throw suspicion on Charles as the only one (who we know of) who has a poisonous custom weapon.

Now, obviously, this secret did not cause much of a scene in the canonical Chapter 2 trial, but I think at least part of that is because it was Xander’s. Everyone knows that the person who has that secret can only be determined by process of elimination no matter who they ask. The same would be true if it were the secret Rose got, but people might grow upset that Rose threw away such a valuable piece of evidence. And, with Min incapable of claiming her secret, it might appear even more that someone was trying to hide something when nobody spoke up to claim it. It’s not much, but Rose made it difficult to come up with something bad.

Teruko receives Xander’s secret

Funnily enough, the logic behind me giving Xander’s secret to Teruko is quite similar to the logic behind me giving it to David. Much like how David would be taken out of commission by reading this secret, I think that Teruko would act the same– it would just be worse for her and the group as a whole.

Like I said for David, Xander’s secret paints him out as a tragic hero. He loved his family to pieces, and regrets their passing so much that he wishes he could have died with them. Even though it was textually not his fault, Xander still beats himself up every day for not being around to do the right thing and save people when it counted. …What does it mean that the guy with this secret was the one who felt he had to kill Teruko for the greater good?!

Reading Xander’s secret would only pull Teruko deeper into anger, self-hatred, and confusion. She was already pretty off kilter in this Chapter from trying to ignore her mixed emotions regarding Xander, and I think that having to relive her trauma and his betrayal any time someone brought up the mere concept of secrets would basically take her out of commission. I mean, check out how many times I was able to say the word secret in these three paragraphs alone. I don’t imagine Teruko would be able to fare much better in the hellish environment of this terrible swap, which might lead her to hole up in her room all day and grow increasingly bored and bitter.

Now, I’m not saying that Teruko needed to be up and at ‘em in the daily life because her running around and pressing knives to people’s throats was just so helpful. But at least, unlike David, she wasn’t actively making the situation worse. Her presence may have even made potential friends like Eden, Charles, or Rose feel better. At the very least, Teruko learned some key social context in the Chapter 2 daily life prior to the Trial, so removing Teruko from those interactions would make it much harder for her to fully grasp what was going on should she be forced to solve a murder once again.

Charles receives Whit’s secret

I agree with you here as well– Charles acquiring Whit’s secret is probably the worst case scenario for Whit. As one of two people who actually heard Whit talk about his mom in Chapter 1, Charles is one of the only people who would know that Whit doesn’t just “omit that truth” by not talking about his mom, he actively talks about her like she is alive. This would raise a very big question for Charles at a crucial point in their friendship. Charles has just come to start trusting this guy, so what do you mean he was lying about something so odd…?

There’s a chance that the reveal of this concealment of the truth would cause Charles to determine that he couldn’t trust Whit anymore, and it would drive them apart. But, I think that’s pretty unlikely. More likely is the option where Charles (who’s in a fragile state from his meltdown yesterday and only JUST started learning how to be a good friend) tries to question Whit about it, only for Whit to panic. I don’t really think that Whit would try to keep the ruse going, seeing as Charles literally has the answer right in front of him, but he still might be full of deflections, or try to avoid the subject with jokes. (“Huh? No, I totally said that my mom passed away a few years ago! You must’ve just not heard me– did you fling some detergent into your ears with that laundry machine?”)

I’m not sure if this distribution of secrets would fully split them up, but it would definitely cause a rift in their conversation and bonding that might stop Charles and Whit from growing as close as they did. And, all this isn’t even taking into account that–

Whit receives Charles’ secret

Did you ever notice that Whit and Charles’ secrets are both about a hidden dead relative? I didn’t put two and two together until now, but boy does it work out poorly for purposes of this AU.

Much like Levi with Ace’s secret, I don’t think this is an inherently bad draw for Whit, but it kinda sucks in this context. Whit gets placed into a really weird trolley problem: do you tell and comfort Charles about his dead brother when it’ll definitely segue into discussions of your own dead mom, or do you keep it hidden, not helping Charles and leaving yourself open to the possibility of him feeling betrayed later that you kept this secret from him? It’s these kinds of questions that Whit would be forced to ask himself in the moment that Charles first confronts him, and the time needed to process would only throw him off his game and make him appear more suspicious to Charles.

To be fair, a lot of this does depend on how deep in the lie Whit is. Is he usually pretty quick to admit that his mom is dead to anyone who digs deeper into the issue, or has he been lying about his mom’s status to everyone, his father included? If it’s more like the former, then maybe the two of them could actually come to bond over the tragedy of losing someone you care about. But, if it’s more like the latter, then this distribution of secrets could get in the way of one of the (seemingly) most stable and healthy relationships in the killing game.

Arei receives Arturo’s secret

At first, I actually considered giving Arturo’s secret to Arei in the good universe, because I thought that Arei could understand having complicated relationships with your sisters. But then I remembered something critically important. Arei herself is the younger sister. She wouldn’t relate to Arturo; she would relate to Felicity. And then, all hell would break loose.

Arei knows what it’s like to be a younger sister who, even if she never considered it herself, had other people try to pressure her into committing suicide. So, to have a younger sister lucky enough to actually have a big brother she cared about, only for him to leave her alone and cause her death? Arei would be furious. She would absolutely call him out for it immediately, and use all of the bullying tactics she learned to make his life a living hell.

Despite all that I wrote about what Hu would do with Arei’s secret, I don’t actually know if Hu would be more or less likely to share Arei’s secret if Arei was acting this way. Would Hu take it upon herself to join in shaming Arturo for his actions, or feel that Arei was being a hypocrite and want to share Arei’s own truth? Either way, with both of these secrets, I think that the option of Arei’s character growing at all (or becoming friends with Eden) any time soon is pretty much dead.

And then there’s Arturo himself. While we’ve seen that Arturo does genuinely seem remorseful and haunted by Felicity’s death, I doubt Arei would know or care. I also totally think that J would join Arei in absolutely demolishing the man. Having Arei’s offense be backed by the Julia Rosales might just break him. Whether it would be in a victim way or a killer way I’m not sure, but it would definitely be bad for funni beauty standards man. The good news is that it might stop Arei from dying…? Unless Arturo just decided to kill her. There really isn’t a lot of good news.

David receives Veronika’s secret

Alright, back to David and Veronika. This is the third time I’ve had two people just swap their secrets, I guess? And, it’s kinda for the same reasons again. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!

Since we’ve been through a lot since we last discussed this pair, let’s get a quick recap: Veronika knows that David is a manipulative bastard, but won’t tell anyone that yet because she thinks it’ll be more interesting if she keeps her mouth shut. Thus, everyone is kind of wary of David, and David is definitely wary of Veronika, but not so much that it stops David from doing his information-seeking “let’s all share our secrets” plan.

I think that learning this about Veronika would make David pretty confused, very concerned, and extra conscious of Veronika in a way that would be hard to conceal. He could probably guess from the way Veronika was acting that she had some kind of dirt on him, and therefore conclude that, if he ever tried to share her secret, she might just fire back at him. David does not want that. So, the two of them remain at an uneasy stalemate that would make everyone else increasingly troubled.

Furthermore, I think that Veronika’s secret is a good balance of an unexpected yet potentially relevant piece of information about a living student that David would want to seek more of, while also not being so grim that it would appeal to whatever morals David may have. (Don’t get me wrong, Veronika’s secret is very worrying and tragic, but at least the inclusion of “for fun” makes it less grim than Arturo’s or Hu’s, to me.) David would be inclined to continue on his quest of acquiring the most knowledge-as-power as possible, and Veronika would be thrilled to watch! Both of them would just be giving off… really weird vibes about it.

Nico receives Hu’s secret

(extra suicide TW just in case)

If I say anything offensive or incorrect in this section, I deeply apologize. I don’t mean to portray either of these characters, their issues, or people who relate to them or their issues in a bad light, and I definitely don’t mean to demonize mentally ill people. The reasoning behind why I think it would be bad for Nico to get Hu’s secret is complicated, and may be based on uninformed thoughts or unfounded projections. However, based on what I do “know,” I think it makes sense, so I’ll try to explain myself as best I can.

Basically, I think that receiving Hu’s secret would be bad for Nico because it might make Nico less likely to speak up for themselves when Hu talks over them. If I were Nico, I might be worried about reacting too strongly to what Hu is doing, and accidentally sending her back into the hopeless state of her childhood. Just interacting with Hu in general might lead someone (like David) to start questioning Nico about the secret they received, and cause the information to accidentally leak out. It would make Nico saying anything on how Hu was acting difficult.

Again, I am not trying to villainize Hu, or mandate that you have to walk on eggshells around suicidal people because they’re loose cannons or whatever. I just think that, especially for someone as uncomfortable with socialization with Nico, navigating the sensitive subject of past suicide attempts in this incredibly hostile bad AU environment might prevent them from speaking up for themselves when they’re feeling belittled. And, that would be bad for their personal development.

I wish we could move on to something happier to combat these bad vibes, but unfortunately, we still have a couple more to go.

“Min” receives Rose’s secret

Well, at least we can cool down a little bit with this one. Not a ton going on here; basically just that Rose’s secret is pretty lowkey and I could cause more damage with other secrets elsewhere. I don’t think it would cause a particular stir with either other students becoming paranoid or Rose’s characterization and growth. I suppose that, without the excuse of being able to explain her past, Rose probably wouldn’t have had that chance to vent to Teruko, which was probably a good experience for her? The conflict-avoidant Rose will be suffering enough with all the turmoil going on around her, methinks.

Eden receives Nico’s secret

Make no mistake, this is not a decision made to hurt Nico. It’s meant to hurt Eden. With her compassionate heart and non-judgmental attitude, Eden is a great draw for any secret-holder to have in order to not cause trouble. That’s why I thought that the best move here was to use the secret as an offensive weapon to lessen her impact, as well as preventing a more problematic secret from being absorbed into her positive vibes.

Eden’s greatest secret is that she’s a lesbian, and she fears that people will come to hate her or discriminate against her if they find out about her identity. Therefore, the worst thing to do to her is to affirm those fears by shoving the homophobia someone else suffered in her face. Learning that Nico was mocked for their identity would make Eden less confident in hers, and might dampen her spirit enough that some of the good effects of her optimism are negated. She might become more hesitant to discuss secrets and more fearful of her peers, knowing that one of them probably knows about her identity and could use it against her at any time. Little does she know, it’s actually in the morgue alongside the Ultimate Rebel.

But, the fact that is just further feeds into my idea from Xander’s section. If Eden has just been reminded of how cruel the world can be to LGBTQ+ people, she wouldn’t be jumping at the opportunity to reveal which secret was hers. This would 1) allow another troublemaker to perhaps successfully claim it as their own, 2) make Eden look suspicious as she tries to come up with a solid lie of her own, and 3) postpone or deny (if Eden dies on a short timeframe) Eden’s ability to feel comfortable in herself.

Also (not to say that David forcing Nico to share their secret was a good thing), if Nico’s secret never becomes available to the public, they might have to go through the rest of their time in the killing game getting misgendered. Diversity loss!

J receives Teruko’s secret

J could stay quiet for a lot of things, but I feel like if she knew who the mastermind was (assuming she doesn’t know that she herself is the mastermind), that’s something she wouldn’t stay quiet about. I think that J at least wanted to see Teruko as her friend, given that she approached Teruko on the day she tested out her universal remote and roped Teruko in as part of her plan to get away from Arturo. Teruko double-crossing J by “being the mastermind” would, I think, be enough of a betrayal that J would set out seeking answers. Publicly.

Teruko, having just seen Xander’s secret, is also in a terrible mood, meaning that her ability to defend herself against J’s accusations and keep a cool head would be lessened, and possibly devolve into a screaming match. This would send the students down the incorrect(?) path as to the mastermind’s identity, further encourage Teruko to distance herself from everyone else, and cause J to lose faith in one of the few people she liked just before Arturo starts to get on her ass. Needless to say, the group would be in shambles.

That was rough, but we’re finally done. Let’s take a look at how things shook out.

(Once again, I really didn’t mean to make it look like Whit was laughing at Charles’ dead brother? A little treat for everyone who believes Whit is evil, I suppose.)

Blech. Even though torturing characters can be fun sometimes, speculating about the worst case scenario isn’t usually the kind of energy that I like to bring to this blog. Hopefully I was able to deliver something satisfactorily devastating, though!

As a final note, assigning all these secrets to everyone did get me thinking a little about what would have happened in this chapter if the motive had gone as planned, and everyone had gotten their own secrets. While it obviously wouldn’t have been as good as the good universe, I do think that people learning of their own secrets is a lot better than many of the bad scenarios that could have been created with a shuffle. Charles and Teruko definitely would have been a bit thrown, but at least in Charles’ case, I don’t know if it would have resulted in murder.

In my opinion, I think it’s probably most likely that David or Nico would have killed? David obviously cares a lot about his career and the prospect of his secret being shared with the world, so he could have tried to ride his good social graces and fake “family history of depression” secret to a Class Trial clear. Nico also has a lot to worry about with their secret getting out, and, already facing pressure from Ace’s bullying, it’s possible they would have made the same decision to kill Ace if Ace’s harassment continued. I suppose this is a question I can ask back at ya, Gremlyn, if you feel inclined to answer! :D And, thank you for the ask. Even if it got a little bleak, I had fun with it.

Stay safe and happy out there, everyone, and make sure your deepest, darkest secret doesn’t get handed to your worst enemy. Or really, just try to avoid entering a killing game at all. Until next time~

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mabelskins · 2 years ago

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how to design: guidebooks

Okay, so I’ll just be straight forward, there will be little about coding here and way more about the look, mental models and navigation design tips to make your guidebook more effective. After navigating a few rp sites and making MANY mistakes with guidebooks, I decided to make my own guide to making effective guidebooks for your rp site with all that I’ve learned.

First of all, let’s do some thinking here. The guidebook is the first place the players will be looking at on your website to decide whether or not they will be playing. Usually there is A LOT of information, about the settings, factions, powers, you name it. From a player's perspective, it's usually pretty overwhelming and exciting to go through this brand new universe they are emerging to. So it’s our job to make this experience as easy as possible.

How do we do that? Well, it’s mostly about navigation. How will you decide to guide your users through the site? What visual cues will you be giving them?

When it comes to online navigation, its very similar to navigating yourself through a physical place. You will usually use landmarks, visual cues, and signage. You will need to understand three things: where you were, where you are and where you want to be. Google maps is great at that, making it so easy that you can use the tiny dot to know which direction you are going (which is a life saver for someone like me who has no sense of direction).

What does that mean in a web scenario? Here are my five tips on making better designs:

Link states

Different states for left menu links (default, hover and active) will help the user understand where he is and where they can click next, making it look interactive and clickable. Something as simple as making active links bold or a different colour goes a long way.

Buttons & Spacing

Have you got buttons within the pages? Links that connect to the fc page or other pages within the website? Make them stand out! Sometimes, links get lost because they look too much like a simple text. So instead of blending it into the text, make that link stand out. You can do it by adding an underline (if you want to be subtle) or make the link look like an actual button.

Also, don’t forget to give proper spacing. Sometimes when there’s a lot of content, we feel the need to cram it all up to make it fit - but that can be confusing to the user. Make sure you provide enough space around the links and buttons to make them distinguishable and easy to read.

Other navigation Methods

Sometimes there is just a LOT of information. I mean a lot, and I’m always so impressed about how detailed some universes are - it's amazing. So, if that’s the case, perhaps consider other navigation methods, such as breadcrumbs, top navigation or a sub navigation bar. You may even go as far as drop-downs. Just remember to keep it consistent (more about that below) so the user always knows how to go around.

Location

Stick with familiar locations! This one I haven’t seen a lot, but thought I’d include. Don’t make the users relearn how to navigate! Stick to familiar locations - if you are trying to innovate, think of other ways that can help the user instead of confusing them. Top and left navigation are the most used for guidebooks.

Consistency and organisation

Last but not least. The way the information is organised is VERY important. I cannot emphasise this enough. The left navigation bar should always be the same, the items shouldn’t change and there should be clear indicators in the headings to show where the users are and how to go back. Headings should be the same all around. So, this one goes to both coders and site staff - organise your material. The hierarchy and grouping of the content will help to determine the structure of your guidebook.

That’s it! I hope you find this useful, and if you’d like more posts like this let me know - what kind of content would you like to see on how to design?

Any questions, ask box is always open! Would love to hear from other coders what their thoughts and tips are too <3

#how-to #tips #jcink code #jcink skin

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nyrandrea · 1 year ago

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The Essence Of Our Spark

Summary: Hiding in plain sight.

Noah Diaz had learned how to do that all too well, but when an argument with his little brother cracks open the flood gates of suppressed memories of wars long past, his mask slips, and along with it, his sanity.

(Takes place after the events of ROTB so there will be spoilers!)

TW: Mentions of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Also a few swears

Also available to read on AO3 here!

In the darkest corners of Noah’s mind, where memories converged with fear, something whispered in his sleep; fragments of a past that he had always desperately wished to forget. His nightmares always came in the form of a battlefield, screams pierced the air and mingled with the metallic cacophony of gunfire. Amid the madness, a lone young soldier struggled to fix a circuit breaker, his eyes wild with terror. With every breath, he inhaled the acrid scent and exhaled a piece of his humanity, forever lost to the unforgiving abyss of war.

Noah flinched, and he put a hand to his chest to steady his breathing as loud popping went off in the kitchen, a familiar scent of butter and salt wafted through to his room.

‘Popcorn... ’ he reassured himself. ‘It’s just mom making popcorn...get a goddamn grip, man...’

As if sensing something was wrong, Noah’s mother appeared by the door frame, hugging a bowl to her chest with one arm and a duvet draped around the other.

“Noah, please tell me you ain’t still working on that thing?” she said, nodding to his work desk.

Taking a moment to flex his trembling hand, he dismissively waved her off. “C’mon, I’ve only been at it for an hour or two.”

“Honey, it’s three in the afternoon. You been hunched over that desk since two in the morning.”

Her expression softened when Noah didn’t reply. “Have you been taking those sleeping pills?”

“Yeah, I just...got the work bug, that’s all,” he muttered. “You know me, once I start, can’t stop.”

“You gotta stop sometime, sweetheart. Otherwise, your body will.”

Noah flinched slightly. “...Right. Don’t you have a movie to watch?”

His mom frowned but said nothing. “Because I know you haven’t eaten anything, there’s leftovers in the fridge, okay? Just...don’t cook, I’m too tired to deal with that right now. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Once again, he waved her off, and when she finally got the hint, he returned to his work project.

“C’mon...just work, damn it...!” Noah sighed, his nostrils flaring as he tried to splice a couple of wires together. This was the last step to complete the repair for Kris’s gameboy, which had suffered a beating against the wall after several failed attempts at the final boss of whatever latest game he had received for his birthday.

The walls in the apartment were thin so Noah and his mother had immediately scrambled out of their beds when they heard a loud banging coming from Kris’s room, with Noah kicking down the door and raising a baseball bat to beat the shit out of whoever had been stupid enough to break into their home and target his little brother, only to be met with the snivelling boy sitting on the bed hugging his knees and pointing at the broken console on the floor.

Kris had suffered his first bout of gamer rage.

Noah had tried to be sympathetic; their mother much less so.

He couldn’t blame her for being angry. She worked long hours and had spent a lot of hard-earned cash to buy that gameboy for Kris in the hopes that it would cheer him up—or at least provide a distraction—from his illness. They couldn’t afford another one.

Which was why Noah needed to fix it.

It had been weeks since his last interview, and the small pot of money he had slowly built up from doing various repair jobs for folks around the neighbourhood was beginning to dry up. He had spent most of it on various parts to fix up Mirage.

And it had been worth every damn dime.

“C’mon...There we go!” He punched a victorious fist in the air as the screen lit up along with the familiar 8-bit jingle. “Oh, thank God. Or Primus. Whatever.” Noah sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, sighing in relief and smiling at the thought of Kris’s face lighting up when he got his one true love back.

Noah snorted. That kid needed to get out more.

His expression dropped a little. He knew at one point, when the illness was at its earliest stages, that Kris had tried to hang out with his friends, go to school, play at sports, just all the normal stuff that a kid should be doing. But he started tiring more and more easily and grew so frustrated that he ended up locking himself in his room, isolating himself from the world and everybody that loved him

That was when he got the call from his mom, her voice had a nasal tone to it, as if she’d just been crying, and Noah knew he needed to come home. Fortunately, his superiors granted him general discharge after a hell of a lot of arm twisting. However, they made sure to get back at him in the form of a bad reference that crapped all over his chances of getting a decent job.

Or any job, really. Even the damn janitors wouldn’t take him on.

Giving himself a mental kick, Noah forced himself out of the chair before he could start feeling sorry for himself and grabbed the newly fixed console before heading to the door.

“Hey, ma,” he softly called out, softly knocking on the living room door and entering when he heard a muffled “Come in ..”. He smiled a little at the shifting lump on the couch, a hand lifting from under the covers to reveal his mom’s face, illuminated by the soft glow of the television screen. He couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under her eyes; those night shifts were really starting to take their toll on her.

“¿Qué es eso?” she asked. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’ve finally fixed Kris’s console, just headin’ out to give it to him now.”

“Oh gracias a Dios,” she muttered in relief. “You’re a little miracle worker, you know?”

“Sí, mama,” Noah gloated, holding up his hands. “I know I’m the best.”

She smirked under the covers. “If only your cooking skills were that good.”

“Hey, c’mon now, it’s just an acquired taste, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” she said with a yawn, prompting Noah to take the handle and close the door part-way.

“You work yourself too hard,” he said softly. “I’ll let you get some shut-eye.”

“And you worry too much,” she weakly argued back. “Tell Kris to be home by six,” his mom paused a moment before adding. “He’s been spending almost as much time at that dingy old garage as you have recently.”

Noah swallowed down a dry lump. “Yeah, he’s uh...been helping me out with this... project.”

He inwardly cringed. He had always been a bad liar, especially when it came to his family.

“Right,” she drawled out, obviously not convinced. “Just make sure he doesn’t inhale too much of those car fumes. It’s not good for his condition.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Noah said, inching his way out the door before making a beeline for it, shouting out a quick “love you!” before slamming the door shut on his way out.

Beads of sweat ran down the sides of his face as he jogged down the stairs of the apartment building and into the bustling and vibrant streets of Brooklyn, shoving the gameboy into his pocket as he walked down the street.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to be able to keep this secret from his mother. Kris had found out within five minutes of him being home, but luckily had taken the whole thing in his stride, seemingly not phased by the idea of giant alien robots and the world nearly ending.

Kris was just built different, he supposed.

Their mother on the other hand...

He wasn’t sure what would have freaked her out more; the fact that he was friends with talking vehicles or that he had travelled outside of New York without leaving so much as a note.

He may be have been in his late twenties but there was no doubt in his mind that she would have grounded his ass for a month if she found out.

Noah shook his head, he was going to keep this secret for as long as he had breath in his body. She had enough to worry about: with her job, classes, bills, the medication for Kris.

Except they didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

Absent-mindedly pulling the business card he had received at his ‘security job’ interview, he twirled it in his fingers, brushing a thumb over the symbol of the eagle. The whole situation was still so bizarre to him; this super-secret government organization wanted him as an agent because...what, he just happened to choose the right car to break into? Because he was associated—by accident—with giant machines that could help them with whatever war they were in the middle of?

Noah couldn’t think of any other reason on why they would want to hire him.

It was Elena who had led the Autobots and Maximals to the transwarp key, it was Optimus Prime and Primal that charged into battle against Scourge and Unicron, and it was Mirage who had sacrificed himself and transformed his body into a suit to protect Noah. He...he hadn’t really done much of anything. Just happened to tag along for the ride.

That Agent Burke guy was wrong. He didn’t deserve this.

And he couldn’t throw himself into the middle of another war. Not after his harrowing time with the army and certainly not after that whole world-ending ordeal he’d just been through. Besides, he had other responsibilities. He couldn’t leave Kris again. Or his mother. They needed him. He was the man of the house. They needed him. He was more useful to them here than playing pretend at some secret agent shit.

...Right?

He shoved the card back into his jacket pocket, planning on throwing it away later. From his other pocket, he pulled out a walkie talkie.

“Yo, Kris,” he greeted. “Got a little something for ya, you still at the garage where I told you to stay?”

There was a pause.

“What did I say about using our real names?”

Noah rolled his eyes. “Apologies, Tails. I repeat: you at the garage?”

“Uh. Yep. Still here.”

“Then why don’t I see you, huh?” Noah asked dryly as he edged past the heavy wooden doors and into the dimly lit space. A nostalgic scent of motor oil and sawdust tinged the air, a reminder that this was Noah’s safe-space. The small workshop was a treasure trove of relics; shelves lined the walls, each filled with an array of tools and rusted projects that had been laid to rest.

The only thing the garage was missing was his little brother and newly repaired Porsche.

“Kzzzzt, this is Knuckles here,” a new voice chimed in. “You’re uh, kzzzzt, breaking up there, Sonic.”

Noah grimaced and clutched onto the radio device a little harder. “You get him back here now or I swear I’ll put my knuckles through your damn windshield...!”

“Geez! What’s with the threats, huh? Calm down or you’ll end up as much of a killjoy as Optimus-”

“No names!”

“Oh! Sorry.”

Rubbing his temples in frustration, Noah tried again. “Can you guys please just come back? Like I said, I got something for you, Tails. It’s real important.”

As if on cue, a mis-matched Porsche came skidding along the road and sped right towards Noah, who didn’t even flinch when it screeched to a halt within inches of him and went through the all-too familiar process of transforming.

“Mirage is in the garage!” The robot cheerfully announced, catching Kris mid-transformation and gently lowering him to the ground in front of Noah before stretching out his limbs. “Oh, man does it feel good to get out again. And! I gotta say Kris, you’re even more fun to joyride with than your brother.”

Noah rubbed his face, feeling like a vein was about to pop. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Hey, come on now, Noah,” Mirage waved a dismissive hand. “Jealousy ain’t a good look on you.”

“You took Kris out joyriding?!”

“Guys...”

“I took him out for some fresh air! What, you’d rather the kid was cooped up in this dusty old workshop all day?” Mirage snapped back, dramatically gesturing around the small, cramped room.

“Guys!” Kris shouted out before Noah could argue back. “I can talk for myself, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know Kris, but-” Noah tried to argue as the robot looked down sheepishly, only to be instantly hushed by his little brother’s stone-cold glare. He’d definitely learned that from their mother. Or Optimus.

“He only took me ‘round the block a few times, Noah. I wanted to go with him.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Kris held up a finger. “Besides, we didn’t get into any trouble.”

“Well, except for that cop tryna’ stop us for speeding-”

“I said we didn’t get into any trouble,” Kris reiterated, aiming his glare up at Mirage now, who instantly stiffened and looked away.

“Nope. No trouble here.”

Noah sighed and knelt to Kris’s level. “Look, I get you want to have your own adventures and yeah, even I got into a little trouble when I was your age.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot,” he corrected himself. “Look, my point is... you gotta be careful. I...,” Noah paused for a moment, trying to find the best way to word this.

“I don’t want you to end up being like me.”

A silence fell upon the room then as Kris narrowed his eyes, and he didn’t even have to look up to know that Mirage was boring down on him too.

“Bro, you ain’t being serious, right?”

“I am being serious, Kris. You...you’re...I mean I...” Noah stuttered. God, why was talking so hard? “You’re a real bright kid and-”

“Lemme guess, I got a ‘bright future ahead of me’?” Kris drawled out sarcastically.

“Yeah! You do! But you gotta drop that attitude, keep your head down and keep up with your schoolwork. You can’t be like me and fu-” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Muck it up like I did.”

“You can say fuck, Noah. I’m not five.”

Mirage, who had taken to hovering in the background so as to not get in the middle of the brother’s argument, sputtered and tried to poorly disguise his laugh with a hacking cough, blaming it on the dust.

Noah groaned and rose, deciding it was now time to harness the kind of power stance that would usually win his mother an argument “My point is that you’ve got a chance to make something of yourself, get outta Brooklyn, get yourself a decent job with good money-”

“Okay, I may be old enough to swear but I ain’t old enough to be thinking about all that,” Kris said defiantly, crossing his arms to mirror Noah. “You can’t just dump all that on me.”

“I’m not dumping anything on you, I’m just saying you gotta-”

“Well, I think you gotta go see a therapist.”

Noah blinked as a smug grin formed on Kris’s face. “W-what?”

“Don’t you even notice that you’re always putting yourself down?” The teen grasped at his hair dramatically and pitched his voice down an octave. “Oh no...! I’m not good enough to get a job...! I don’t deserve to get credit for saving the freakin’ world...! I can’t cook for shit...!”

Noah wasn’t sure what to get more offended by—the fact that his own brother was insulting him or that he had the balls to pull him up about his own insecurities.

“You little-! I don’t sound like that! And my cooking is just...an acquired taste...!”

“Stop avoiding the subject.”

“I don’t need a therapist; we can’t even afford one! And last I checked, we were talking about your future, not mine. So, let’s leave it, yeah?”

Kris didn’t take the hint.

“Bro, you are part of my future. And you always tell me that it ain’t good to bottle up our emotions and to always talk. Like when Tails helps Sonic, or Luigi helps Mario, or-”

“But we ain’t Sonic and Tails! Or...or Mario and Luigi or whatever, and this ain’t a videogame, Kris! You can’t just point and click your way through life and expect to get a happy ending. You got your head in the clouds way too much, and it’s about time you got back down to reality like the rest of us!”

“Noah...” Mirage finally chimed in, but was interrupted by Kris.

“No, I get it,” the boy said, somberly nodding. “You got all these hopes and dreams that you couldn’t achieve by yourself and so now you’re pinning ‘em all on me, right? ‘Cuz you think you ain’t got a chance at living the life that you wanted. ‘Cuz you’re worthless, right?”

“Worthless... worthless ... you’re worthless...!” His commander had shouted at him. His father had shouted at him. He had shouted at himself.

Noah’s head was pounding . His thoughts clashed like opposing tides in a wild storm; a battle between fear and reason, threatening to tear him apart. All he wanted was for his little brother to have a good life and not to be trapped within the four walls of a rotting apartment in the middle of gang and police territory, fearing for his life every time he opened the door, that he would get shot for being in the wrong place at the right time. To try and escape, only to end up in a different kind of war that valued him only as cannon fodder, to be sent home in a box with a medal slapped on his cold, lifeless body for his ‘service’. To be remembered by only a few and missed by no-one.

And to be regarded as a low-life coward for running away.

“Noah...? Noah...! Noah ...”

He didn’t even realise that Kris had a grip on his arms and was shaking him, or that Mirage was kneeling with his hands hovering over him. Their mouths were moving but what they were saying was all muffled and distorted, like he was underwater.

His lungs hitched, and he started gasping for air.

Noah hated that he couldn’t keep his emotions in check, that something so trivial triggered such a raw, primal fear within him, and that he showed such a vulnerability to his little brother and best friend. The two people who were supposed to rely on him for support and strength.

With some semblance of control, he managed to wave them both off with an air of nonchalance and coolness that he had learned to adopt from Mirage's personality.

“I’m fine, I’m good,” he just about choked out. “I think I just gotta...go for a walk or somethin’.”

His legs found the strength to stumble forward of their own accord, stopping only briefly to lean by the doors so he could glance back. “Mirage, could you uh...could you take Kris home? Mom wants him home by...by six, aight? And make sure he does his homework because...yeah.”

“But Noah... yew don luk so gud...”

“Just do it, okay?!” He snapped. “Please...”

Within Noah’s weary soul, a fervent desire to escape surged through his body, and without a second thought, he slipped out into the embrace of the early night. Each step propelled him into the unknown, his heart beating wildly as his legs pounded against the pavement, fuelling his need to leave everyone else behind.

The wind whistled through his ears, and the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights overcame every ounce of his senses, drowning out the chorus of desperation that echoed from all around him.

XXX

I am hungry for the hurt/comfort Noah and Mirage fics so I decided to write one myself. Let me know what y'all think!

Part 2: Coming Soon!

#transformers #transformers rise of the beasts #transformers rotb #transformers mirage #transformers noah #mirage and noah #miroah #can be read as platonic or romantic #transformers fanfiction #my writing

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stobinesque · 1 year ago

Text

the mouth that feeds you

A birthday fic for the lovely @legitcookie! Hope you're having the best day, Jen :) Ronance | rating: E | wc: 4k | cw/tags: Office Sex, Desk Sex,Lingerie, thigh biting, Stone Top Robin, Sassy Pillow Princess Nancy (kinda), 'sir' used as an honorific, Praise Kink, Oral Sex, Dacryphilia (just a dash), Edging, Vaginal Fingering, Squirting [there's...a lot going on here] [ READ ON AO3 ]

Robin rapped her knuckles against the doorframe to Nancy's office as she held her bag of takeout aloft. A minute later, Nancy’s head popped into view, a soft smile lighting up her face.

"What are you doing here?"

“You said you were on deadline. Figured you hadn’t eaten yet. So.” Robin raised the bag a little higher. “Delivery service.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Nancy stepped aside, opening the door wider to welcome Robin in.

Robin pushed past her, settling on the small table that sat opposite Nancy’s big fancy desk with an eye roll. “I know I didn’t have to.” She shrugged. “I like taking care of you.”

Nancy glanced over at Robin from beneath her lashes. “I like being taken care of.”

Robin cackled. “I know you do, princess. Now eat up. You’re not allowed to keep working until you’ve consumed at least half of that.” Robin crossed her arms over her chest and leveled Nancy with a stare. “I’m watching.”

Nancy shot back a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Robin raised a brow, roping Nancy into the ring of her arms as she made her way back to her desk. “It’s ‘sir’, and you know it,” Robin said, letting her voice go all rumbly.

Nancy flushed a pretty shade of pink, and Robin had to bite back a smile. Flustering Nancy Wheeler was one of life’s great joys. “Yes sir,” Nancy whispered.

“Good,” Robin said with a decisive little nod. She pressed a firm kiss to Nancy’s forehead then dropped her arms, letting the other woman pull back to take a look inside the takeout bag.

“There’s only enough in here for me.”

Robin shook her head with a rueful smile. “Nance, it’s almost midnight. I’ve already eaten.”

Nancy turned away, looking almost sheepish as she snatched the food from the table and brought it back to her desk.

Robin watched Nancy walk across the office with a forced composure, and squeezed her legs, rubbing her thighs together to relieve the anticipatory ache building. There was nothing more fun than taking Nancy apart when she was determined to hold herself together. Robin tilted her head to the side, regarding Nancy with a covetous gaze, as she said with a considering sort of tone, “I haven’t had dessert yet.”

“Oh?” Nancy was faced away from her, but her voice gave everything away.

“Yeah. You have anything in here that’ll satisfy my sweet tooth?”

Nancy sat back at her desk, pulling out the containers of lo mein and dumplings from the bag. She situated a pair of chopsticks in her hands and clicked them together while she appeared to mull over the question. “I might…”

Robin smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind then.”

Nancy smiled and ducked her head, taking a careful bite of her noodles. Robin watched intently as Nancy ate several mouthfuls, before switching over to the carton of dumplings and plucking one out.

Generally Nancy wasn’t the type to forget about her bodily needs, but she had a tendency to lose herself whilst in the single-minded pursuit of a story.

It was maybe the thing Robin found most attractive about her—though it was in a tough competition—but it drove her to her wit’s end in equal measure.

Watching Nancy eat the food she’d provided smoothed back the hackles of the part of her that went wild at the thought of her girl’s needs not being met.

“You’re doing such a good job, babe,” Robin murmured.

Nancy rolled her eyes as she took a bite of the noodles. “Don’t condescend to me.”

Robin pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Me? Condescend? I would never. I think you’re getting the two of us confused.”

Nancy pointed her chopsticks at Robin. “Rude.”

“Mmm, whatcha gonna do about it, Nance?”

“Cut you off for a week.”

“Only a week? That how long you think you could last without me eating you out, honey?”

“That’s about how long I think you could go before begging to get on your knees for me.”

Robin hopped down from her perch and stalked across the room, bracing her hands on the edge of Nancy’s desk. “I think you’ve got a misguided understanding of what’s going on here, Ms. Wheeler. Care for me to remind you?”

Robin didn’t wait for Nancy to answer, just dropped down to her knees in a practiced move.

There were lots of ways to get on your knees for someone—both in body and spirit. For most people it brought to mind being brought to heel: debasing oneself for another’s gratification; someone literally lowering themselves before another for the sake of that person’s pleasure.

But Robin liked the thrill of choosing to be there. Of driving someone so wild they didn’t have the choice but to accept whatever you gave them.

So Robin dropped to her knees with all of the submissiveness of a jungle cat, and crawled into the space between Nancy’s legs. Her legs parted without Robin needing to so much as ask. This was where Robin wanted to be, always. Nancy had gotten that much right.

Robin couldn’t see her face, but she could feel her stare. Could picture the way Nancy’s mouth had dropped open into a round ‘O.’

“Robs…”

Robin leaned far enough forward to look up and meet Nancy’s gaze from beneath the desk. “Keep eating your dinner, babe. I think I’ve found my desert.”

Robin reached up to work open the zipper at the side of Nancy’s skirt, and Nancy lifted her hips to help Robin shimmy her out of it. The black fabric pooled on the ground at Nancy’s feet, and Robin reached down to carefully lift each foot out of the ring of fabric. She had long abandoned her set of sharp black heels for the day, and a part of Robin bemoaned the missed chance to carefully pull them free from Nancy’s feet.

The disappointment was short-lived, though, as Robin looked up and took in the sight of Nancy half-dressed beneath the desk. She was wearing a set of old-fashioned stockings Robin had gifted her earlier that year. Dark nylon, with a seam she knew to be running up the back of each leg, even though she couldn’t see them from here.

Knowing it was there was enough.

And maybe when Robin was through with her first course she could lay Nancy out on the desk for a proper feast. (She was maybe losing the thread of her meal-based metaphors at this point.)

Robin rubbed a thumb over the sheer fabric stretched across one ankle bone, working her hand up the length of Nancy’s leg. Distantly, Robin heard Nancy hum, and the soft rustling sound of fabric against fabric as she shifted in her seat.

Robin dragged careful, blunted nails over the surface of one calf. Enough to raise goosebumps in her wake, but without so much force as to cause a snag or tear in the stockings.

Above her, Nancy sighed, legs widening ever-so-slightly to invite Robin’s touch.

Robin mirrored her movements on Nancy’s other leg, sending twin paths of sensation across her skin.

When Robin reached the apex of Nancy’s thighs, she rested her hands on the lace capping the stockings there, hooking her thumbs beneath the straps that connected them to the garter belt, which were dark against the creamy expanse of Nancy’s skin.

Robin pressed Nancy’s legs open wider, bending her head to leave a trail of gentle kisses.

A muffled sound reached Robin’s ears, but she couldn’t quite tell if it was one smothered out of embarrassment, or if Nancy’s mouth was just full. Robin decided to let it go for now.

Robin bit down into the soft skin of Nancy’s thigh, and Nancy jumped under her touch, a sharp cry spilling from her lips. Saliva pooled in Robin’s mouth as the image of taking a bite from a perfectly ripe peach—juices welling and running down her face—flitted through Robin’s mind. She swallowed and sank her teeth in harder, savoring the hitched breath and gasping sounds already spilling from Nancy’s throat as Robin sucked.

Robin pulled back to look down at the rabidly purpling mark, pressing her thumb into the bruise there and rubbing.

“Fuck, Robbie.” Nancy’s hips canted upwards, but Robin pulled back, denying her any touch Robin hadn’t chosen to provide.

“Keep eating, Nance,” she said with a soft swat to her thigh.

Nancy whined, but Robin didn’t budge until she heard the sound of a container being picked back up, and chopsticks rummaging through noodles. “You’re so good for me, babe,” Robin said, pressing another kiss to Nancy’s skin—this time on the opposite thigh. She bit down there too, sucking another bruise into pale white skin. “You turn so many pretty colors for me, babe. They should put you on display in the MoMA.”

Nancy snorted in laughter. “You’re gonna kill the mood, Robs.”

Robin hummed, sweeping an idle thumb across the matching dark lace that hid Nancy’s cunt away from her. She was already damp there. Not quite wet, but certainly on the way to it. “Funny, seems like this is doing it for you.”

“The biting was doing it for me. Having you under my desk is definitely doing it for me. Telling me I’m a piece of modern art is decidedly less sexy than either of those two things.”

Robin trailed the flat of her tongue over the scratchy fabric precisely once.

Nancy gasped, and her hips bucked up to try to reach Robin’s mouth again.

“You were saying?”

“You’re cheating.”

“Aren’t you on a deadline, love? Why don’t you return to your food and leave me to mine so that you can finish up and we can get out of here.”

Nancy was silent above her for a beat too long, so Robin dug the tips of her fingers into the meat of Nancy’s thighs. A moment later, the faint sound of reluctant chewing met Robin’s ears, and she dipped back down to continue her teasing. Much as Robin wanted nothing more than to be buried face first in Nancy’s cunt, she forced herself to hold back.

Robin lifted Nancy’s blouse to press fluttery kisses to the patch of skin framed between the garter belt and panties, savoring the way Nancy’s stomach quivered beneath her lips.

“Robin, please.”

“Have you finished eating, babe?”

“I’ve got two dumplings and just a little bit of lo mein left.”

“Mmm, are you full, though?”

Nancy muttered something under her breath, and Robin bit hard at the tender flesh of her stomach. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you answer my question without sass?”

“Yes, sir,” Nancy breathed, body sinking lower in her chair. “I’m full, sir.”

“Good.” Robin pressed a quick kiss to Nancy’s thigh, followed by a playful nip. “Then you have work to return to, don’t you?”

“Robs—”

Robin darted a hand up to pinch the skin of Nancy’s hip harshly. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, princess. I’m gonna sit here and eat you out, you’re going to finish your article, and if you’re not done by the time I make you come for the first time, I’m just going to keep going until you are, whether you like it or not. Understood?”

“Y-yeah, understood, sir.”

Robin squeezed the hand resting on Nancy’s hip encouragingly. “Can you give me a color, princess?”

“Holy shit, green, Robin. I just—let me get my laptop set up again, alright?”

“Okay.” Robin stroked her thumb across the goosebumps she’d raised on Nancy’s legs, waiting patiently for the sounds of rummaging containers and office supplies to settle.

“All set.” Nancy already sounded a bit breathless.

“Mmm,” Robin hummed, ducking down to nose at Nancy’s covered clit. “Good.”

“Oh!” Nancy jolted in surprise.

“Gonna need you to concentrate, princess.” Robin continued nosing at Nancy’s clit, taking in the musky scent of her arousal. When she heard the sound of keys softly clacking, Robin ducked down, fitting her shoulders beneath Nancy’s thighs so her stockinged legs were draped over Robin’s back. She kept her hands braced over the lace tops, limiting Nancy’s ability to close her legs around Robin’s head. Not that she didn’t love having her head squeezed between Nancy’s thighs—but tonight, Nancy was going to take whatever Robin gave her, whenever Robin gave it to her.

Robin used her tongue to push aside the scrap of fabric covering Nancy’s cunt, and dipped her tongue into the wet heat there. Nancy’s salty taste flooded her tongue, and Robin couldn’t hold back a moan she dove forward, chasing after it.

Robin kept up a slow pace as she licked into Nancy carefully. The lace from the panties chafed against the side of Robin’s face, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. It added to the overall heady sensation of the endeavor. A counterpoint to the silky-smooth texture of Nancy’s nylons against her hands, and the sticky wetness smeared across her lips and tongue.

Robin buried her face into Nancy’s folds, wiry hairs tickling her cheeks as the tip of her nose bumped against Nancy’s clit.

Robin hummed, chasing after Nancy’s shuddering moans and shaking thighs. She opened her mouth wide, flattening her tongue to lick across the expanse of Nancy’s cunt. Under her hands Nancy’s hips rocked up once, fighting to make closer contact with Robin’s mouth. Robin pressed down—keeping Nancy in her place—but dove in deeper, licking at her enthusiastically. Robin chased her own pleasure at the center of Nancy’s thighs, soaking up each sigh and gasp she wrung from her lover and basking in them.

The sound of Nancy’s manicured nails clicking against her keyboard was a sharp counterpoint to both the throaty grunts and groans rumbling in Robin’s chest and throat, and the lighter whines and breathy moans that floated from Nancy’s lips.

Robin had to keep reminding herself not to get lost in the silky space between Nancy’s thighs. To keep one ear on the steady beat of Nancy tapping at her keys—because if there was any pause, she’d have to pull back. Have to deny them what they both wanted—what they both needed.

Because Nancy was right about that too: Robin couldn’t go more than a few days without shoving her face between Nancy’s legs. Without working her up until she was taut as a bow ready to shoot. Strung high and tight before snapping with a sharp cry.

Robin dug her fingers into Nancy’s skin. Thought about shoving her fingers inside her dripping wet cunt. Thought about finding her sweet spot and forcing her over that edge that left them both drenched.

Maybe for round two.

Or five.

For now, Robin had to get her across that first finish line.

She pulled back a fraction of an inch with a gasp, repositioned herself, and plunged back in, chasing after the babbling cries that were starting to spill from Nancy’s mouth. Robin curled her tongue around Nancy’s clit and sucked. Felt Nancy fight against bucking her hips wildly under Robin’s steady hold. Robin’s grip did not falter. She kept Nancy planted in place. Pinned down right where Robin wanted her.

Up above, the steady sounds of typing and the occasional pen scratch began to grow more erratic. Odd gaps fell between each beat in a way that sounded less like Nancy pausing to think between words or sentences, and more like her hand had stopped in midair, or skittered across the keys.

As the sounds trailed off altogether, Robin pulled back with a gasp, stifling a disappointed moan of her own. The lower half of her face was sticky with wet, and drops of sweat beaded her hairline.

“Robin.” Nancy’s voice was full of anguish, and she attempted to thrash in Robin’s grip.

Robin kept her nails short and squared off, but she dug their blunted edges into Nancy’s skin momentarily anyway. “You know the rules, princess,” Robin said, voice thick from all the slick she’d swallowed. “Ya gotta keep working or I’ll stop.”

The muscles of Nancy’s legs shifted beneath Robin’s palms as she slumped back in her chair. “There were no such rules established at the top of this challenge.”

Robin bit down at the sensitive skin right at the crease of Nancy’s thighs. “Say that again,” she growled.

Nancy made a sound that was two steps away from a frustrated scream. Like a kettle whistling. An angry little steam engine spouting off. “You can’t just make up rules to a game when you feel like it!”

Robin repositioned her hand over Nancy’s crotch, cupping it in a covetous grasp. “I can do whatever I want, love.”

Robin dropped her hands, leaning back completely onto her haunches. “Unless you disagree? If you’re not a fan of my terms we can stop now. I can go home and leave you here, wet and desperate to ride my face, or get my fingers buried in your sweet little cunt.

I can leave you here horny and on edge for the rest of the night—unable to even think about finishing your article because you no longer have the promise of a reward to offset the desperation absolutely thrumming through you. Is that what you want, princess?”

Nancy was silent for several moments, fidgeting uncomfortably in her seat as she rubbed her thighs together to relieve some pressure. “No, sir, that’s not what I want.”

“Okay then. So I guess that means the both of us have some work to get back to then, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rob ducked down to press a soft kiss to Nancy’s kneecap. “Good girl. Get back to typing then, alright, love?”

“Okay.” Nancy’s breath was shaky, but she’d come back from the precipice. Robin sat back on her heels, waiting for the sound of Nancy’s typing to resume and pick up steam. When it did, Robin glided her hands up the outer expanse of Nancy’s thighs and drew her forward.

A little of the desperation had bled out of both of their systems, so Robin dipped back in with soft kitten licks, and trailed her fingers over Nancy’s skin in soft, exploratory touches. The sound of Nancy typing or flipping through pages of notes stayed constant, even as her breath occasionally hitched in her throat, or came out in a reedy whimper. Without Robin’s hands bracing themselves at the top of her thighs Nancy was also free to lift her hips up in short, juddering thrusts, chasing after Robin’s teasing tongue.

It was a twisted game of cat and mouse. Robin testing how slowly she could bring Nancy back to the edge again, while Nancy chased after her—only for Robin to dart out of reach again.

“R-Robbie, please,” Nancy cried when Robin began suckling at her clit. The sound of clacking keys went unbroken, so Robin didn’t stop, but she didn’t do anything else either. Didn’t speed up, or slow down, or add pressure. Just sat there, lazily sucking Nancy in her mouth like she was rolling a piece of hard candy across her tongue. Nancy’s gasping breaths sounded wet, and Robin couldn’t wait to crawl up from under the desk later to see if there were tear tracks running down her partner’s face. “Robbie, sir, I-I’m. I’m being so good, please let me come, please give me more, I’m so close, I’m so close…”

Robin wasn’t sure if Nancy was trying to say she was close to coming, or close to finishing the article, but she didn’t half care. Nancy’s hips were jerking upwards in aborted little thrusts, almost thoughtless as she chased sensation. Robin wanted to keep her dancing on that knife’s edge—but she also wanted to watch her topple over it. Wanted to turn each of Nancy’s limbs to jelly until she was a shaking, quivering mess under Robin’s hands. Itched to get her hand buried inside. To build the pressure there until it burst and washed all over them.

She’d wanted to wait until she’d gotten one good orgasm under their belt, but… Robin pulled away just enough to free her mouth, and Nancy moaned in frustration, legs twitching to try to hold Robin in place for the half second before she caught herself and relaxed.

“How much do you have left of your article, love?”

Nancy’s breath was coming in hard pants, and Robin could just make out the swell of her breasts as they rose and fell in turn. It took a couple false starts before Nancy seemed able to string together a semi-coherent set of words. “I…so close, Robs. Just…I need…please.”

Robin hummed, pressing a sweet kiss to Nancy’s stomach. “Okay, princess, change of plans: if you finish the article by the time I get you off, I’m gonna take you home and let you ride my face for as long as you want. If you don’t finish by the time I make you come, I’m gonna sit back on that table and get myself off while you finish up, okay?”

“F-fuck, Robs.” Robin could almost hear the way Nancy was dragging a hand through her hair. “Yes, okay. I understand.”

Robin grinned, sharp-edged and feral, even though Nancy couldn’t see it. “Good girl.” She pressed a swift kiss to Nancy’s stomach again and dove back in, this time holding nothing back. She went straight for Nancy’s clit, sucking at it with the determination to get right at that tipping point again as quickly as possible.

Robin kept one hand braced against Nancy’s hip—less to keep her in place than to dampen the force of her thrusts. Robin dragged the nails of her other hand along the inside of one thigh again, and Nancy near thrashed beneath her. Robin was at the end of her own patience, and as soon as her hand was at the crux of Nancy’s thighs she slipped two fingers inside her dripping wet cunt, meeting not even a moment’s resistance.

Nancy’s walls were plush and warm around her and she sunk into that heat, hooking her fingers upwards and hitting the spot that made Nancy writhe with a practiced precision.

“Robin!”

Nancy’s cry was the only thing Robin could hear over the blood pounding in her ears as she lapped at Nancy’s clit and rocked her fingers inside over and over. Robin faintly registered the feeling of one of Nancy’s hands falling to the top of her head, fingers tangling in the short strands of her hair. If Robin herself wasn’t halfway gone already—face and hand and heart buried in Nancy’s cunt—she might have had the presence of mind to pull back and scold her brat of a girlfriend for touching her out of turn. For breaking the rules of their arrangement—because though Nancy was capable of typing one-handed, the chances of that still being true when she was seconds away from climax was laughable. But Robin was so far past caring about rules or punishment or denial. All she wanted was for Nancy’s come to soak her face.

Robin moaned as Nancy pushed and pulled her into place, right where Nancy needed her. Nancy’s hips bucked up to meet each thrust of Robin’s hand, and they fell into each other like collapsing stars, spinning faster and faster until they met in one giant explosion. Nancy screamed, legs tightening around Robin’s head, and cunt clenching around her fingers like a vice as warm liquid gushed out of Nancy, flooding Robin’s face and dripping down to soak into the fabric of her shirt.

The moment Robin could extricate her hand from the crushing grip of Nancy’s cunt she did, so she could scramble upward. Nancy’s head was tossed back against her seat, chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, body still trembling with the aftershocks, and face smudged with mascara.

But the second she saw Robin on her feet Nancy’s gaze turned sharp, hand darting out to grab a fistful of Robin’s shirt and yank her into a kiss, licking into her mouth like a woman starved as Nancy tried to sloppily clean her own spend from Robin’s face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I can’t believe we’ve never done that before,” Nancy gasped into Robin’s mouth.

Robin hummed, tangling a hand in Nancy’s hair and pressing kisses down the side of her throat. “Yeah, I’m gonna be thinking about that for weeks.”

They traded frantic kisses for another few minutes, hands roaming over bits of skin they’d been unable to explore with Robin at Nancy’s feet. When they’d both settled again, breaths coming at more even intervals, Robin leaned back on the edge of Nancy’s desk to smile down at her. “So, did you finish your article?”

Nancy threw back her head and laughed. When she finished she dropped her head back down and canted it to the side to look past Robin’s side at her laptop. “I think I’ve probably got another sentence or two to get down.” Nancy tracked her eyes up to meet Robin’s gaze. “And I definitely have to proofread this before sending it for edits.”

Robin laughed too, warmth flooding her chest as she looked down at Nancy’s flushed face, eyes beautifully crinkled at their corners. “Think you could finish all that from home?”

Nancy tilted her head. “I could, yeah. Thought I was supposed to watch while you got yourself off in front of me though.”

Robin shrugged. “Thought it might be better from the comfort of our own bed.”

Nancy reached up to hook her fingers through Robin’s own, looking up at her with nothing less than pure love on her face. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

#ronance #ronance fic #nsft #read writes

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