#idk if this confirms but it’s fueling me

[robinsnest2111]

sorry for disappearing. I promised I wouldn't do that again but it's always the thing I fall back on in desperate times. idk how to stop doing that

I'm just so tired and in pain, I wanna lay down and cry and never get back up again

[pellucid-constellations]

Trial and Error (5.5) - Bonus

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: ~700

Warnings: azriel's pov, fluff that will make you explode probably idk

a/n: Hi so I'm crazy and needed to write this after getting asks about it and getting inspo surrounding Az singing night court lullabies to Mel. Please enjoy and I'm sorry for two posts in one day 😅

read part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part 6

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel was back in her room the moment he heard the call. 

He’d placed Melanie down in her bed only ten minutes prior, but her sleep had been fitful and disjointed over the past day and Azriel hadn’t expected her to stay down for long. It was strange—the way the bond connecting him to you burned with the same protectiveness for Melanie. 

“Hey, Melanie,” Azriel whispered, kneeling beside her bed with his fingers resting on the outer edge of her quilt. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” 

Melanie sat up in her bed with a small groan, the braid you had put in her hair earlier in disarray. “Yeah. Don’t wanna sleep. Where’s mommy?” 

Azriel hummed and pushed a wild curl behind her ear. “Mommy’s sick, so she’s sleeping. Like you should be.” 

“You aren’t sick, Mr. Azriel?” 

“No, I can’t get sick like you. Not right now, anyway.” 

Melanie’s brow furrowed and her head swayed. “Can you hold me like mommy does?” 

Azriel’s heart shattered in his chest at her request. Her sleepy eyes blearily stared up at him as he let out a shaky breath and attempted to push down some of his joy at her request. 

Maybe you didn’t fully trust him yet, but Melanie did. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he replied, reaching out beneath her arms to hoist her up. When her head immediately found a home in the juncture of his neck, Azriel melted. “Are you feeling any better?” 

Melanie fisted Azriel’s shirt as he situated her against his chest. “Little bit.” 

Sometimes, when she spoke, Azriel could hear you in Melanie’s voice. 

He wanted so badly to be part of that connection. 

The want often scared him. 

“Can we go to mommy’s room?” she asked, pulling her head up to send him a sleepy question. “Not to wake her up. Mommy’s room is just nice.” 

The two of you always sought each other out—always found safety in being near. 

Azriel rubbed Melanie’s back and nodded with a smile that was fueled both by adoration and melancholy. 

Your room was dark when he entered. Melanie had taken a glance at your sleeping figure and then rested her head back into the crook of Azriel’s neck. He could feel each breath she took and felt each clench of her fists into his shirt. 

“Is this better?” Azriel asked, voice so low and careful he wasn’t sure if the five-year-old would hear him. 

But Melanie nodded and whispered back a small confirmation that made Azriel’s chest hurt. He held her closer to his chest and watched the rise and fall of yours as you slept an arm’s length away. When Melanie’s breathing didn’t even out after a few minutes, he placed a hand behind her head and started lightly swaying. 

“You have to try and sleep, Mel. That’s how you get better,” he whispered into her ear. 

“I’m trying,” she whispered back, strained and trying to keep quiet for her mom. “It’s hard, Mr. Azriel. My head doesn’t feel good.” 

Azriel tutted and hated that there was very little he could do for this illness. “I know, Mel. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

Her only response was to bury her face further into his shoulder. 

Azriel thought back to his youth, to the perils and hardships he had endured, and he sought after the light—the good moments. His mother’s singing stood out, the melody of a Night Court lullaby gently lulling in his mind. 

Azriel didn’t have much experience with children other than Nyx, but, with Melanie, that didn’t seem to matter. With Melanie, everything came to him with a practiced ease that didn’t feel deserved. But he took from it anyway. 

So, Azriel began to hum the lullabies from his childhood, wrapping a wing around the child in his arms to block everything else out. 

And she was able to sleep. 

part 6

[t1red-twilight]

1.5 pints

summary: you get injured on a case and spencer is…worried to say the least.

warnings/content: gn!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, medically inaccurate (i googled stuff but idk), spencer/reader have ptsd, cannon typical injury (bullet wound),non-sexual nudity, spencer passenger princess confirmed, friends totally share a bed regularly

word count: 1.4k

masterlist s. r. masterlist

you had gotten injured after a case. it wasn’t anything serious, you had just gotten grazed by a bullet on your upper arm on your dominant side. it stung like a bitch, and bled quite a bit, but it wasn’t anything to cry over. even still, you were bandaged by paramedics before being sent on your way.

the case hadn’t been far from quantico, just a forty-five minute drive or so. spencer had silently insisted on sitting next to you in the suv. the air was awkward. not uncomfortable, per se, it was just that everyone in the car could feel that spencer was definitely upset.

once back at quantico, everyone split up to go to their homes. hotch informed everyone that you would all have the next day off. you searched through your go-bag for your car keys, when you suddenly felt a presence behind you.

spencer’s natural scent of linen and citrus would always be familiar to you. you’d recognize it anywhere. “hey spence.”

“how’d you know it was me?”

you turned around, shrugging. “lucky guess,” you smiled a lopsided smile. there was a momentary pause.

“is your arm okay?”

chuckling lightly, you shifted your weight onto one foot. “yeah, i’m alright. do you need anything?”

he was avoiding eye contact more than usual. “i think you should come over to my place tonight.”

you quirked an eyebrow. there was this unspoken arrangement the two of you had; you’d switch off spending the night at each other’s apartments. it had started when spencer began having ptsd-fueled nightmares again and you had recurring bouts of insomnia. and this consisted of sleeping in the same bed, to comfort each other.

“yeah?” there was an overwhelming feeling that he was more upset than he was leading on, and this was even more evident considering his behavior on the ride back to quantico.

“…yeah. i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

you snorted. “of course you do, spencer.” he finally looked up and resumed eye contact.

“what do you mean?”

“i don’t mean anything.” you twirled your keys around your finger, chuckling lightly at the thought of spencer being caught up in what was to you, a very minuscule injury. gesturing to your car, you add on, “well, we should get going then.”

he walked around to the driver’s side of the car and motioned for your keys. spencer wasn’t very keen on driving; he much preferred his passenger princess privileges and tendencies. confusion and minor amusement flooded your features. “you want to drive?”

“uh, yeah. you shouldn’t be lifting your arm, it could tear your stitches.” the sass in his tone almost made you double take.

“hey, i think i’ll be fine, okay? you don’t have to worry about me because i got scratched.” your tone was more genuine but still held a playful element. he sighs and looks a little incredulous.

“just let me drive. please.” taken aback, you hand over the keys and walk over to the passenger side. you raise your dominant arm to open the door. spencer quickly rushes over to open the door for you. “please don’t.”

“uh, okay,” you reply in a quieter voice. as you buckle your seatbelt, spencer gets into the drivers side seat. he somehow finds a classical station on the radio (it’s not all too surprising that he probably has them memorized), and the rest of the ride goes on without a hitch or bump.

when you arrive at his apartment, spencer runs to your side of the car. he opens your door for you, and helps you out of the car. “you don’t have to baby me, spence.” he mumbles out a response. “what?” you question back.

“can you please take this seriously?” your eyes widen at his more stern timbre. a semi-sarcastic thumbs up is all you give him.

the walk up to his apartment is exceedingly more tense. you try to focus more in the scent of the old building rather than spencer’s apparent disappointment in you. the building smells like, well, old building, and the floor creaks fifteen times on the way to the elevator and to his front door.

you both cross the threshold and he sets his crossbody bag down near the entryway. you didn’t bring up your go bag, as you have plenty of things at his apartment already.

he grabs your hand and leads you to his bedroom. he proceeds to hand you some pajamas: an old mit shirt and soft shorts that you left prior. you wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. “are you going to let me change?” he looks at you exasperatedly.

“you can’t move your arm.”

“yes. i can.”

“you can, but you shouldn’t. please let me help you.” you just about roll your eyes, but you stop yourself.

“i can undress myself. i just got grazed.” you’re getting more annoyed.

“grazed? you almost fell over from the blood loss. morgan had to hold you up. the average human body has around ten pints of blood and you lost one and a half- that’s 15%. that’s not a graze-“

your eyebrows raise. he was taking this very seriously. “the bullet didn’t penetrate. i didn’t need a transfusion, and it was by no means fatal in any way.” injuries like this have occurred before on the team, and the team has recovered.

“yes, but if you lost 5% more blood, you might have lost consciousness and needed a transfusion. can you please take this seriously?”

surprisingly, you didn’t respond immediately. spencer, and everyone for that matter, had known you to be quite stubborn and not known to back down.

“you got shot. you should be taking this more seriously.”

“you could barely even consider it a shot, spencer. besides, it’s better me than anyone else.”

his eyes widen. “how can you be so reckless?” you don’t respond at all this time. you just look down at the clothes in your hands.

“please,” he quietly says your name, “you just really mean a lot to me. i don’t want anything to happen to you.”

if your eyebrows weren’t high before, they sure as hell were now. “can you promise me? that you’ll take your health into consideration more? i have no clue what i’d- what the team would do without you.”

his slip-up does not go unnoticed. “okay.” you swallow your pride. “i will.”

he sighs in relief. “now please, let help you.” his eyes glance up from the floor to meet yours. you nod and he steps closer. both of your movements are awkward as he places his hands on the buttons of your shirt. he unbuttons it quite slowly, and pulls it down your arms.

he’d seen you in more compromising situations before, so this is nothing new. “put your arms out, but not up, please.” he then proceeds to put his old college alumni shirt over your arms first before pulling it over your head. “i think, you can, uh, put the shorts on yourself. just don’t lift your arms too high.”

“i won’t. i promise.” you give what you think is a convincing smile and he leaves to the bathroom.

when he returns, he is also dressed for bed. he guides you to the bathroom to brush your teeth. he babies you as much as is physically possible, but you draw the line at him brushing your teeth for you.

“dude. i’ll be careful. i’ll just use my other arm.” the task proves to be weird and uncoordinated.

you both finish brushing your teeth at about the same time. you follow him to the bedroom.

his feet pad across the carpet softly. the socks he’s wearing isn’t shocking to you at all; it’s a habit of his he’s gotten used to. he turns on his lamp on the side table, and turns out the big light.

he draws back the covers before you can, and you swing you legs onto the bed. you pull the covers up to your chin before he can tuck you in or something. one can only handle being babied for so long, after all.

he has one of those fancy dimming lamps. it casts a soft glow over the room without being too overwhelming. and because he likes it this way, so do you.

he turns onto his side and places his hands under his pillow. you begin to turn onto your side, but he stops you. “don’t put too much pressure on it.” you compromise by turning your head towards him.

his eyes are big and his lips are slightly parted. his breathing is deep and slow. you don’t know who falls asleep first, just that you both slowly inched closer so that eventually there was only about two fingers worth of space between you.

[jinkiezzsstuff]

Hate That I Love You

adam x insecure!tsundere(ithink) GNreader

Summary: You’ve been Lutes friend for a long while, and occasionally you ran into Adam; after finding out about the extermination thanks to him, you become a three party group. Except you can’t accept liking Adam, him being obnoxious and egotistical, you pretend you hate him. That blows up in your face.

Warnings: Suggestive, swearing, angst ish, hurt/comfort i think, insecurities around strength (mental and/or physical), implied but never confirmed virgin reader, readers looks get insulted nothing intense nor specific, descriptive panic attack/fainting, reader throws an object at adam’s head, NO YN, GN, No alluding to or mention of bodytype/hairtype/skin colour. oh possibly OOC adam idk, not proofread so sorry luvs, I think that’s it if not let me know! enjoy :3

Word count: 2K

Your index finger sat atop the straw sitting in your drink, moving it around the glass as you mindlessly listened as Adam ranted to you and Lute, mostly Lute, about Charlie Morningstar. You weren’t an exorcist- no, you actually didn’t know about the exterminations at all…up until recently. Thanks to one of Adam’s childish outbursts, you had a long night with Lute explaining the whole situation to you. Now you were sworn to secrecy, and conversations of the madness that the extermination were and everything they came with, AKA Charlie.

Adam wasn’t ever your buddy, he was just someone who shamelessly attached himself to Lute's hip; but you put up with it because of your good friendship with Lute. Now, he’s somehow weaselled his way into believing you were part of this weird “team” purely based off of association.

“I mean who does this long horned, pointy teeth, pussy mucher think she is?!” Adam screamed slamming his hands against the table, you rolled your eyes at him and his stupid antics. “You’re one to talk,” You replied, his eyes snapping toward you. “You’ve got both horns and teeth. Why don’t you take that funky band mask off anyways?”

Scoffing he rolled his neck side to side. “Because this is my job, my persona, how’re people gonna recognize me without it!? Duh, dumb bitch.” Muttering the insult quickly, he leaned his cheek on his palm and went back to sucking his drink.

“With all due respect sir, this is really bad news, we can’t let Charlie persuade Sera.” Lute piped up, her mask discarded showing the genuine emotion on her face. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if he was a friend, someone she was in love with, an annoying brother-like figure, or just her lazy ass boss. Maybe all of the above.

Which is probably one of the reasons you kept your tiny little crush on Adam to yourself. He was cruel to you anyways, always comparing you to someone faster, funnier, stronger, hotter at least that’s what you told yourself. Instead you chose to be more of a bitch back, acting as disgusted and disinterested as you could, especially when Lute was around as she could sniff out a lie like some psychic canine.

“Yeah, duh Lute i fucking know that. You think I've been jerking off this whole time! No, eyes, ears focused, I haven't cum in days.” He whined, throwing his head back. Lute only scoffed glancing over at you slumped back in your seat barely sipping your drink, eyes casted downward. “You don’t have to be here for this kind of talk,” Lute started saying, her hand inching across the table to yours, but she was stopped by Adam once more leaning forward, gloved palms slapping against the table.

“The fuck are you saying Lute!? We get another fucker in this circle and you wanna cast her out. Un-fucking-believeable. It’s like you want Charlie to win.” Throwing a napkin at Adam, Lute slid her hand away from you. “They’re not even an exorcist Adam, you’re the fuck head who got them in on exterminations!”

“No i didn’t, they walked in on a private conversation.” Eyebrows knitted together you lurched forward, anger fueling you. “Oh piss off Adam, how many times are we gonna go over this stupid situation! I’m not your fucking friend, i’m not ‘in’ on it, i’m here for Lute and you won’t fucking leave!”

Adam had a bored expression on his face while you ranted, unfazed by anything you’d said. Lute however bit her lip clasping her hands together. In a fight between her boss slash friend, and her friend, she didn’t know what to do. “You always have your nose up in Lute's business, it’s so annoying. Lute’s my man, okay she works for me! Guess who comes first in this business chica? Not you.” Adam mocked sticking his tongue out at you.

Standing you picked up your cup whipping it at Adam’s head, he dodge it easily, but your emotionally fueled violence made you quickly regretful as both Adam’s and Lutes eyes looked at you questioningly. You’d never really lost your shit before, and this wasn’t the worst Adam has said, so they were a little confused at your outburst, yourself included.

“Listen, Adam, I’m-“ Before you could finish Adam keeled over, laughing maniacally as you watched. After a few short laughter filled moments, Adam straightened, elbows on the table, hands hammocking his chin as he smiled up at you.

“Got some bite in you for sure huh babe, ha! I’m not surprised, honestly when i saw you i was like ‘this bitch has a face made for hell’, you probably got up here cause you were unfuckable so, like, virgin. Oh! Oh! That makes so much fucking sense dude! Ha! Bummer, I could smell the weak loser on ya, didn’t I tell ya danger tits?” Adam questioned head turned toward Lute after his animated, and very condescending speech.

Lute only looked down, not responding. Meanwhile you were horrified, you’d always felt a little less than Lute, after all she carried out holy duties, ones that you hadn’t fully known up until recently, so hearing Adam say the same things you thought of yourself, shattered you. Your face felt hot as tears gathered on the waterline of your eyes. You didn’t belong here, you said it for the longest time everyone here was mindless optimist zombies, Lute was your only lifeline, and for a few months you suppose-Adam.

You never hated him, but it’s clear he’s only fond of Lute. You’re the intruder, you’re the odd one. Clenching your fists you didn’t even bother with a come back, you slid out from your table booking it to the door. Tears unwillingly slid down your cheeks, your chest heaving as your throat closed silencing whatever weep dared to exit your throat.

You could hear Lute calling after you but you genuinely didn’t want to be followed by her, you were embarrassed; the last thing you wanted was the strong exorcist coming to witness you crumble. Throwing the door to the building open your wings sprung out on reflex, and after a few quick steps you took off. You couldn’t quite see, or breathe for that matter. Your mind lagged behind you, replaying the moments in your head that matched up to Adam’s insults.

You blinked rapidly as you attempted to focus on the clouds beneath you and breeze around you, but you couldn’t. You choked once more, your stomach convulsing inward causing you to gasp, a sob violently escaping you as you rocketed toward whatever surface you could find. Suddenly you hit something solid, stunning your flight and causing you to spin down, plummeting. As you fell, the breeze stabbed you as you cut into it, your wings sagging and loosely flailing above you, it felt so calm and freeing you didn’t feel the will to stop.

By the grace of god, however, you were caught and roughly smacked against the chest of someone, their arms clutching you tightly. You barely heard a ‘gotcha’ before your vision tunnelled, stomach flipped and you lost consciousness.

——

Waking slowly, your eyes stung the moment they opened, nearly watering at the blinding white that invaded them. Willing yourself to rise, you lazily scanned the room you laid in. A living room, coloured with yellows, creams and whites, it was, in all honesty, way too much. A large portrait of a man with a woman, meticulously scrapped out, hung above the fireplace. You’d never seen this man ever before, and the woman was too scratched out to get any idea on who it was. Suppose these people never existed as it was a painting, but there was something about the man that captivated you so deeply.

“Look who finally rose, sleeping bitchy.” You immediately felt sick, turning your head unsurprised to see Adam standing there smugly. You frowned deeply, it felt nearly impossible to twist your mouth in such a way, but there was no hiding your distaste in seeing the angel. “Why am I here, Adam.” You say scaldingly, eyes closed attempting to shield yourself from whatever foul look took over his face. “Well after your little shit show, a little over dramatic by the way, Lute left to find you, and I went for a fly. Then suddenly minding my own business I see you tryna play asteroid! Then when I caught you, your dumbass went out.”

Sighing loudly you pulled your hand down your face. “Please, admit Lute put you up to it.” Slamming a glass of water down on the table along with a platter of fruit, including oranges, pomegranates and mangos, Adam grunted moving his hand to sit on his hips. “The fuck she did, she’s not getting the praise for this one.” You looked up at him and then down at the fruit and drink on the side table just to your right, you nodded at it. “What’s this?”

You barely whispered out. Blowing air out threw his lips effectively raspberryingring the air, he shrugged. “Stuff for you, duh, you’re like sick or something right?” You nearly smiled at that, you’d never had Adam have that reaction. Quite the array of fruit as well, carefully you picked up a few pieces of orange, as well as mango that had a toothpick sticking up from them you munched down. You hummed, watching like a hawk as Adam walked across from you and sat on the other couch.

“How long was i out?” You questioned after swallowing, gulping down some water feeling the soothing sensation on your raw throat. “Maybe thirty minutes, not long. I texted Lute, I told her you were with me, safe.” That made you pause, you gazed up at him from the bowl of pomegranates you started digging into. “What? Why didn’t she come?” Adam huffed, throwing his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Because I told her not to.” Your mouth fell open eyes wide.

“Why thee holy fuck, would you tell her not to come?” Sitting up straighter you swung your legs over the side, sitting properly instead of lounging. Adam wouldn’t meet your gaze drifting off to the left and right. “Fucking… fuck!” He exclaimed almost in what sounded like exhaustion. Watching him closely, you waited as he seemed to have an inner debate with himself. Then swiftly he gripped his face and ripped off his mask.

The face you were met with was like a punch in the gut, yeah he could be compared to men you’ve seen in your lifetime probably at a gas station or cheap bar, but it was Adam. The man you’ve been trying so hard to hate, getting into cussing battles, throwing insults at each other that rolled off the back, occasionally praising each other's insults, forcing yourself to loathe him when you both kinda knew it wasn’t and now it was real. You got to look in his gold eyes, the dark thick lashes accentuating the uniqueness of his eye colour, the chin hair that crawled just under his chin -which you never expected him to have-, his tousled brown hair, thick eyebrows one eyebrow pierced - also a shock to you-.

He looked like the asshole he was, and it made you fucking sick. Trying so hard to hate him had come to this? Him unmasking himself after saving you? Cruel, you wanted to hate him, get over him not know that all he said about him being the hottest, the dickmaster, pussypounder-whatever, was probably true, that he’s hot. You were embarrassed to feel the nasty hum of jealousy claw at you when you could see the woman in the painting in your peripheral, that was obviously him, with some woman. He was wanted, and taken before.

Flicking his tongue over his lips you caught a glimpse of a tongue piercing because of course the pretty boy would get whatever he wanted without worrying about rules. He shuffled nervously biting his lip as you eyed him shamelessly, which to him was judgemental, his nerves suddenly making him feel sweaty. “Why?” You ask breathily, you were too enchanted to care how he perceived that however. His eyes properly met yours, your legs crossed subconsciously at the zap you felt just by a look.

“Youre fucking dumb you know that? You think I hang with Lute when you’re around because Lute’s there?!” Adam stood after the exclamation, his eyes shooting around the room, hands flying to his hair. “I can’t fucking do this a third time! Fuck!” Tossing a vase across the room you watched unfazed by the sudden explosion, after all this was your thing too.

“I only go round Lute like that because you’re there dumbass, i tried easing up on you; just like Lute said! But you, oh noooo little bitch, just had to be so fucking bratty.” Standing over you sneering, you made no attempts to move, not genuinely scared of his anger but instead, perhaps, a little aroused. You in a way understood where his frustrations came from anyway, you in a sense felt the same way. Might be why you lost it earlier, the yearning had gotten too real, and he seemed so focused on Charlie.

“I am so disgustingly attracted to you, not even in a sex way! And I know how to deal with that a lot better.” Swinging his hand out sassily, he smirked to himself. Plopping next to you he rested his cheek on his hand, elbows rested on his legs. Plucking an orange from the table you watched him eat it, juice moistening his lips. “You think i’d peel fruit, save, house and give water to some broad I genuinely hated? No, stupid.”

Laughing dryly, you looked up away from Adam’s intense gaze. You smiled, eyes falling from the ceiling to your lap. “God i fucking hate you,” Adam’s face looked horrified, opening his mouth to speak, you stopped him grabbing his cheeks and pulling into a searing hot kiss. Your lips crashed against each others’ lazily but passionately, opened mouthed and slightly sloppy. It was slow however, a kiss that wasn’t just a kiss, neither of you wanted to haste past such a moment, such emotion. Adam’s arms wrapped around your hips nudging you forward, understanding the message you moved in closer, your body’s pressing against each other as much as you could from the seated position on the couch.

You dug your fingers into his hair, brainlessly playing with different strands as your tongues slid along one another’s without care, tasting the orange he just ate presently on his lips and to tongue. It felt heavenly being up against him, Adam smelt so good, he was so warm and you could feel how badly he wanted this. His body jittered, his hands gripping you like you’d disappear if he loosened. Pulling away and looking at Adam, he made no effort to move eyes still closed like trying to etched this memory in his mind. You hummed lovingly, brushing hair away from his forehead. “You’re a dumb bitch.” He whispered raspily, opening his eyes, although not by much as they lidded with lust.

You smirked at him brushing your thumb against his bottom lip. “I know. You too.”

[passengerprincessblog]

“Breaking Point” Pt. 2 Lewis Hamilton x reader

Warnings?: angst, jealousy, NSFW, brat kink? Idk

Summary: After a tense argument at the circuit, Y/N leaves without telling Lewis, retreating to the hotel to gather her thoughts. But as she settles in, a late-night call from Lando stirs the pot even further, igniting Lewis’s jealousy when he returns.

WC: 3,000?

Part 1 is here

The hotel room is quiet, the silence heavy and almost suffocating. I pace the length of the room, my mind still racing from everything that happened at the circuit. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to act like that, to throw Lando into our argument just because he didn’t want to face the real issue. It was so petty, so unlike him, and it hurt.

But then again, maybe I shouldn’t have left without telling him. I can already imagine his reaction when he finally realizes I’m gone. But honestly, after the way he brushed me off, I couldn’t stand to stay there any longer.

As I sink onto the bed, my phone buzzes, and I see Jude’s name flash on the screen. I take a deep breath before answering, bracing myself for his no-nonsense tone.

“Hey, Jude,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Y/N,” he replies, his voice clipped and businesslike. “Just wanted to confirm the details for your shoot in LA. You’ll be flying out on Tuesday morning, so clear your schedule for the next month. We’ll need you on set every day, so no personal distractions, alright?”

I swallow, the weight of his words settling over me. “Got it.”

“Good,” he continues, barely pausing for breath. “Now, I’ve sent over the call sheets, locations, and everything else you need to know. Check your email and let me know if you have questions. I don’t want any surprises on set.”

“Right,” I mumble, feeling a flicker of frustration. Jude has always been the type to micromanage every detail, and right now, his stern tone grates on my already frayed nerves.

After a few more instructions, he finally hangs up, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. I set my phone down, trying to push away the nagging guilt creeping into my chest. I shouldn’t feel guilty, I remind myself. I have every right to take this role, to make decisions about my own career.

My phone lights up again. This time, it’s a text from Lewis.

Lewis: “You left?”

I stare at the message, my fingers hovering over the screen. I know he’s upset, but right now, I don’t feel like giving him the satisfaction of an immediate reply. Another text pops up.

Lewis: “So you just walked out without saying anything? Real mature, Y/N.”

I clench my jaw, feeling a spark of anger reignite. He was the one who acted like a child back there, throwing accusations and refusing to see my side of things. I toss my phone onto the bed, deciding not to reply. If he wants to act like this, then let him stew.

It’s nearly 11 p.m. when I hear the faint sound of the door opening, followed by Lewis’s footsteps as he enters the hotel room. I keep my gaze fixed on the window, refusing to turn around and acknowledge him. The tension in the room is immediate, thick and heavy, and I can feel his eyes on me, practically burning a hole in my back.

“Are you going to ignore me all night?” His voice is clipped, a sharp edge to his words that only fuels my annoyance.

“Maybe,” I reply coolly, still refusing to look at him.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, and I hear him drop his bag onto the floor with a thud. “So you just left? Without even bothering to tell me?”

I finally turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “I didn’t think you’d care. You seemed pretty done with me back there.”

“That’s not the point, Y/N,” he says, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t just walk out without saying anything. Especially not when we’re in the middle of something.”

I raise an eyebrow, feeling the anger simmering beneath my skin. “Oh, so now you care about my whereabouts? Funny, because back there, you didn’t seem to care about anything but throwing Lando in my face.”

His jaw tightens, and I can see the flash of irritation in his eyes. “Don’t turn this around on me. You’re the one who just decided to take on a huge role without even talking to me about it.”

I roll my eyes, feeling a surge of defiance rise up. “Lewis, it’s my career. I don’t need your permission to make decisions.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms as he stares me down. “It’s not about permission. It’s about respect. We’re supposed to be a team, Y/N. You could’ve at least let me know before deciding to miss four races.”

I throw my hands up, exasperated. “We’re not married, Lewis! I don’t have to consult you about every little thing in my life!”

He flinches, and I see the hurt flash across his face before he covers it with a cold expression. “I see. So that’s how you see this? As something casual?”

“Sometimes, yeah,” I snap, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “It feels like this relationship is just… too much sometimes. Like you expect me to drop everything for you.”

He stares at me, his face hardening, and I can feel the anger radiating off him. “Too much? You think I’m asking for too much just because I want you to consider my feelings?”

I roll my eyes, a smirk tugging at my lips as I let out a sarcastic laugh. “You’re acting like I committed a crime just because I want to follow my dreams. Newsflash, Lewis, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

His eyes darken, and for a split second, I see something shift in him. Before I can react, he closes the distance between us, his hands gripping my arms firmly as he pushes me back onto the bed. I gasp, more out of surprise than anything, my heart racing as I look up at him as he gets on top of me.

His gaze is intense, a mixture of anger and something else, something I can’t quite place. His hands still grip my arms, his face close to mine, his breath warm against my skin. “You think this is a joke, Y/N?” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous.

I meet his gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe… maybe you’re the one who can’t handle it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face—frustration, irritation, maybe even a hint of desire. He leans in closer, his grip on me tightening just slightly, his gaze locked onto mine. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the tension between us thick and electric.

“You drive me insane,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” I reply, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Maybe now you know how I feel.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the anger and frustration swirling between us, mixing with something deeper, something more primal. His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel my heart hammering in my chest, a rush of anticipation mingling with the resentment I still feel.

His hand moves from my arm to my neck, gently squeezing, his gaze intense and unrelenting. “Is this what you wanted, Y/N? To push me until I snap?”

I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But my silence only seems to fuel him more, his face inches from mine.

“Say something,” he demands, his voice low and commanding.

But instead of a response, I let out a soft laugh, daring him with my gaze. “What, can’t handle a little attitude?”

A dark smirk crosses his face, and for a brief moment, I see the flash of something almost… greedy in his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl.

“Maybe I do,” I reply, my voice barely a whisper, my heart pounding in my chest.

The tension between us is palpable, the line between anger and desire blurring, and I can feel the intensity radiating off him, his frustration and passion mingling into one. For a brief moment, we’re caught in a standoff, neither of us willing to back down, and I know that we’re both teetering on the edge, unsure of what will happen next.

He inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring, and for a moment, I think he might actually snap. But instead, he closes the distance between us, his lips crashing against mine in a bruising kiss. I gasp, surprised by the force of it, but I don't pull away. Instead, I find myself kissing him back just as fiercely, our teeth clashing, our tongues tangling in a desperate, angry dance.

His hands roam over my body, gripping, kneading, as if he's trying to remind himself I’m his. I can feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, the hard planes of his muscles flexing beneath my touch. He tears at my clothes, pulling my dress off, until I'm left in nothing but my underwear.

I reach for him, my hands fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him, to touch him, to have him inside me. He groans, low and guttural, as I grab him through his jeans. I can feel how hard he is, how much he wants me, and it only fuels my own desire.

He inhales sharply, his hips bucking into my touch. "Brat," he mutters, but there's no real anger behind it anymore, just a simmering heat, a desperate need.

I lean in, trailing kisses along his jaw, down his neck, my tongue darting out to taste his skin. He shivers, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me against him. I can feel his hardness pressing against me, and it makes me ache with want.

But then, the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the heated silence, startling both of us. I feel him tense against me, and he lets out an annoyed growl, pulling back slightly, his gaze narrowing as he looks down at me, his breathing ragged.

“Who the hell is calling you at this hour?” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation.

I’m just as annoyed as he is, but before I can even reach for my phone, he snatches it up from the nightstand, his eyes flashing as he glances at the screen. His jaw clenches, and a dark look crosses his face as he turns the screen toward me, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief.

“Lando?” he says, his voice laced with accusation. “Why is he calling you? What the hell does he want?”

I blink, my mind struggling to catch up as I stare at the name flashing on the screen. “I… I don’t know,” I stammer, feeling my heart sink. I honestly have no idea why Lando would be calling me, but I can already feel Lewis’s jealousy simmering, his grip on my phone tightening.

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he glares down at me. “Really, Y/N? You’re telling me you have no idea why he’s calling you at eleven at night?”

I sit up, trying to take my phone from him, but he holds it just out of reach. “Lewis, come on. It’s probably nothing. Lando’s always trying to rally people to go out after a race. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” he repeats, his voice dangerously low. “Why does he even have your number, let alone feel comfortable enough to call you at this time? Do you have any idea how this looks?”

I feel a flash of frustration, the anger from earlier bubbling back up. “Are you seriously doing this right now? It’s Lando. He’s just a friend, Lewis.”

He scoffs, his grip on my phone unyielding as he stares down at me, his eyes hard. “A friend who clearly has no boundaries. Or maybe you’re the one who doesn’t.”

My mouth falls open in shock, and I feel a sting of hurt at his accusation. “Excuse me? You’re the one who’s being unreasonable here. I haven’t done anything to make you doubt me.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him to stop calling and texting you?” he snaps, his voice rising.

“Because it’s not an issue! You’re making it one,” I retort, the fire in my chest burning hotter as I meet his gaze. “If you’re so insecure about my friendship with Lando, that’s on you, not me.”

His eyes flash, and for a moment, I see a hint of vulnerability, quickly masked by anger. “Insecure? I’m not insecure, Y/N. I just don’t appreciate my girlfriend getting late-night calls from other guys, especially not ones who I’m pretty sure are interested in more than just ‘friendship.’”

I let out an exasperated sigh, trying to pull my phone from his grasp, but he holds it firm. “Lewis, it’s not like that. And if you trusted me, you’d know that.”

He stares at me, his gaze sharp, calculating.

Then, slowly, he holds the phone out, his expression unreadable. "Fine. Answer it, then. Let's see what he wants.

I glance between him and the phone, my heart pounding as I reluctantly take it from his hand. My fingers are shaking a bit, and I press the screen to answer, bringing it up to my ear.

"Hello?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

But before I can get another word out, I feel Lewis's hands on me again, his fingers gripping my waist as he leans down, his lips finding my neck. I gasp, my words faltering as he presses soft, heated kisses along the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

"YIN? You there?" Lando's voice crackles through the phone, cheerful and oblivious. I can barely concentrate, Lewis's lips warm against my skin, his hands trailing up and down my sides, pulling me closer.

"Uh... yeah, I'm here," I manage to say, my voice coming out breathy, almost shaky.

"What's up?"

"Just wanted to see if you were up for going out tonight," Lando replies, his tone light. "A bunch of us are heading to a bar nearby.

Figured I'd check if you wanted to join."

Lewis's mouth trails down my neck, his lips grazing my collarbone, and I struggle to keep my composure, biting my lip to stifle a soft gasp. He's doing this on purpose, I realize, trying to keep me distracted, knowing full well what he's doing to me.

"Um... I don't think I can make it," I finally say, my voice wavering slightly as Lewis continues his assault on my neck, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make my pulse race. "I... I think l'Il be staying in tonight."

"Oh, alright," Lando says, sounding a little disappointed. "Well, if you change your mind, just text me. We'll be out pretty late.”

I try to mumble a response, but Lewis presses his lips to a particularly sensitive spot on my neck, and I feel a shiver run through me, my fingers gripping his shoulders as I struggle to keep my balance.

"Yeah... okay," I manage, barely aware of what I'm saying.

I hear Lando say goodbye, and I quickly end the call, dropping the phone onto the bed as Lewis's hands tighten around my waist, pulling me flush against him. His gaze is intense, his eyes dark and filled with something primal, something possessive.

"Staying in tonight, huh?" he murmurs, a smirk playing on his lips as his fingers trace slow, teasing circles on my hips.

I let out a shaky breath, meeting his gaze with defiance. "What was that about?" I demand, though my voice betrays me, coming out softer than I intended.

He raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he pulls me even closer, his face mere inches from mine. "Just making sure you're focused on the right person," he murmurs, his voice low, sending a thrill down my spine.

I roll my eyes, though I can't hide the small smile tugging at my lips. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Maybe," he replies, his tone playful but with an edge of intensity. "But I don't like sharing."

And then he's on me again, his mouth trailing down my neck, his teeth nipping, his tongue soothing the sting. I arch into him, my nails raking down his back, leaving red lines in their wake. He hisses, the pain seeming to spur him on, his hands sliding beneath my thighs, pushing them apart, spreading me wide for him.

I can feel the heat of his gaze on my most intimate parts, and I squirm beneath him, suddenly self-conscious. I feel his hand slide under my thong, onto me. His fingers are there, stroking, teasing, and all thoughts of embarrassment fly out the window. He circles my clit with his thumb, his fingers dipping inside me, stretching me, filling me, and I cry out, my back arching off the bed.

"You're so fucking wet," he murmurs, his voice rough with arousal.

I nod, wordless, lost in the sensation of his touch, the way he's making me feel. I love being touched like this, with such hunger, such desperation, and it's intoxicating. I want more, I want everything he has to give me.

I moan, my head falling back against the pillow as he works me expertly, his touch rough and demanding. "Is this what you wanted, Y/N?" he growls, his fingers pumping in and out of me. "To be fucked like the brat you are?"

I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response, but my body betrays me, my hips lifting to meet his hand, my walls clenching around his fingers. “Yes… please.” I whine.

His fingers slow their relentless pace, and I let out a frustrated moan. "Ah ah ah," he tuts, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "What was that, Y/N? I couldn't quite hear you over all that begging."

I flush, embarrassed and turned on in equal measure. "Please," I say again, louder this time, my voice cracking with need. "Please fuck me, Lewis. I want it… don’t tease me." I whine.

He rewards me with a particularly deep thrust, his fingers curling inside me and making me cry out. "Good girl," he praises, his voice low and approving. "Such a good little brat for me. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll give this bratty girl exactly what she’s begging for." He says lowly, promising something more intense after this.

He continues to work me over with his fingers, his thumb circling my clit in maddeningly slow strokes. My body is wound tight, teetering on the edge of release, but he keeps me there, denying me the satisfaction I crave.

"Lewis, please," I whine, tugging at his hair, my nails digging into his scalp. "I can't…Please let me…." I beg for permission.

He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear as he growls, "Cum for me, Y/N. Cum all over my fingers like the desperate little baby you are."

And with those filthy words, I shatter as I orgasm.

———————————————————

Note: part three is up! HERE

Hope you guys are liking it! If you are please like and follow so I can know to write more!

I’m new to writing stuff like this so 😅 sorry if it’s not perfect!

[luvrodite]

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.

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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.” 

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.

.

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. 

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.

.

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.

[the-faceless-bride]

🌊ᒪEᑕᕼE Oᖴ ᔕIᖇEᑎᔕ🪷

The boys woke up to an odd night. The smell of blood is all they could focus on. At first, it made them drool. But they all got suspicious once they remembered they were the only ones where.

They all dropped down and after confirming it was none of them they all ran to the curtains that covered Star and Laddie. And after frantically waking them up and fussing over Laddie. They noticed something.

A black bag sat against the wall.

It was full of stakes, bottles of holy water, blessed daggers, and of course... Garlic.

Typical.

But then that begs the question. If the Hunters bag was here...Where is the hunter? The boys realize this and it seemed a haunting song began to travel through the cave walls.

"La da de~ La dada la lada lada da~"

Marko and Paul look to each other as Dwayne and David walked deeper into the cave, the terror twins slowly followed.

"you hear that?" Dwayne asks as he tilts his ear into the air, "hear what?" David asks "What does it sound like?" David continued. They all had their own special ability, Davids was of tampering with the mind, Paul's nose, Marko's ability to observe behavior, and Dwayne with extraordinary hearing.

"it sounds like... Singing?" Dwayne answered though it sounded more like a question.

"singing?" Paul asked looking from Dwayne to Marko.

"La dade lada da lada da da da~"

The song grows louder as they continue down the dark new narrow path of the cave they never bothered to explore before this.

The closer to the song the richer the smell of iron, sparking an uncomfortable hunger within them. They didn't like how hungry they felt, especially in a time of potential danger.

"La da dee la da da la- dada ah ah~!"

The more they moved and now the more they heard the more they felt the need to press forward. Now not fueled with caution and panic, turned curious and... Enchanted?

The boys found themselves in an open part of the cave a large hole in the floor the reflections of water from the moonlight across the dusty cave walls.

The sound of dripping blood and ripping flesh echoed off the cracked walls,

"my hearts been priced by Cupid~"

The boys slowly and quietly made their way further,

"I disdain all glittering gold~"

All four pairs of eyes focused on the beauty of the creature with the enchanting voice,

"There is nothing can console me-"

The glimmering scales, bright eyes, and body covered in gems and pearls,

"but my jolly sailor bold.~"

"whoah" Was the first thing to leave Pauls mouth, causing the monster to fully turn it's body towards them.

Their eyes had a capturing glow, mouth with a line almost ear to ear like a snake, small scales along their soft skin, and seaweed tangled in their hair.

The creature smiled sharp rows of teeth exposed...

"Are you my jolly sailor bold?" the creature asked a rasp and unnatural squeak to their voice making them sound doubled and distorted.

... A siren.

A/n: 2000? FOR ME? REALLY?! THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!! also Monster Heram? Phantom reader, Siren reader, what's next? Idk you tell me! @ghoulgeousimmaculate here's something for you, thank you for the Marko fic earlier, it was very yummy.

[inkedinfusions]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐲 | eren jaeger chapter 11

⊱𖣂⊰ | In which you fall into a fictional world with the key to Pandora's box.

── ★ ˙ ̟ . 🗝 .ᐟ.ᐟ masterlist

⊰– prev   next–⊱

𝟏𝟏 | 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤

chapter word count: 3.7 k

content warnings: floch forster jumpscare warning, blanket warnings

a/n: Last chapter of the year! Happy New Years everyone. Sorry Floch lovers I really did try to be nice to him but he started being an asshole outta nowhere. He is still Very traumatized from Shiganshina part two and still holds the grudge against the volunteers, because he isn't yet at his Eldian Restoration arc. So, you know. Anyway. Also longest chapter to date! Idk how I went from thinking I wasn't going to finish this in time to writing a ton more of what I expected. Like always, special thanks to my beta reader for proofreading my stuff and picking out the name of the chapter when I ran out of creative juice :) edit: WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME I WROTE THE WRONG NAME LMAO

Thanks for reading!

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 way back to the tent barracks when the sun starts to poke its form over the horizon, turning the dark void of the sea into a mixture of gold and water. Loose rocks crunch underfoot as you make your way around the small alcove, tracing back the path you had taken before in your erratic state. 

You are much calmer now than before, even if the conversation with Eren mainly served to confirm your greatest fears. The explosions, the church, someone – Sasha, probably – lying dead on the floor, the gruesome march of the Titans. Even so, you know that panicking won't help you at this moment. 

It was frustrating before, because you’ve known this for quite some time now, and yet the incoherence of your half formed thoughts wouldn’t stop flowing no matter how much you tried to rationalize them. 

That is, until you found something else to focus on, someone else to share it with. 

So you trot along the wild grass, which sways gently in the morning wind, shaking off the remnants of the cool morning dew. Insects begin to wake up, buzzing all around, and the birds begin to sing from the trees, some more awake than others. 

The camp is already bursting with life, a completely different landscape than the day before, for now there were not only a few scattered soldiers here and there, but a brigade of people walking around. 

As you crane your neck around to see, you notice that a handful of them seem to be on break or in between tasks, as they walk leisurely around the structures. Others are hauling what seem to be a couple of crates onto a cart, and several more are tending to some horses. 

“This isn’t the way to the barracks,” you tell Eren, after realizing you are severely off the path that arrives there. 

“I figured you wanted to eat first,” he says. “You didn’t wake up for lunch yesterday. Or dinner.”

Oh. You really have to fix that – it's only when Eren says this that you feel the emptiness of your stomach, only fueled by the smell of food emanating from the ever approaching canteen. 

It is a temporary structure, just like all of the others in the camp, and so it carries with itself the flimsiness that is only present in things as fleeting as passing thoughts. Yet the canteen lingers just like many of your thoughts seem to do, providing all weary soldiers a hot meal and a chance to socialize with their fellow peers. 

You still attract some glances here and there, mainly from soldiers who didn’t get the chance to gawk at you yesterday, only knowing of your existence from the rumors that you're sure have already circulated back to the Walls. 

“What's for breakfast today, then?” you ask.

“Porridge, I think,” he says. “Get ready to eat the same thing almost everyday,” he continues, cracking a grin.

“I can live with that,” you say, pausing briefly before going on. “Back home, my parents left for business trips at times, so I just learned to do basic dishes and ate the same thing everyday.”

Unlike past instances where you have talked about your life before the whole… incident, you don’t feel a gaping hole inside your lungs, where all the air you attempt to take in leaves suddenly. There is nostalgia and longing in your voice for sure, but the hurt you had experienced at first when you tried to remember them had lessened in might. 

You noted this with satisfaction, not wanting to be chained by emotional thinking. Before you stood a road that would probably span for a few years, and you needed to think as logically as possible in order to traverse it. 

Eren nods and you both continue walking, until, to your surprise, he shares his own story about his own mother, Carla. 

“My mom used to make me and Mikasa little loaves of bread for us to take when we went out to look for firewood. We used to cup our hands around them in winter to keep warm.”

“Oh,” you say. “I'm sure she had a wonderful spirit.”

“Yeah,” he says. “She did.”

You aren’t sure why he brought up his mom at that moment. You know that the death of Carla Jaeger is one of his principal motivations in what he deems his goals to be, but it is also a deeply personal part of his past. While it would not be weird for someone to relate with their own story, it is unusual for him to share so. 

You resume your comfortable silence, enveloped by the sounds of the lively camp. Your steps aren’t coordinated by any means, but there is still a harmony to be found in the way your feet strike the earth. 

Eren steps to the side to let you in first, although you still have to wait for him to come in before you move forward in any direction. You could adapt to a certain point, having seen the series and thus knowing many of the protocols used – also a courtesy from Zeke who had transcribed some of Reiner’s reports. It was fun to memorize them, less so to watch them burn and disintegrate on the stove after you finished. 

You aren’t sure if you are lucky or not that you were dropped off in such an era. On one hand, it could definitely be worse; you could’ve appeared right when Eren activated the Rumbling, or at least months before, when there was not much you could do. You could have been found by literally anyone else but the Volunteers and your safety in Marley could’ve been in jeopardy, and that was not even touching on the opportunity to sail to the island presented by the faction. 

Could be better though. You could’ve never stepped foot in this world, nor the horrors that accompanied it. But now you are here, and so now you would do your best to ensure their happy ending – or at least one where genocide wasn’t the endgame. 

“So do I just take a bowl…?” you ask, unsure, as you approach a line you assume is meant for people who want their breakfast. 

“Yeah, and a spoon. They’re right there,” Eren says, pointing to a tray. “And then after we are done you just put any dirty dishes on that cart over there.”

He gestures to your left, and sure enough, there is a cart half full of dirty dishes just beyond where the line ends and the soldiers in queue are given their food. Although the vibe is definitely military, it still reminds you of a school cafeteria. The young median age of the soldiers definitely has something to do with it, and if you were feeling more pessimistic you would definitely dwell on it for longer than necessary. 

But today hunger triumphs it all, so you follow Eren to the queue, awaiting your turn. The line moves quickly, so it is not long before it's your turn to grab a bowl and spoon. 

The porridge is simple, beige, crumply. Not particularly appetizing but definitely better than you expected. It was similar in consistency to the oatmeal you used to prepare when Zeke went away on missions and you couldn’t muster up the energy to make anything more complex.

“This way,” Eren says, guiding you to thread around the occupied tables. 

On the other side of the canteen sits a table filled with the only people you recognize in the sea of soldiers; the members of Squad Levi. 

From where you were standing a few moments ago, and even now as you’re approaching, they look like any other teenagers during a lunch break, laughing and chatting and eating. But there is a weariness that hangs around them all, one you presume to be mainly because of the recent battle. Yeah, a year had passed, but you know that what happened there was something that clung to oneself. 

It is different from seeing them on the screen. There you couldn’t make sense of the atmosphere, but here it is clearer than ever that these are just teenagers forced to grow up fast in order to survive their world. 

As if sensing your gaze, Armin turns around to look at you, waving you over when he realizes who you are and who you are with. 

They are not in the corner, per se, but they are still hidden by a few full tables. Just as you approach, one of said tables empties, its former occupants chatting as they walk towards the exit. Now you know why you hadn’t seen them when you first entered; they blocked the view from where you stood. 

Eren greets them with a smile as he sits next to Mikasa. There are two other empty seats, one next to him and another one right in front of it, next to Jean. You hesitate for a second before choosing the first option. Jean was nice enough to you yesterday, even if he was kinda wary of you, but you don't want to make him more uncomfortable so you take a seat to the far right, sandwiching Eren between you and Mikasa. 

“Uh, hi,” you offer, a bit lackluster. 

“Hello!” Armin says, as positive as ever. He puts you a bit more at ease, and you hope that your eyes convey that to him. 

Sasha, seated in front to the far left, greets you in similar fashion, although she doesn’t speak because she is currently too preoccupied with scarfing down her porridge. Next to her, Connie raises a hand in greeting, and Jean, seated directly to your left diagonally, nods at you. Mikasa, on the other side of Eren, nods at you too. 

You feel like the new girl that has been taken in by the popular clique at school, if the clique consisted of humanity’s best soldiers and the school was their military branch. You felt severely out of place – like with Reiner, you knew too much about these people, yet also too little. You had seen their most vulnerable, their most raw moments in 4k, and still you didn’t know how to start a conversation with them. 

“Did you settle in okay? I know it's not the most welcoming environment,” Armin says. 

You suck in a breath, thinking back on your panic attack in the early dawn. “Yeah,” you lie. “The cot was nice after staying a day in a storage room. I don't recommend it if you're a fan of having a working spine.”

Connie chuckles at your half assed attempt at a joke. “Speaking of, we saw you disembark from the side, like…” he trails off, before pointing at you with his spoon when he finds the word he's looking for. “Like you were sneaking out. Were you?”

Sasha elbows him, almost sparking a fight between them, before Jean slaps both of them on the back of the head. “Stop squabbling,” he says. 

“Never thought I’d side with Jean,” Eren mutters, low enough for only you and Mikasa to hear. 

“I was… undercover? Yeah, undercover. I don’t have the age to pass for a soldier, so we had to get creative.”

“Oh!” Armin exclaims. “Undercover? Like a detective?”

“Much more boring than that, I promise you,” you say, forming an x over your chest with your arms. “I just did nothing for a day. I wasn’t allowed to leave the storage room, and even if the door wasn’t locked I’d be way too nervous to do that.”

“You were locked there?” asked Mikasa, her brows furrowing just a fraction. “What if the ship sank?”

“Uh,” you say, blanking. “I’d… figure it out? That’s actually a great point.” You mutter the last part, bringing a hand to your chin. It was great indeed that the ship did not sink. You weren’t sure if you would have been saved if it did. 

“It sounds to me like you were more of a prisoner there than an ally,” pipes up an unknown voice behind you.

You turn around to meet the owner of the voice, and you come face to face with a redhead with the most atrocious bowl cut you had ever seen. Almost everyone seated at your table groans at the unexpected arrival, and you squint at him, trying to figure out if you do know him. 

“Get lost, Forster,” Jean says, irritation clear on his face. 

“I'm just getting to know the new recruit,” he says, sitting in front of you. “So?”

“Sorry, what?” you say, hanging onto the last name Jean uttered. 

As far as you know, there is only one character with that last name; Floch Forster. And you are no fan of his. Worse, he was one of the only people you were glad to see gone. Now, though, that he was just another teenager, and a traumatized one at that, you feel a little guilty for smiling at the wake of his death. 

But let it be known that Floch Forster was one annoying little prick. 

“Your allies?” he repeats. “They locked you in a room?”

“Where are you going with this?” you ask.

Floch shrugs, clearly ignoring the glares he gets from certain people at the table. “Just wondering about your role in all of this. If you are as important as they say.”

“Can you leave?” Eren asks, although it's not really a question. “She’s–”

“Yeah, yeah, the reason you remembered Marley’s ship came yesterday and whatnot,” Floch interrupts. “So? Do you have the answers to all of our problems, new girl?”

You twirl your spoon in your hand, swirling the porridge while you’re at it. You would love to snap back at Floch with an equally snippy comment, but the truth is that you don’t have the answers to all their problems. If they were calculus problems you would have some of the formulas required to solve it, but the results are still an unknown variable to you. 

“I don’t know what my place in all of this is yet,” you say, moving your gaze upwards to look at Floch dead in the eye. “But I am being honest when I say I want to help. Even if you choose not to believe me.”

“You’re right,” he says, notably not even taking your words into consideration. “I don’t. You’re seen as the enemy here, new girl. I suggest you get with the program.”

You sigh as Floch gets up and walks away, presumably to wherever he’s assigned to in the morning. “Well, that went well.”

“He’s been an ass since Shiganshina,” Connie says. 

“Oh, he was an ass way before that,” Eren pipes in. “He just changed targets from Armin to Y/n today.”

Armin gives you an apologetic smile at the mention of his name, but you wave him off, not wanting to imply that Floch’s behavior was somehow his fault. 

“It's fine,” you repeat for what is like the third time in these last two days. “I get it.”

“Do you really?” Jean asks, with strikingly less antagonism than Floch. If asked, you would say that his tone carries more curiosity than hostility. 

“I know things, remember?” you say, strangely confident. “That’s not something everyone would be comfortable with. And I can deduce that that guy’s personality is not one of understanding.”

“You can say that again,” Sasha says. “By the way, are you going to finish that?”

Sasha points at your half finished porridge, forgotten in the midst of Floch’s arrival. To be honest, you aren’t very hungry anymore, but you make an effort to finish the meal, not wanting to go hungry in the middle of the day. You mouth a sorry towards her, and finish your breakfast. 

After leaving the canteen, you part ways with the others, finding yourself once again alone with Mikasa. You walk with her towards your tent, and you debate on bringing up what happened last night. 

“Hey, uh, Mikasa?” you start. “I’m very sorry about what happened last night.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” she says in that unwavering voice of hers. “We all get nightmares from time to time.”

“Oh,” you say, taken aback. “Still, though. Sorry.”

Mikasa nods, and while others would take offense at her cold gesture, you instead see the almost imperceptible friendly tone. If she really did hate you, or at the very least didn’t care in the slightest, she wouldn’t have woken up Eren to go after you. 

You smile, entering the tent you share with the girl. The blanket you vaguely remember tripping over is still on the floor, so you pick it up and fold it over your cot. 

“We are leaving for Mitras in about an hour,” Mikasa says behind you. “I left some clothes for you to change into there.”

Sure enough, there was a small bundle of garments at the foot of your cot, which you had somehow overlooked when tidying up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “Is there anything else I need to bring?”

“No,” Mikasa says. Then she turns to you, pausing her packing. “Do you know how to ride a horse?”

You are only half surprised at the question that seemingly came out of nowhere. “I just know the basics. I've never actually ridden a horse before.”

Writing and reading the Eldian alphabet, self defense, gun safety, lies by omission, horse riding. Those are all things you had to master before Zeke officially agreed to let you go to the island, citing them as indispensable things every young lady should know. Hell, he even threw in some etiquette lessons for if and when you met with the queen. 

Mikasa nods, turning back to her belongings. “You’ll be riding in the cart then. Even so, it was improbable for you to get your own horse in the first place, since you aren’t part of the regiment.”

“Is that a thing?” you ask. “Like, you get into the military so you get your own horse?”

“You could say that.”

“Sick.”

She frowns, pausing again. “No, we aren’t sick. Are you? Do you need me to show you the infirmary?”

You feel heat rush to the tips of your ears and you splutter, head reeling from her unexpected answer. “No! No, no, uh– it's just an expression. It means it's cool, you know?”

“I didn’t,” she says, schooling her expression. “But I know now. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

“I’m all good,” you quickly amend before correcting yourself. “I mean, not all good, cause I get headaches from time to time, but like, good enough to be… yeah. I’m good.” You cut yourself off when you realize you are ranting, but add a smile at the end to seal the deal. 

“Oh,” Mikasa says. “I get headaches too. There are some teas I’ve found that help.”

“Yeah, thank you,” you say, not wanting to shut down her way of helping you, even if you know that her headaches aren’t something that can be dealt with in the physical world. “They did?”

“Here,” she says, handing you a few packets of tea leaves. “I leave that brewing for five minutes and the headaches subside. You could also chew on them if there is no time to boil water.”

You nod, taking the crinkly packets in your hands. The leaves move downwards when you turn them around, staying within the confinements of its bundled pouch. “Is each packet a portion?”

“Depends on how you like your tea,” Mikasa confirms, zipping up her things. “Yes, if you like it strong. Otherwise, no.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.”

Mikasa leaves the tent, and stands outside for a moment, giving you some privacy to change your clothes. The dark colored bottoms pair well with a sort of cream top, flowy enough so that the texture doesn’t bother you, given it is rougher than what you are accustomed to. When you are done, you follow behind her with your gathered things, ducking under the flap of the tent as you exit. 

“All done,” you say.

She simply nods, going back to her usual silent self as she directs you to a far corner of the stables, where everyone who would be going to Mitras stood. Some were getting the horses ready amongst the smell of hay and animals, others were double checking items in carts, one less full than the others. 

Armin spots you before the others and he walks towards you with a smile. You can see the other members of his squad in the background, each doing their own tasks in preparation for the road, already accompanied by their horses. You are even tempted to make a Jean-horse joke, but you contain yourself in time, knowing the boy would not appreciate it. 

 “Hi!” Armin says, with that cadence of his. “Are you ready for the road?”

“I guess so,” you say. “Uh, should I tell the Volunteers I’m leaving or–” 

“They’ve been notified you will be unavailable,” cuts a no nonsense voice behind Armin. Levi flanks the boy, stopping right in front of your little trio. “Ackerman,” he continues, “go help Jaeger with the boxes. His efficiency leaves much to be desired.”

Mikasa nods and walks towards Eren, who stands next to a big pile of boxes. You hear him groan when Mikasa starts helping him, but quickly silences himself at her glare. 

“Anyways,” Armin starts. “I’ll be going with you on the cart, so feel free to ask anything!”

“Don’t try anything,” Levi says.

“Yeah, thanks Armin,” you say, a bit hesitant, before nodding at the captain, so that he knows that his message is clear. 

Someone in the background shouts something, spurring everyone else to their own stations. Armin taps you in the arm when you get distracted, and guides you to the wooden open wagon, where you take a seat in one of the two benches that line the sides. Armin starts chattering about something, and you nod and smile when it is appropriate to do so. 

After a while, the wagon lurches forward as the horses begin walking, and you start on your journey to Mitral, capital city of Wall Sina.

taglist:

@dressycobra7 @xngelsau @bloodchapell @i-think-im-adorable13 @luna4mnoon

@yuuuumii @kermittears @binluvsu @luvsymai

ask or comment to be added!

[half-dead-writer]

Author's Note hi sorry my SPTO hype died, I will feed you Stranger Things content now. also trying new post layout, idk if i fw it yet but let's see

You Bet! (1/?)

Eddie accepts a bet. If he's able to hold a date for a week, Gareth will buy him new strings for his guitar.

character: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things) words: 2,310 reader: gender-neutral warnings: no beta

𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 + 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ‣ 𝕾𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝔪𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

The lingering smell of weed filled the whole room, sinking it's teeth into the two men's clothes.

"Yeah, as if," Gareth's disbelieving chuckle only fueled Eddie's growing frown.

"What, you think I'll be single my whole life?" He took a drag of the joint held between his fingers, somewhat mindful not to blow the smoke right into Gareth's amused face.

"Haven't seen you with anyone lately," he smirked, taking the object from Eddie's grip to take a hit as well. "Or, scratch that, ever. Almost making me think you're going celibate."

Eddie merely scoffed, choosing to occupy his now free fingers with a tug on his ring, "I just haven't tried hard enough." He said, only half joking. It's not like he hasn't tried asking out a handful of people a few years back. As luck would have it, his advances were rejected. He blamed his buzzcut and lack of now more established charisma for his shitty love life, and nowadays, he was called a freak, which lowered his chances even more. But maybe, if a right person came into his life, he could win them over. He just preferred to focus on what he already had, satisfying his need for company with his friend and DnD campaigns.

Although Gareth's quips were playful, they did sting a little. Part of him knew it could be his reality, but that's not what he wanted to think about during this nice evening.

"Uhuh." Gareth let the smoke out of his lungs, holding his need to cough. "You know, if you managed to get a date, I think it'd be a miracle."

"Yeah?" His response came back with some challenge in his voice, mostly to distract himself from the awful feelings threatening to rise to the surface. "You think I can't woo someone with my amazing charm? Watch me." He leaned back on Gareth's couch, crossing his arms behind his head, throwing his legs on the table and pretending his cockiness wasn't just a coping mechanism for his awfully bad luck in dating.

Gareth chuckled wholeheartedly, "you're so sure about that?"

"Sure, man," he shrugged, keeping an aura of self assurance, although not denying it might have just all been a joke. He knew he would fail.

Narrowing his gaze in an amusement, Gareth spoke, "If you do manage to get a date, I'll buy you those new strings you wanted. It has to last for at least a week, though."

Eddie's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah. Of course, if I confirm this person really does exist, and wants to date you. Deal?"

Eddie hesitated for a moment, returning to his previous sitting position, now hunched over, with elbows resting on his knees. If he really was able to convince someone, even just for a week, this would be a good deal. Minus the amount of cringe he'd have to go through to get into that position first.

Humming in thought to add to his dramatics, he reached out his hand to shake Gareth's hand after a while.

"You drive a hard bargain, dude," he smiled back with confidence. "Deal."

- - -

Just as Eddie returned from his hangout at Gareth's house, the phone in his pocket buzzed, lighting itself up with a clear message on it's screen. He was able to read it after lazily taking it out.

Y/N Heyyy my favorite friend can I get some weed?

"Y/N." Eddie thought to himself. Maybe there's a chance he will win the bet, after all.

Quickly typing his response and arranging a meeting at his trailer, Eddie laid his upper body on his bed, his phone carelessly being thrown beside him. Staring at the ceiling, he thought of how to approach the topic. Your friendship was long and stable enough for his request to not be outrageous, but of course, he had to acknowledge how sudden it would be to you. Over the course of your friendship, neither of you had a partner - at least from what he knew of your dating history - so maybe it would benefit you both in the end? Getting some practice before the real thing. Mulling over the possible conversation, he concluded the worst reaction he'd get is you brushing him off with an amused chuckle at the bizzarre offer, at best, you'd have a funny story to reminisce together. Having calmed down his silly doubts, he got up from his bed with a pep in his step, a necessary hurry from expecting you to arrive in just a few minutes. Where did he put his stash again?

His train of thought was abruptly stopped when he heard the familiar sound of your calm knocking at the door. He halted his search, scurrying towards the entrance of his trailer, pulling the handle to reveal your figure before him.

"Hey," you started, offering a chill smile after seeing the face of your best friend, wearing his Hellfire t-shirt, some comfortable pants and and the always messy hair of his. You were no different, arriving at the place with an outfit someone could mistake for your pajamas. You lived nearby, it was late, you really wanted some weed and an unexpected visit at his home didn't really require you to dress in your best attire.

"Welcome to my lair, what can I get you?" He moved past the doorway, bowing theatrically as you entered.

"Your best product, my good sir." You replied, corners of your lips raising up at the dramatic gesture. Making yourself fully comfortable, you took a seat on his bed, the mattress creaking slightly under your weight.

"We offer only the best for the best," you caught his playful wink before he crouched beside his nightstand, "you're lucky that you qualify."

"After three years of friendship I'd be offended if I wouldn't," you exhaled through your nose amused, glancing over his shoulder as he looked for the little green bag.

"Aha! Knew I did put it there," he exclaimed satisfied, holding the desired product. "And how much do you want?"

"How much is in there?"

"About 5 gram," he estimated, looking at the bag.

"I got, uh… 25 bucks," you deadpanned, taking the cash out of your pocket.

"You do know you're robbing me blind here, right?" Eddie threw his head down as he chuckled.

"I know, I know, you can take some off of it, or I can pay you the rest later?" You offered a guilty grin, painfully aware of the cost.

"Tell you what," Eddie sighed, occupied a spot beside you, "I'll give you this for twenty, and in return, you're gonna do something for me." He flashed you his teeth, a mysterious offer sparking your curiosity.

"Yeah?" With your interest fully peaked, Eddie knew his mission was almost halfway in his reach. "And what would that be?"

Setting the weed aside, his eyes wandered through his room, focused on nothing particular. He always had to make his announcements dramatic, so you patiently waited until the words would finally come out of his mouth. Breaking the silence while playing with a loose strand of his hair, he started, "So… me and Gareth had a bet."

"Uhuh?" You tilted your head, smiling and ready for the grand reveal.

He bit back on his shameful grin, only slightly avoiding your eye contact as he continued, "we bickered some during our last hangout, he said I wouldn't be able to get a date, ever, I clapped back that it wouldn't be impossible, yadda yadda, he said if I got a date and could hold it for at least a week, he would buy me the new strings for my sweetheart," at last, he returned to your gaze, probing for your reaction.

"And… how do you plan to do that?" You asked hesitantly, unsure if your assumption was correct. His goofy grin was an enough of an answer for you even before he confirmed your doubts.

"Well, since you're one of the few people I can trust, I thought, hey, why not recruit you to help me with this conundrum?" He leaned a bit closer to you, enough to the point where you could smell his cheap deodorant, fighting with the everpresent stench of weed. His suggestion made you look like a deer in headlights, forcing you to take a second to process what he just said, until an uncomfortable laughter fell out of your lips.

"Really?" You asked, words involuntarily forming, just to cover the silence that threatened to invade your little conversation.

"Yeah, why?" His big brown eyes skimmed over your unsure expression, almost making him wish he had kept his mouth shut.

"I mean-" You stuttered, the painfully awkward chuckle still insistent to be let out, "That's- unexpected."

You physically felt as if your body had a full on system shutdown. The inability to speak cringed you even more than probably more than obvious red color on your face. Eddie couldn't be aware of your crush, could he? You made sure to keep it under wraps, fully masking the way his laughter made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

He tilted his head, still smiling, his hair briefly covering bits of his confident facade, "What? Scared of lil' ol' me? I swear I wouldn't be such a bad boyfriend. At least for a week."

Your mouth still hung wide open, torn between going along with his poor mockery of a rent-a-partner, and sparing yourself the heartbreak when it would inevitably end. Pushing yourself to stop the pathetic display, you tried to search for more solutions.

"Have you uh, already asked other people about it?" You haven't disagreed yet, but Eddie's expression turned into a small frown as soon as he heard the hesitation in your voice.

"What other people?" He scoffed, almost offended.

Taking a moment to think, the best you could manage was "…Steve?"

That made him bark out a laugh. "Steve?"

"What, you think you're too good for him?" You tried to joke to ease the rising tension in you.

"Don't make me laugh," Eddie suppressed his pathetic chuckle, "Steve would beat me up if I asked."

"He would not!" You retorted, an almost surprised expression on your face.

"I know, I know," he grinned back, amused at how quickly you shook your head, a hint of smile replacing the nervous furrow of your brows. "But I would rather date-" He stopped himself, figuring out the wording could probably scare you away even more, "I would rather pretend to date you than Steve."

"Please?" He prolonged the word with the emphasis in the middle, fluttering his lashes in an obviously exaggerated manner. "You could do that for me, right? I really do need those strings."

You didn't even register how close he got to you during his plea, feeling hot from the sudden intrusion on your personal space. Eddie probably didn't even notice, too caught up in trying to persuade you to take the deal. Right, the deal. It was all for that damn 5 gram. You tried your hardest not to chicken out and move a bit further away, instead settling on directing your eyes on a very uninteresting color of his walls.

Sighing, you felt the uncomfortable smile occupying your face, "This weed better make me see stars, Munson." You said as if it'd be the hardest task you'd have to go through, which technically wasn't far from the truth. Eddie was ecstatic after hearing your confirmation, his arms already open wide to pull you into a bear hug.

"You're the best, sweetheart." He beamed, not even knowing how taunting his use of a pet name was to you.

"Yeah, yeah, I know I am." You halfly reciprocated the friendly affection, patting his back your unobstructed hand, already witnessing the effects of your new situation. Thankfully he wouldn't be able to feel your sweaty palm through the fabric of his shirt. What have you gotten yourself into?

Not wanting the hug to be too long and overwhelming, Eddie backed off, leaving you to miss the feeling of his body against yours. You wanted to be hugged more. Specifically by him.

"Well, alright then, um, boyfriend," the word felt especially foreign and illegal on your tongue in regards to him, "guess I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, for sure," he grinned, entangling his hand into his messy locks and combing through them as a way to release some tension, "oh, don't forget this," he held you the weed bag, which you quickly grabbed out of his hands. You didn't wanna leave in a rush, but under the current circumstances, you felt excused enough to do so.

Getting up from the bed, you were about to take your leave, one foot already crossing the border outside, until you heard him call your name.

"Kiss goodbye?"

You halted your step, rapidly turning your head to meet his shit-eating grin, halfway done raising his hands in mock surrender. "Joking, joking." And this bastard had the audacity to laugh.

Rolling your eyes to hide the way his playful request made you feel, you decided to respond in a similar manner. By blowing him a kiss. He pretended to catch it in his hand, then pulling it close to his heart, showing how enamoured he was. You chuckled, checking if the weed was still in your pocket before leaving his trailer. Eddie looked through the window, seeing you take the first steps towards your house. On your way there, you couldn't stop the thoughts appearing in your mind, flowing freely as if a dam was forcefully broken, "why did I do that, why did I do that-"

- - -

Eddie took the time to mull over the situation that happened a few minutes ago. It went... alright. Could be worse. One thing seemed to be missing, though.

"Fuck. They forgot to pay me."

[gilverrwrites]

Hi can you please do 12 no underwear? For more human!Cas? I was thinking maybe their out in public ands the reader is wearing a short skirt fo something and Cas gets all turned on and wound up or something like that idk only if you want to. THANK YOU

Take Me Home

Pairing: Human!Castiel/Fem!Reader (Season 9)

Rating: M/18+

I guess this is an unofficial installment of the 'If you will have me, I am yours' series. GN!Pronouns used, but reader does have AFAB anatomy.

Please remember: to always lift with your legs. (The actions performed in the below fic are performed by fictional characters!)

Words: 885

Content: Semi-public foreplay, semi-public nudity, teasing Cas, Cas teasing you, dirty talk, size difference.

Excerpt: “No underwear?” He whispers. “Is that for my enjoyment?” “Who else?” You giggle, wiggling your ass back until it rubs against Cas’s crotch. The hiss that escapes his lips only fueling your fire.  

“Okay!” You huff, depositing your armful of sundries into the cart Cas was nonchalantly following you around the store with for your late-night grocery shop. “What next?”

“Ummmm.” You stare at his lips as he purses them while examining your communal shopping list. “Rice.”

“Rice, yes!” You confirm before hurrying over to the next aisle, occasionally turning back to make sure Cas was close behind you. When you spot the 5kg bag of rice on the bottom shelf, you take a moment to sheepishly look up and down the aisle, confirming the two of you are alone and there are no CCTV cameras nearby. With one last glance to check Cas is looking, you bend straight over at the waist, you feel the short fabric of your dress rise straight over your naked ass. The cold air, the feeling of being exposed, of knowing Castiel was watching made your skin tingle, and you were hyperaware of how wet you were already becoming.

Rice obtained you slowly stand up straight, when you’re sure you can feel your dress has settled enough to cover your lower body you turn back to the cart. When you look up at Castiel he’s stock-still, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and cheeks pink.

“What’s wrong?” You ask as you place the rice in the cart.

He stares at you a moment longer before deadpanning; “Nothing.”    

You’re unable to hide the confusion that briefly overcomes your face. You’re only halfway to composing a response when Cas changes the subject by pointing at the shelves behind you. “Can you obtain one of those?”

You follow his gesture to a box of vegetable stock on the very top shelf. You’re pretty sure that even in your highest heels you couldn’t reach that, at least not without climbing.  Regardless, you defiantly nod your head at him and make your way over. Again, you verify your surroundings before extending onto the tips of your toes and stretching your body upwards. Sure enough, the hem of your dress rides up again, not exposing much, but enough that anyone looking would know you were naked underneath.

You’re reaching for the stock for no longer than a few seconds before you feel the familiar touch of Castiel’s calloused fingers on your hip. His warm breath tickles the shell of your ear as he leans closer.

“No underwear?” He whispers. “Is that for my enjoyment?”

“Who else?” You giggle, wiggling your ass back until it rubs against Cas’s crotch. The hiss that escapes his lips only fueling your fire.  

Combating you, he pushes his groin against you further, grinding his clothed erection between your ass-cheeks. It’s your turn to let out an unexpected groan.

“The store is almost empty.” He muses, and you shiver as his free hand gently finds its way to the front of your dress. He rests his chin on your shoulder and watches his own fingers as he plays with the hem. “I could lift your dress right now. I am doubtful that anyone would notice.”

“We could do that.” You concur, certain that your pussy must be dripping by now. If he decided to do it, you probably wouldn’t stop him. “But, we’ll have to be real quiet, and fast.”

Castiel’s rutting slows, and you enjoy the feel of his chest rising and falling against your back as he seems to consider your concerns.

“You have no idea how much I want you right now.” He states and your legs tremble when you feel him bypass your dress, and roughly run a finger between your folds, briefly caressing your clit before delving down to your entrance. He withholds his fingers from plunging in, pressing just hard enough to work you open, without the pleasure of feeling him inside you. “But if I take you home, I can make love to you all night, and you can make those noises that turn me on. I do love the noises you make.”

You’re enjoying his words, you really are, but all you can really think about right now is his

fingers. How close they are, how full they’ll make you feel. You’re trying to gain just a little more height, to move just a little bit forward, so you can sink yourself onto him. Just when you think you’ve found it Cas pulls his hand away, grabbing the box of vegetable stock from above you and adding it to the cart.

You spin around, flushed, dress still hiked above your ass, ready to object but Cas is already at the end of the aisle. You hurry after him, straightening your outfit as you go.

“Where are you going?”

“To the check-outs. Then home.” He informs you as you catch up with him.

“Did we get everything on the list?” You ask.

“Close enough. I will purchase any items we missed after work tomorrow.” He’s barely looking at you, eyes scanning every spot in the store. Undoubtedly figuring out the fastest way out.

“Wow, you really wanna take me home fast huh? Can’t wait to get me out of this dress.” You tease, snaking your arms around one of his.  

“Actually…” He finally stops and looks down at you. Face still flushed, his eyes appraise you, lingering on your upper thighs. “I would prefer you to keep it on.”

[bjornk1tty]

I'm not a bad girl but I, do bad things with you (Part 2 of 4)

Summary: Bjorn finds out what you do on the side for extra money. He plans to use this knowledge to his advantage.

contents: smut, cam girl reader, masturbation, not proofread, not accurate to alien universe

a/n: are Bjorn wanters still alive? so atp nothing ill ever write is gonna be proofread so if something is so bad and unreadable let me know.😸 I started writing this immediately after i put the first part out but ive never liked the way it went so ive rewritten it so many times😾. I hope this version is decent (tell me i cooked). also i have NO idea where this is going. I wrote the first part just for fun and didn't put it out until a while after i wrote it. I might make the ending sad just for funsies (Idk how i would make it sad but still). One more thing i put my playlist on shuffle and agora hills started playing i haven't listen to that song in so long and so when the lyrics "me and you on my onlyfans" came on i giggled. Pt3 is gonna be posted immediately after this. This is NOT good (typed this with only my left hand.)

Ever since that day Bjorn came over to your house and let himself in you're dynamic changed. The deep bond the two of you held shifted the second he stepped into the the small space of your trailer and walked towards your room, opening the door to see your legs spread, glistening with your own release, quickly slam your laptop shut , and roll off the far side of your bed pulling down the skirt of the revealing outfit. The sight confirming his fears yet fueling his fantasies. He stood in the doorway stunned. Hearing your yells at him to get out, he walks out and closes the door behind him. He hears the sounds of you scurrying around trying to change out of the getup you wore, the one you felt so confident in not two minutes ago, now filled with a sense of dread and embarrassment. You quickly pull off the ridiculous outfit and shrug on a worn out shirt. You sit at the end of the bed next to the overheated laptop, hugging your body shuddering at the muffled laughing coming from Bjorn and the inevitable conversation that's to come as soon as you step out of the room. 

You take a deep breath before heading out to the living area, where you find Bjorn sitting there his chin resting over the knuckles of his hand, and a cheeky smile on his face. Silence fills the room for a brief moment as you take the seat furthest from him. You tilt your head towards him, but he sat unmoving with the same expression stuck on his face, waiting for you to fail at trying to explain yourself. You sigh and pause, struggling to find the words. "Bjorn, I wasn't...I didn't..." you fumble over what to say. The irritating gaze you knew all too well frustrating you even more. Looking you up and down, he recalled the mixture of awe and desire he felt earlier as he touched himself watching you do the same.

He knew he'd be lying if he said he didn't find you attractive, the rest of the group would always find that he was overtly protective of you whenever anyone he didn't know got too close to you, seeming as your so called friendship was something more. It was as if he had to deem others worthy of being in your presence. "What're we gon' do with you?" Bjorn clicks his tongue and shakes his head in a mocking way, one he tended to do with you, though this felt condescending. "You're a right handful, you are. Reckon we ought to put a leash on you. No, bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" He stands up and walks to your seat leaning over you, his hands squeezing the armrests of your chair, imprisoning you in a cage of his desire and authority he thinks he now has over you. 

"What's the matter, luv? You've gone all quiet on me." you refuse to look Bjorn in the eyes, looking down at your hands though your sight sets on something interesting, the bulge in his pants. You hear him chuckle then watch as he walks to your room. You stand once he emerges with your camera in his hands, going through the contents of it. Some he recognized, other pictures were, as it appeared more recent as your face was still in them. You rush in front of him about to rip the camera out of his hands "Bjorn what are you-" you get cut off as he quickly pushes you against the wall, forcing a whimper from your throat.

His face right in front of yours still looking through the camera "What would the rest of the group think? Think Kay would like that you're doing this?" he smirks, his body pushing up against yours, now looking you in the eye "Wonder if Tyler would like this? I reckon he would, 'til he'd figure it was you. Now, shall I tell 'em or show 'em?" you struggle against him "Bjorn it's not a big deal. I started this because I wasn't making enough to pay for this shitty fucking trailer." He ignores your excuse "No? Not a big deal, yeah? C'mon now, luv, you can't just go about texting people like this. If it's not a big deal, then why the need for secrecy?" he hums pushing you further against the wall. Your face turns red with embarrassment "How did you know?" "Some fucking tosser I was working with, he's claiming you're his, just 'cause you sent him a few pictures. Can you imagine that? " His eyebrows furrow and his lips pursed with disgust, though not at you but at the thought of someone else having you. He rests his hand on the side of your face, his thumb brushing over the red flush on your skin. He observed your features as if it were the first time.

"What're we gon' do with you?" he says again this time softer the mocking tone gone though the smirk quickly returns to his face. Spinning on his heel walking back to the couch. He mounts the camera over a book on the coffee table before sitting down in the middle of the couch, right in front of it. His legs spread though all you can think about how your friends would react if they found out. Would they be disappointed, disturbed, would they even care? "C'mere, let's make a deal." You shudder and take the seat next to him.  Leaning closer to you, his breath warm against your neck as he spoke "C'mere." he says again. You look at him and he pats his leg, that's when you notice the red flashing light coming from the camera. He was recording.

You swallow hard before awkwardly straddling him. He grabs your hips roughly, a surprised gasp escaping your lips. Scrunching up the fabric of the oversized shirt, he put his hand between your legs and reached for your center, gently caressing you, he could feel your wetness. "Are you that wet?" eager for some friction, you decided to go against what you know will give him power over you as move your hips over his hand that is painfully stubborn. He scoffs, pulling you closer, his lips graze your neck "Oh, I see, you're absolutely starved for it, aren't you? You're practically begging for it. How pathetic." His tone arrogant enjoying the way you shamelessly seek pleasure against his hand. He makes no move to give you the friction you so desperately seek, instead continuing to tease and taunt you. "Come on now, beg properly. And maybe, I'll give you what ya want."

You shake your head, though your hips continue to snap desperately against him. Bjorn chuckles at your insistence, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "You stubborn thing," he says "You want it so badly, but you won't even beg." He stops you again by grabbing your hips tightly, looking you in the eyes, his face flushed, trying to keep it together. Bjorn lifts your chin up firmly so you're forced to maintain eye contact. "I'll keep your secret, but on one condition. I get to have 'this' whenever I want." Bjorn's gaze travels over your body, emphasizing the 'this' he is referring to. It could have been the desire you felt but his tone seemed to hold a hint of promise. "Bjorn you can't do anything without having it somehow benefiting you, can you?' A soft chuckle left him at your retort, he gently presses his thumb down on your sensitive area, his tone mocking yet arousing as he whispers,"I think you need me more than you'd like to admit. Princess.” You lower your hips on him, sitting on his bulge, watching as he squirms. Now it was your turn to scoff. You both fight for dominance as you pull his hair making him groan, a look of annoyance and amusement on his face. "I like you like this, should stop acting all innocent. I'll take you right here and now if that’s what ya want, all you gotta do is say." every muscle strained with the effort to resist his own urges. You ignore his words and continuously move your hips on him, losing your dignity as the throbbing of your cunt intensifies.

"Fuckin' hell" he breathlessly hushes out as he quickly reaches down unbuckling his belt, lifting both of you to rid him of the fabric that separated him from you. Looking into his eyes you see something in them you've never seen before, there was a need to possess and claim you as his own leaving you almost speechless as it seemed as this was a different boy, a different man. The lustful person who sat in front of you hardly resembling the boy who would spend his remaining dollars to buy you a stuffed animal you so desperately wanted, the boy who would sit with you every time you were sick, the boy who you became inseparable with. His cock springs out, surprising you, it takes you a second to come back to reality, spitting in your hand, wrapping it around his length "That's it, luv, keep going." he throws his head back, his arms flexing behind his head. Your right hand gathering your own wetness, your fingers relentlessly pressing down on your clit. He groans, or grunts when his tip presses at your entrance, sinking down, the slick, wet sound of his dick silences him for a moment. His mouth hung open, you watch as he is brought back when you lift and drop yourself suddenly, both of you holding on to reach other. Your chests pressed together now, his hands wrapped around your waist, yours around his neck tangling in his hair. The wet sound of him sliding into you now constant as he helps you ride him. "You feel so good. You're killing me…"

As you continue the action, both feeling the knots grown in your stomachs. Both of you holding on tightly to each other, a silent fight of neither of you wanting to finish first. You aggressively bounce, whines and heavy breaths coming from you, strained groans coming from a overstimulated Bjorn. A satisfied smile forms on your face once Bjorn can't keep quiet anymore, his legs trembling hiding his face at your chest. He quickly pulls out of you, his milky release shooting out on your thighs, the buckling of his hips and twitching of his cock out of his control.

You collapse next to him, his white pearls glistening on you. His face flushed with the understanding the power 'you' now hold over him. He looks over at you, his eyes hooded, that little smirk on his face "Alright, we got a deal then?"

⋆。‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧。⋆

The voices of your friends slur around you, tightly holding your can of soda as you shift uncomfortably under a certain someone's gaze. You carefully read the can, taking in names of ingredients you can't even pronounce, trying to distract yourself from looking over the table to meet Bjorn's eyes. You can practically feel the smirk he holds on his face. "Huh?" you mutter dumbfounded as your head whips up to look at the group watching you strangely when Kay calls your name. She repeats herself "I asked if you were alright?" "Mhm" you nod looking back down at the can. " 'm good" You press your lips together into a forced smile that your friends see right through. “Yeah, you alright, luv? You seem a bit distracted, yeah? Lost in your own little world, are we?" Bjorn says mockingly. You glare up, finally meeting the eyes and smirk of the boy with the headband "I said I'm fine." You spit back taking your friends aback. Yes, you and Bjorn had a tendency to bicker but that was it, playful bickering, until this week. Your words have seemed to have a bit of a bite as of recently your friends not knowing why though, Bjorn not really knowing either, as of recently, oblivious to how you feel.

Tyler clears his throat and tries to get the conversation moving as he brings up something he heard on the news earlier that day. You interrupt him "'m gonna get another drink. Anyone need another?" You walk away after putting yourself in charge of getting drinks just to get away from Bjorn at least for a second though, your eyes don't leave him once getting to the bar to order, you watch as he tilts his head up to take the final swig of his beer. You watch as he finishes and tosses the can to the side, then getting up walking towards you, ordering a drink  before leaning towards you "Maybe you ought to have a drink and loosen up a bit, eh?" He says with that charming accent of his. You roll your eyes "Bjorn back off. 'm not in the mood for you tonight." "Yeah well then," he says in a mocking tone, "what are you in the mood for, luv? You're not being very social tonight, are you? Will you be later?" He chuckles, as the drinks get placed in front of you, helps you carry them back to the table. The silent stare down between the two of you resuming.

"I'm gonna head home." You say exasperatedly. "You sure?" Tyler questions. "It's still a bit early to be calling it a night, innit?" "Yeah I know sorry, just been a long day. Long week." You answer as you gather your things. "Well if you're sure, get some rest, ok?" Kay says sweetly getting up to give you a goodbye hug. You say goodbye to everyone, excluding Bjorn, aware that you'll see him again within the hour.

⋆。‧˚ʚ🍓ɞ˚‧。⋆

[skrdxforxdyl]

My Ronin head cannons to fuel the fire that is my hyper fixation 

𖤐 He is absolutely a cutter. Like c'mon guys.

𖤐 he's definitely a black metal fan. My boy loves Bathory I'm sure of it

𖤐I feel like Ronin really loves sleeping on people's laps..like idk man. Just someone he really loves he just wants to be close to. Idk I feel like he's really touchy

𖤐He loves Lucifer Valentine and guinea pig movies. He knows they're ass but why should he care?

𖤐 I feel like if you can catch at the right time..maybe hes sleep deprived or emotionally vulnerable..you can get him to spill his fucking guts..though hell probably laugh about it

𖤐 You know he's probably got some hidden talent in something nobody would expect. Like tell me he can't play piano or some shit 😭

𖤐 He's hiding this really soft and loyal side under a mask of indifference. Like I don't fucking know maybe all bro wants is for someone to hug him and tell I'm everything will be alright (but he doesn't need fixing)

𖤐 He fucking worships Pelle ohlin.

𖤐 He loves cats guys. I'm pretty sure this one is actually confirmed but it was too cute not to mention.

𖤐Even if hell never say it up front. When he notices someone he cares about is a bit down hell slickly try and make them feel better..maybe crack a joke here and there or invite them to call as a distraction.

𖤐 I feel like he remembers small seemingly unimportant details about people..like their favorite song or little pet peeves of theirs.

Idk I feel like maybe some of these give him too much credit. But idk I think just cuz he's fucked in the head (like most of us on SHblr) doesn't mean he's lost his humanity or his ability to be just vulnerable under his mask as the rest of us.

[zabchan]

I JUST got into hooked wayfinder and wanna know, do you think anything for Maui and Moana’s relationship being romantic be confirmed in the movie?? Or do you think the new male character will be more “intended” to be a potential partner? Honestly I’m not sure what direction Disney is planning to go, but I love your fanfics. I also see there was a ton of stuff that came out in 2016/17 for hooked waydinder ships too, such a shame I’m so late

:D welcome new friend! Realistically I figure we won't get any kind of confirmation in movie for a mxm romance beyond some highly subjective lingering looks- part of it being that moana is so heavily set up as a modern non-romantic princess. And that's not a bad thing! I'm 100% behind representation of well rounded self actualized heroines for whom romance is not a priority. its important for current and future generations to have role models who don't define themselves by their partners or partner-having potential, especially girls of color, who have gotten the short end of the stick for the majority of media history.

i personally ship moana x maui of course, because im a hopeless romantic and bisexual disaster for these two- but if moana never gets a romance it wont make me stop loving her character and story.

The other reason I doubt we'll see much overt romance is that Dwayne Johnson identifies so heavily with Maui that I can't see him comfortable with 19ish year old Moana being his self insert's love interest. especially with him wanting to fully act Maui in the live action. its one thing to voice some slightly suggestive and tender flirtations, its another to stare a teenage co-actor in the eye and not see very nearly your own daughters. of which johnson has 3, the eldest of whom is 20. (ish?)

Disney is not about to piss off The Rock.

I could write another essay on how Dwayne Johnson =/= maui, and while Mr.Johnson is entitled to his interpretation of the character he helped bring to life; I am also allowed to have my own interpretation, especially here, in the pseudo private realm. but I digress.

That's not to say there's not gonna be plenty of shipper fuel! I mean, idk if you've seen my unhinged screaming posts lately but

AHHHHHHHHH THE HUG! THE GAZES! THE MANHANDLING!

i can very easily see big dumb giant hints that at least moana has a crush on maui, and there is CLEARLY affection between them. at least in the promo material, the focus is on moana and maui teaming up again and we barely see her interact with our new storyteller apprentice & maui-fanboy Moni. he does hug her when he joins the crew, and we see Moni as the vehicle for several exposition dumps. I could see a possible romance, they have a shared interest in stories and on the surface he seems like a lovable cinnamon roll. (I'm projecting). i wouldn't hate that outcome. i also see him positioned next to Loni the ship-designer, our other near-moana's-age crewmate, fellow boat enthusiast and possible love interest *eyebrow wiggle*.

i headcanon moana as bi- altho thats not saying much, as i have a bad(?) habit of headcanoning EVERYone as bi

me, pointing at every character i remotely relate to: "youre all

so i can see moana happy with any of the 3 (maui, moni and loto)- or hell, why not all three?

i find it more probable that moni and loto get paired up as side characters, both of them seem enamored with the ideas of ocean-adventures; moni with his stories and loto with her boat designs, but not truly understanding the reality of seafaring. i can imagine actually going out and doing the things for real has quite a learning curve, and there's a built-in bonding experience. They start on a much more equal footing to one another than they do to Moana the chiefly hero, present and future legend.

as to being late to the fandom, heyyyy this is great timing!!! sequel hype is building, and im already feasting on the promo content- the actual movie release is gonna leave me feral for AT LEAST another year. if by November 2025 no one other than you ships moana x maui then I AM DEAD because aint no way they can squash my candle for this. even if the movie turns out shite i'll be there working on a fix it fic (that i will agonize over and probably never finish because of Who I Am As A Person but yeah know. #justadhdthings)

thank you for your kind words about my fanfictions, altho i read that & my brain immediately went "whoops i hope theyre messaging the right person, did they maybe mean to compliment @thehighpriestessofcuddles? or maybe @v8roadworrier?" because whohoo imposter syndrome. #justadhdthings

[cath-lic]

do u think that white jesus is an imposter or is he the real jesus. brown jesus kind of scares me...

broke: i really don’t think about it that much

woke: brown jesus is probably more accurate but idk

bespoke: “white” and “brown” are inventions of the sixteenth century and are just about useless when trying to apply them to someone who lived two thousand years ago.

however, i acknowledge that any culture is inclined to portray their deities with similar features to them—e.g. black christians often create art with a black jesus, asian christians often create art with an asian jesus, white christians create art with a white jesus, etc.

therefore i think that a white jesus, in itself, is not necessarily bad. however (again), i also acknowledge that the idea of a “white god” is used primarily to fuel colonialism and racism, and was integral to manifest destiny and the colonizing of america.

because i’m a white american, i was raised with a “white jesus,” so that’s what i usually default to when imagining him. but i think jesus probably looked like an average dude of that time period. (whether you consider that “white” or “brown” is a different question).

also, i want to be clear that while jesus’ love and care is universal, his cultural and historical identity is extremely important. to understand the bible, we must have a good understanding of the time period and the context.

this is usually where we fail in trying to see the “real” jesus—we superimpose our own culture over his. i could visualize him as brown, but that doesn’t matter if i still assume his actions and identity stems from a modern american perspective.

anyway, all this to say is that there’s no straightforward answer. i don’t have religious education beyond what was required of me to be confirmed in the Catholic Church—so if i made a mistake here, please correct me!

god bless you, my sibling, and have a lovely rest of the week ❤️

[jessconsumesmedia]

CBS Ghosts 4x08 and 4x09

Hello so this is gonna be Two parts because the episode was two parts so get ready to listen to me twice (I mean or not that is fine too) (HI THIS IS SO LATE I KEEP WRITING ON IT AND THEN GETTING BUSY!)

Also they are not broken up by episode they are broken up by storyline cause I’m pretty sure like most of the next post will be me freaking about H-money snippets.

Tis the season to freak the fuck out about fictional characters :)

Festive spoilers ahead

Ok so quick overview I fucking loved this episode. Like genuinely it had so much going on and it scratched a very specific itch in my little tv fueled brain.

Sassapis is a 500 Year Old Virgin

Awesome actually that’s what I figured. I kinda love the idea that he is ace and just is not a fan. Thor tried so hard to keep his secret he really did he doesn’t really know how relationships actually work. He also really did not need to add that whole still a virgin after death he really coulda just left it and flower probably woulda forgot lol. Flower also does not know how relationships work so her saying he had to tell her was a bit rough but I am glad that we keep seeing parts of these characters that show how grey they really are. CAROL I genuinely love how insane she is like when we see her she makes me giggle like a mad woman so her being like “you can’t handle this” like that woman is a FREAK. And you know what good for her. (I also kinda hate her cause she’s terrible but it’s like fun hate)

SASS AND THOR ARE BEST FRIENDS I WILL SOB. It stands to reason that Thor would have learned Lenape but having the confirmation is lovely. I really enjoyed that they were like little toddlers yes in fact I do want to go see a moose carcass we’re besties now. It is so sweet.

Double Possession/Sam and the Core Four

Oh my god. Rose’s Nancy impression is probably like one of the funniest and best impressions. Like she nailed it. It even sounds like her! The basement ghosts probably should have warned them they know they aren’t that smart but oh well. Nancy being the reason that Champa likes Sam is hilarious like she is actually going insane and that is what you like. I feel bad that Sam was excluded for so long but after she finally is I think she has a better chance at bonding. Rip the car though Nancy was really not very nice for that. Jay telling his mom to chill and try to be mean is very wife guy of him. I’m probably forgetting things now cause it’s been a few days but I really loved that Sam got added and I love that we met Jays family (also his full first name is Jayanth idk why I just automatically assumed it was just Jay but it’s a very good name) and now this post is incredibly long so I am going to stick Jays relationship to his dad in part two lol.

Also absolutely crazy random tangent but I just learned Hetty’s middle name is Eleanor and I just like that.

Anyway part two will exist sometime soon hopefully but I am also going on a study abroad trip for like two weeks so I will be very busy. So idk

Here’s a picture of Trevor that I think is funny

-Jess 💖

[echo-of-the-eye]

Arcane s2 act 2 thoughts:

• Was not expecting Caitlyn and Maddie rebound romance but ok (wonder how Maddie will react when cait inevitably breaks up with her)

• Glad to see Caitlyn has calmed down and was aware she was being manipulated so she could ditch Ambessa

• Mel has magic confirmed! And is related to the black rose people? People who know game lore probably understand better

• Sevika, Jinx and Isha is such a good dynamic. Same with Vi

• The sister trio are the best part of the show for me honestly I love them so much. Isha is the cutest kid ever I love her

• I was planning to make the “I’ve only had Isha for a day but if anything happened to her I’ll kill everyone in the room and then myself” joke while I was watching ep 4 and then ep 6 happened. So yeah… I’m broken

• I had a feeling something would happen to her cause her parallels to Powder were too strong but uh. Wasn’t really prepared for them to actually do it

• This is gonna fucking break Jinx

• They could have been happy dammit! They were so close! They could have been a family! But nooooo, it has to be a tragedy! (Which I love but come on! Oh to be a tragedy enjoyer is so conflicting)

• Also Vander and Silco knowing their mother and being close. So Silco actually knew who Powder was when he took her in

• Love wins (caitvi)

• Love loses (jayvik)

• God I love Viktor. Living his best life as a cult leader (or straight up god idk). Jayce when I get you. Honestly don’t know how to feel. Viktor was doing seemingly good things but we know hextech isn’t good so who knows how long it would have lasted. Not sure how much of Viktor was actually still left there

• I do think Jayce had a good reason for what he did. Might have been in a time loop or something? Maybe he communicated with Viktor and was told to destroy him? Or maybe he was just losing his mind

• He did keep his promise. But at what cost

• I’m seeing the ship now btw. Didn’t really care for it before. But now… it’s doomed. It’s tragic. Which is the best shipping fuel

• Speaking of the hextrip where the hell is my boy Ekko?! And heimerdinger I guess but this ain’t about him

• I bet we’ll see what happened in there next episode

• I do think Viktor is dead. He could come back I guess (he is Jesus) but I doubt it. Feel it in my gut. I think we’ll see him again but not alive in his body. I’m gonna miss you buddy<3 you were my second favorite (after jinx). He reminds me so much of Jon archivist no wonder I love him

• So yeah I am in shambles. My heart is broken and I shall never recover