#insidious part 2

[scuffler]

ranking my favorite leigh whannell characters

1. Doug Davis (Cooties 2014)

absolute comfort character and, in my opinion, leigh’s best acting. i also just really love that he canonically wrote an autistic character for him to play in one of his movies

2. Steven “Specs” Fisher (Insidious)

he’s an absolute dork and i want to see him geek out at a monster mania con. also LEIGHS DYED HAIRRRR

3. Adam Stanheight (Saw 2004)

this mf my little dead gay tragedy LMFSOOAAHD but also a VERY frustrating symbol for the franchise and how the traps aren’t meant to “save” anyone. but its fine he survived and went to veterinary school right everyone

4. Gavin Ellis (The Mule 2014)

my other little dead gay tragedy. also oh my god his man titties. also absolutely in love with leigh using his accent in the mule

5. Matt (Dying Breed)

y’all get it

6. David (Saw 0.5)

got this gay mf on a whole ass lighter LMFOAOSOD

7. Neil (Doggie Heaven)

okay no one say SHIT TO ME i just think he’s so real

okay thats all fn bye lol

[velvetjune]

Saga and Casey joining the FBC, love it, need it, it’s everything. But also. There’s NO way they’d be on board (lol) with The Board. There’d be so much drama

[movies-tv-more]

2013 Horror Movies - Celebrating 10 Years

[san-sebastienne]

With truly all the love and empathy in my heart: crying daily over the sexual assault allegations against Gaiman isn’t healthy. I’ve seen multiple people –especially fans of GO – saying this since they came out, and it’s really fucking concerning me.

I wonder if it has to do with the insidious ideas that 1) people are either Bad or Good, 2) Bad people can only do Bad things, and 3) liking Bad things or Bad people makes you Bad.

None of these things are true.

People are mixed up and incredibly complicated. Someone can be an incredible artist/friend/chef/ally against racism/drag queen and still be predatory/homophobic/antisemitic/never tips their wait staff. People do things that harm others in big and small ways all the time. You do too. I promise.

(Also the idea of anyone, even people who do genuinely insurmountable harm, becoming somehow less than human is an inherently fascist ideology)

The fact that you (yes, you!!) do harmful things doesn’t immediately make you Bad. There are certainly things that someone might do that causes more harm (say, assault) versus less, but that doesn’t somehow infect all the things they’ve done in the past with their Badness. Gaiman helped write Good Omens. There’s no way now to say “I was wrong and this book was Bad all along” or even “oh, all the parts I like were written by Pratchett, the Bad parts must have been Gaiman.” You didn’t miss an inherent evil by liking the book in the past. It doesn’t make you Bad for liking it now.

(It also doesn’t mean that people associated with Gaiman, like David Tennant, are also Tainted by inherent Badness. Tennant isn’t, you aren’t. Saying otherwise is also a slippery slope argument into dehumanization and fascist ideas)

By all means: if it feels right, stop giving Gaiman your money. Stop tagging him in your Azi/Crowley fanart. But do this as a way to disentangle yourself from parasocial relationships that are actively causing you grief and to vote with your wallet, not because unlinking yourself from Bad Art and Bad People will somehow absolve you and make you Good again. If you already have a copy of Good Omens or Sandman, whether you reread it is between you and your gods. Interacting with a text you find important doesn’t make you Bad or Good. It’s just reading. What you do with the stories is what matters (ironically, that’s the message of a lot of both Gaiman and Pratchett’s work).

Maybe take a peek at Good Omens and re familiarize yourself with its other core message: People are not Bad or Good. People do bad and good things.

Then maybe drink a cup of tea. You need to rehydrate.

[clamorybus]

we legitimately need to hang george w bush

[animusrox]

TOP 10

Past Lives

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

How to Blow Up a Pipeline

Poor Things

Oppenheimer

Barbie

BlackBerry

The Holdovers

The Iron Claw

Killers of the Flower Moon

MY LETTERBOXD Grade A 11.    The Killer 12.    Beau Is Afraid 13.    Dream Scenario 14.    Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 15.    Godzilla Minus One 16.    American Fiction 17.    They Cloned Tyrone 18.     Evil Dead Rise 19.    Eileen 20.    The Artifice Girl 21.   Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutant Mayhem 22.    Talk to Me 23.    Reality 24.    Leave the World Behind 25.    A Thousand and One 26.    Mission: Impossible – Dead Reckoning Part One 27.    Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. 28.    Theater Camp 29.   Carmen 30.    Merry Little Batman 31.    Priscilla 32.    Society of the Snow 33.    Infinity Pool 34.    Enys Men 35.    Sanctuary 36.    Rye Lane 37.    Skinamarink 38.    Monster 39.    Anatomy of a Fall 40.    Landscape with Invisible Hand 41.    Reptile 42.    Sisu 43.    Pinball: The Man Who Saved the Game 44.    No One Will Save You 45.    Tetris 46.    May December 47.    The Zone of Interest 48.    V/H/S/85 49.    Dumb Money 50.    El Conde 51.    Arnold 52.    Maestro 53.    Napoleon 54.    20 Days in Mariupol 55.    Influencer 56.    The Creator 57.    Origin 58.    Thanksgiving 59.    Next Goal Wins 60.    The Boy and the Heron 61.    Bottoms 62.    Wonka

[Press Keep Reading For The Full Graded List]

Grade B

63.   God Is a Bullet 64.    No Hard Feelings 65.    Joy Ride 66.    Fair Play 67.     Cocaine Bear 68.    NYAD 69.    Asteroid City 70.    Nowhere 71.    The Angry Black Girl and Her Monster 72.    Divinity 73.    The Equalizer 3 74.    The Last Voyage of the Demeter 75.    Venus 76.    Butcher’s Crossing 77.    Somewhere in Queens 78.    The Persian Version 79.    Boston Strangler 80.    Polite Society 81.    Miguel Wants to Fight 82.    The Color Purple 83.    The Royal Hotel 84.    Saw X 85.    All of Us Strangers 86.    Fallen Leaves 87.    Ferrari 88.    Elemental 89.    Peter Pan & Wendy 90.    Renfield 91.    Cat Person 92.    Scream VI 93.    The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes 94.    BS High 95.    Blue Beetle 96.    Huesera: The Bone Woman 97.    When Evil Lurks 98.    Dark Harvest 99.    A Good Person 100.    Final Cut 101.    Knock at the Cabin 102.    Quiz Lady 103.    Leo 104.    Air 105.    The Super Mario Bros. Movie 106.    Batman: The Doom That Came to Gotham 107.    John Wick: Chapter 4 108.    Beaten to Death 109.    The Wrath of Becky 110.    Passages 111.    Transformers: Rise of the Beasts 112.    Gran Turismo 113.    65 114.    Sick 115.    Sister Death 116.    The Blackening 117.    Please Don’t Destroy: The Treasure of Foggy Mountain 118.    Flamin’ Hot 119.    Nimona 120.    Cobweb 121.    Totally Killer 122.    What’s Love Got to Do with It? 123.     Sharper 124.    Unseen 125.    Dunki 126.    Bird Box Barcelona 127.    The Marvels 128.    Shazam! Fury of the Gods

Grade C

129.   Wildflower 130.    Freelance 131.    M3GAN 132.    Strays 133.    Sympathy for the Devil 134.    Creed III 135.    Chevalier 136.    The Marsh King’s Daughter 137.    A Haunting in Venice 138.    The Little Mermaid 139.    Silent Night 140.    Master Gardener 141.    The Flash 142.    Fast X 143.    The Pope’s Exorcist 144.    Saltburn 145.    Kandahar 146.    Stand 147.    Plane 148.   Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny 149.    Fingernails 150.    Quicksand 151.    Fool’s Paradise 152.    Migration 153.    Rustin 154.    The Covenant 155.    Good Burger 2 156.    The Pod Generation 157.    Alice, Darling 158.    Insidious: The Red Door 159.    Missing 160.    Shotgun Wedding 161.    You Hurt My Feelings 162.    The Boogeyman 163.    Showing Up 164.    Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom 165.    Champions 166.    Consecration 167.    The Nun II 168.    Biosphere 169.    House Party 170.    The Exorcist: Believer 171.    Big George Foreman 172.    Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves 173.    Children of the Corn 174.    The Beanie Bubble 175.    Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania

Grade F

176.    Anyone But You 177.    Marlowe 178.    Paint 179.    Extraction 2 180.    It Lives Inside 181.    Deliver Us 182.    Trolls Band Together 183.    Finestkind 184.    Corner Office 185.    Wish 186.    Prisoner’s Daughter 187.    Pain Hustlers 188.    Foe 189.    The Mother 190.    Old Dads 191.    Ghosted 192.    Ruby Gillman, Teenage Kraken 193.    Haunted Mansion 194.    Mafia Mamma 195.    Five Nights at Freddy’s 196.    The Machine 197.    Justice League: Warworld 198.    We Have a Ghost 199.    What Comes Around 200.    Legion of Super-Heroes 201.    The Boys in the Boat 202.    Attachment 203.    Operation Fortune: Ruse de Guerre 204.    About My Father 205.    You People 206.    Meg 2: The Trench 207.    Pathaan 208.    Rebel Moon - Part One: A Child of Fire 209.    Assassin 210.    Dalíland 211.    Vacation Friends 2

Bottom 10

212.    Sound of Freedom 213.    Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey 214.    When You Finish Saving The World 215.    Heart of Stone 216.    Family Switch 217.    Expend4bles 218.    Sweetwater 219.    Hypnotic 220.    80 for Brady 221.    Spinning Gold

[seriiousgiirl]

𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 — 𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓉

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁𝒿𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓍 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇.⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. alternate universe - canon divergence, post-silent Hill 2, angst and fluff and smut, touch-starved, redemption, grief, mourning, psychological trauma and horror, mutual pining, James adopted Laura, age difference, smut, vaginal sex, rough sex, rough kissing, aftercare, daddy kink, James deserves his happy ending, James is desperate and pathetic, based on the Silent Hill Games and mostly the remake

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. It's in this chapter that the smut warning applies.

❛ Part 1 ⋅ Part 5 ⋅ masterlist ⋅ ao3 ⋅ requests ❜

➜ ┊ a/n: Hello everyone, sorry for the short notice. I've had a tough few days (insomnia, mostly), and had to take a little break. But I'm back and hope to be able to post chapters 5 and 6 in the next few weeks. Thanks again for your support and patience!

Some people have also asked me to create a James bot on C.AI or Janitor.AI based on this story, I don't know if anyone would be interested?

➜ ┊: chapter 4/?.

It had been a few days since you’d ventured into James's world, and with that, a peculiar silence had settled over everything, thick and suffocating. The morning after your dinner together had dawned heavy with a sense of dread that gnawed at your stomach, but it was quickly overshadowed by the sight of James slipping past you like a shadow, his gaze averted as if your presence were a ghostly reminder of something he couldn’t bear to confront.

You tried to catch his eye, hoping for a fleeting moment of connection, something to bridge the chasm that had formed between you. Yet, he always seemed to look away at the last possible second, as if he feared the intensity of your gaze would draw forth feelings he wasn’t ready to face. Each time he turned his head, it felt like a small wound, reopening the ache of unspoken words and unresolved tension. 

It hurt more than you expected.

He’d been around, of course, often dropping Laura off at school, looking as handsome as ever but visibly worn down by an invisible burden. On one particular evening, you caught a glimpse of him through the dim light of the setting sun, his features sharp yet shadowed, eyes heavy with fatigue. The sight pained you; it was a reminder of the struggles he was wrestling with, of the grief that seemed to cling to him like a second skin.

At school, he continued to avoid you like the plague, slipping in and out during drop-offs and pick-ups. Each encounter made your heart race, a confusing mix of longing and disappointment washing over you. 

One afternoon, as he picked Laura up, the air felt charged. He glanced in your direction for a fleeting moment, and your heart soared, only for it to plummet when he quickly turned away, his expression unreadable. In that instant, you caught a glimpse of his profile—handsome, defined, yet somehow haunted by the spectres of his past. 

You longed for him to break the silence, to bridge the gap between you with words or even a gentle touch, but he remained ensconced in his own silence, treating you like a spectre haunting the corners of his life. And deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if he saw you that way, too—just a ghost lingering in the echoes of his memories.

As you recalled those fleeting moments you had shared, a heaviness settled in your chest. The warmth of his body against yours, the way his large hand had cradled your face and hips, and the soft whisper of your name escaping his lips—it all felt vivid, alive in your memory. Yet, each recollection came with the stark reminder of Mary, the wife he had lost, her absence casting long shadows over everything that might have been between you.

Guilt began to intertwine with your yearning, an insidious companion that lingered in the recesses of your mind. Had you tempted him into something he wasn’t ready for? Was it selfish of you to wish for him to lean into those feelings, to seek solace in you while his heart still mourned the love he had lost? The conflict twisted within you, a complex blend of desire and sorrow that left you feeling hollow, as if you were reaching for something just beyond your grasp.

But as the days turned into an endless cycle of longing and uncertainty, it became increasingly difficult to ignore the ache in your heart—the longing for connection, for understanding, for the warmth of his touch. With every glance, you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too or if he was simply drowning in his own sorrow, oblivious to the chaotic whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

It was an afternoon like any other, with the classroom quiet and still, the hum of the school day long gone. The children had all gone home, and you were left tidying up, humming softly to yourself as you wiped down the desks, erasing the chalk from the board. The fading light of the setting sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room, and you were almost ready to head home yourself.

Until you heard his voice.

“Y/n?”

The sound stopped you in your tracks. Slowly, you turned toward the door, and there stood James, leaning slightly against the frame. The sight of him made your heart sink. His eyes, deep and brooding, seemed weighed down by something heavier than just exhaustion. His whole demeanour—shoulders slumped, head bowed slightly—was one of someone carrying far too much on his own. He looked utterly pathetic, and it wasn’t just fatigue; it was something deeper, like a man on the edge of breaking but holding himself together out of sheer necessity.

You had never seen anyone look quite so lost. He looked so lost, like a sad puppy that had wandered too far from home. His sadness was so palpable, it made the air in the room feel thick, pressing against your chest. There was no hiding it, no masking it behind small talk or a forced smile. It was right there in his gaze, that flicker of torment that hadn’t left since you’d first met him.

It hurt to see him like this—more than it should have, more than you wanted to admit. 

He was always handsome, even in his weariness, but today he looked like a ghost of himself. Before, when you didn’t know the full story, his sadness had seemed almost abstract, a mystery you couldn’t quite solve. But now, with everything you knew about his past—about Mary, Laura, and the guilt that haunted him—it was impossible to not feel his pain as if it were your own.

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. The weight of his presence had stolen your voice. You tried to think of something casual, something that wouldn’t betray how much seeing him like this affected you, but everything felt inadequate. How could you offer comfort when you felt so tangled up in your own feelings for him?

Finally, your voice, soft and tentative, broke the silence. "James... why are you here?"

He looked up at you, almost startled, as if he wasn’t expecting you to acknowledge him. His eyes met yours for only a brief moment before dropping again, his fingers fidgeting slightly at his side. He looked embarrassed, maybe even ashamed to be there, as if he didn’t belong anywhere anymore.

“Laura…” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, like it took everything in him just to speak. “She forgot her maths book.” He paused, swallowing thickly before continuing. “We started her homework, and it was only then she noticed it was missing.”

His explanation was so simple, so mundane, and yet the way he said it made it feel like so much more. Like this wasn’t just about a forgotten book. It was about him reaching out, searching for something—perhaps even without knowing what. You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your heart ached for him. 

He was a mess, a man so clearly lost in his own grief and guilt, and it pained you to see him standing there, barely holding himself together. He looked like he could fall apart at any moment, and yet, here he was, making the effort for Laura, for something as trivial as a schoolbook. You swallowed the lump in your throat and turned toward the shelves where you kept the children’s books. “I see... Let me find it for you,” you said, your voice gentle, careful, not wanting to add to the weight he was already carrying.

As you moved to locate the book, your mind raced. James had always been distant, but today was different. He looked shattered, a man barely hanging on, and the worst part was knowing that nothing you said or did could fix that. His sadness was his own, something too deep and personal for anyone to reach, but it didn’t stop you from wanting to try. Even if you couldn’t save him, you wanted to at least ease the burden, to remind him that he didn’t have to carry it alone.

When you turned to see James, he had already stepped into the classroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The sound sent a shiver through you, sharp and sudden. You hadn’t expected him to come any closer, but there he was, just a few feet away now, the air between you suddenly thick with something unspoken.

Your heart began to race, and you could feel it in your chest as you inhaled the faint scent of his cologne—a subtle, masculine fragrance that was almost too quiet to notice. Yet it wasn’t too quiet for you. You had spent so many days since that afternoon thinking about him, about every detail of him, that missing his scent would be impossible.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure as you retrieved the book from the shelf, but when you turned back to hand it to him, your fingers trembled. You reached out, the textbook in your hand, but instead of just taking it, James’s hand brushed against yours. His touch was gentle, but there was something intentional about it, something that made your breath catch in your throat.

He didn’t pull away.

His hand remained on yours, fingers curling slightly around the book, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, his gaze locking with yours for the first time in days. His eyes, so full of sadness and longing, seemed to search for something in you, something he couldn’t say out loud. And for a moment, everything else disappeared—the classroom, the empty halls, the world beyond those four walls. It was just you and him, standing there in the stillness, the weight of all that had been left unsaid pressing down on both of you.

You couldn’t move. His eyes held you in place, and you saw something in them you hadn’t seen before—a hesitation, a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but nothing came out at first. He just stood there, his body tense, his hand still on yours, his expression torn between so many emotions that it was almost painful to witness.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, two simple words finally broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it hit you like a tidal wave. The apology was raw, carrying with it all the weight of the things he couldn’t say—the regret, the guilt, the pain that had been eating away at him since that day. And in that moment, you realised just how much he had been struggling, how much he had been carrying alone. Your breath hitched, and you felt your chest tighten again, this time with the surge of emotions you’d been holding back. His hand was still on yours, his touch warm, but there was a distance between you now that went beyond physical space. It was the distance of two people caught between what had happened and what could never be undone.

You wanted to say something, anything to reassure him, to tell him it was okay, that you didn’t blame him for what happened between you. But the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was stand there, trembling under his gaze, as his apology hung in the air between you like a fragile, broken thing.

James’s lips trembled again, as if he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He just stood there, looking at you with those sad, haunted eyes, and for the first time, you saw how close he was to breaking.

But then, slowly, his other hand rose, trembling slightly as it reached toward you. You didn’t move, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers gently brushed a strand of your hair. The contact was so delicate, almost reverent, as though he feared you might break if he held on too tightly.

He pulled the strand toward his face, his movements hesitant and slow, and before you could fully comprehend what he was doing, James pressed the strand of your hair against his nose. His eyes fluttered closed, and he inhaled deeply, breathing you in as though he had been starved of the scent, like it was something he’d been longing for since the last time he held you close. His chest rose with the depth of his breath, the movement laboured, as if the act itself was painful.

The sight of him, standing there with your hair pressed against his face, was intimate—achingly so. There was a vulnerability to him that broke something inside you, as if you were seeing a part of James he had kept hidden, even from himself. His expression twisted, and though his eyes were shut, you could see the torment etched across his features—the crease of his brow, the tight line of his jaw, the way his lips parted with an unspoken agony.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice trembling. He sounded broken, the words choked out like they were tearing him apart from the inside. “I’m so sorry.”

It was like he couldn’t stop apologising, each repetition heavier than the last, as though he were trying to atone for everything. His hand in your hair trembled, but he didn’t let go, as if holding onto that small piece of you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

His apology was raw, relentless, his voice cracking with every word, and you could feel the storm of emotions he was fighting to contain—grief, guilt, desire, all wrapped up in that one act of holding your hair to his face like it was his lifeline. You wanted to say something, to comfort him, to reach out and tell him it was okay, that you didn’t regret what had happened between you. But all you could do was watch him, your heart pounding in your chest as his pain washed over you. His other hand still rested on yours, and for a moment, it felt like the only thing connecting him to reality was the physical touch between you.

James’ breaths grew heavier, and his chest rose and fell with the force of his emotions. His eyes remained closed, his face buried in that single strand of your hair, as if he could hide from the world in that small, fleeting connection. 

“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmured, his voice almost inaudible. His lips trembled as he spoke, and when his eyes opened again, they were filled with the kind of torment that twisted your stomach. “But I can’t help it. I’ve tried.”

Your hand moved almost instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed against James' cheek. His skin was warm beneath your touch, rough from the stubble that had grown in the past few days. He flinched ever so slightly at the contact, but then, as if he had been waiting for it—desperate for it—he leaned into your hand, pressing his face against your palm like a man starved of human touch.

The vulnerability in the gesture broke your heart. You could feel the tension in his body, the weight of the guilt he carried like a burden too heavy for one person to bear. His eyes fluttered shut again, and a shuddering breath escaped him, his body trembling as he leaned further into you.

"It’s okay," you whispered, your voice soft, trying to offer him some comfort, some relief. "You didn’t do anything wrong, James."

His brow furrowed at your words, as though they caused him physical pain. He shook his head, not moving from your touch but rejecting your reassurance with a stubbornness that spoke of the battles raging inside him. He couldn't accept it—couldn't allow himself to believe that he wasn't at fault. That this connection between the two of you wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It’s not okay... I... I shouldn’t... I—" His voice cracked, and he drew in a sharp breath, his shoulders trembling as though the emotions were too much to contain.

You could feel him holding back, the restraint in the way he stayed so close but didn’t dare cross the line again. His lips were parted, and he kept stealing glances at you as though he wanted to say something more, to let it all out—but couldn’t.

"James..." you started, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. His hand was still on yours, holding it against his face like he couldn’t bear to let go. "You don’t have to keep punishing yourself. You’re allowed to feel, to want something... someone."

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, but he said nothing, just kept his eyes closed, focusing on your touch. The silence was heavy, and it pained you to see him like this—so conflicted, so torn between what he felt and what he believed was right.

“I shouldn’t want this," he muttered again, voice choked. "I can’t. Not after everything I’ve done… not after Mary."

His words hung in the air, and the mention of her name felt like a knife to the chest. You knew this wasn’t just about you—this was about the weight of his past, the ghosts he couldn’t escape. His guilt over what had happened to her, the pain he still carried even though she was gone. But as he leaned into your touch, it felt like he was clinging to you, searching for something, someone to pull him out of the darkness that had swallowed him whole.

"James," you whispered again, your voice soft but firm. "You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to be."

His breath hitched at your words, and for a brief moment, you saw something in his eyes—something raw and desperate, a need that went beyond anything physical. But then, just as quickly, he pulled back, breaking the contact, his face a mask of anguish.

"I can't," he whispered. "I don't deserve this... I don’t deserve you."

The words hit you hard, and you could see the pain behind them, the deep-seated belief that he was beyond redemption. He tried to pull away from you, as if punishing himself further, but you didn’t let him. You wouldn’t let him.

Without thinking, you leaned closer, closing the distance between you. "You’re not the monster you think you are," you said softly. "You’re a good man, James. And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere." 

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought back the torrent of emotions. 

You sighed softly, the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you searched his face. His pain, his guilt—it was unbearable to witness. You wanted to do something, anything, to take it away, to make it easier for him. You didn’t know how far you were willing to go for him, but the sight of him breaking down before you was too much.

"It’s awful to see you like this, James," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you looked into his tormented eyes. "If it would help... if it would relieve you, then you can claim what you want. Whatever it is, I’m here, I… I won’t say anything, it’ll be a secret. Like nothing ever happened."

The words slipped out before you could fully comprehend their weight, but you meant them. The offer hung in the air like a lifeline, and as soon as they left your lips, something inside James seemed to shift. His eyes darkened, a spark of something raw and desperate flickering to life. Hunger. The same hunger you had seen before but held back by layers of guilt and self-loathing. Now, at your words, it began to surface, threatening to consume him.

The maths book you had handed him slipped from his grasp, falling forgotten to the floor with a soft thud. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were afraid to break the fragile tension between you, but he leaned down, his hands trembling as they cupped your cheeks. His touch was firm yet gentle, his fingers grazing your skin as though he couldn’t believe you were real.

His nose brushed against yours, his breath warm on your lips, and the closeness was intoxicating. You could feel the raw emotion radiating from him. It was palpable, and in that moment, it felt like the entire world had shrunk down to just the two of you. Nothing else mattered. Not the past. Not the guilt. Not the pain.

Just him.

"I... I don’t know if I can stop," he whispered, his voice strained, almost pleading as though he were asking for permission to give in to what he wanted. "I’m so tired of fighting it..."

His lips hovered just above yours, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. You could feel his hesitation, the battle waging inside him. But the hunger in his eyes was undeniable now. You closed your eyes, your heart pounding in your chest, and whispered, "Then don’t." 

It was all the permission he needed. James closed the distance, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was hungry, desperate, and full of all the emotions he had been holding back for so long. His hands tightened on your cheeks, pulling you closer as though he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go.

His need for you was overwhelming, and in that moment, it was as if nothing else existed but the two of you, lost in a sea of desire and emotion that neither of you could control anymore. 

James's tongue delved into your mouth, claiming you with a desperation that bordered on feral. He licked along your tongue, sucking on it, as though attempting to devour you from the inside out. His hands gripped your hair, holding you in place as he plundered your mouth. Between frantic, sloppy kisses, James tore his mouth away just enough to gasp out, "We shouldn't... This is so wrong..." Even as the words left his lips, his body betrayed his true desires. His hips rocked against you, grinding his hardening length against your core.

You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him on with breathless whispers. "Take what you need," you coaxed, your voice thick with want. "I'm yours, James. Let go and just feel..."

A low groan rumbled in his chest as James surrendered to the all-consuming need coursing through him. His tongue tangled with yours, licking into your mouth with a hunger that stole your breath. He sucked on your bottom lip, nipping at it with his teeth before soothing the sting with his tongue. "Fuck, you taste so good," James panted against your lips, his voice raw with desperation. "I've wanted this for so long… But I shouldn’t…" 

But even as the words left his lips, his actions told a different story. His hands were roaming your body now, as if seeking to memorise every curve and dip through your clothes. He groaned when his palm brushed over your breast, giving it a rough squeeze. "Tell me to stop," James pleaded, his voice ragged with need. "Y/n, please... I don't know if I can hold back if you keep encouraging me like this."

He punctuated his words with another searing kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth possessively. You could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your thigh, his cock straining against the confines of his pants. James' hands slid around to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. With a low groan, he turned and pushed you up against the bookshelf, pinning you there with his body.

"I want to hear you moan for me, Y/n," he growled, his voice rough with desire. His hands caressed up your thighs, slipping under your skirt. He nipped at your earlobe, his hot breath making you shiver. "I need to feel how wet you are for me." His fingers brushed over the damp fabric of your panties and you couldn't suppress the breathy whimper that escaped your lips. James rumbled his approval.

"Fuck, you're soaked," he groaned, rubbing his palm against your clothed slit. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me." He slipped a finger beneath your panties, teasing your slick folds. You gasped at the first touch, your walls fluttering around the digit. James curled his finger, stroking over your sensitive nerves and drawing out needy moans.

"That's it, baby," he crooned, working you with his fingers. "Let me hear how good I make you feel. I want everyone in this school to know who you belong to." He captured your lips in another searing kiss as he fingered you harder, his thumb circling your clit. The obscene wet sounds of your arousal filled the air, mixing with your wanton moans and the creaking of the bookshelf as James rutted against you.

Lost in a haze of pleasure, you could only cling to him, surrendering yourself to the intensity of his touch. In that moment, nothing existed but your rejected love and the overwhelming need consuming you both.

Your moans grew louder as James' fingers delved deeper, stroking over your most sensitive spots. Electric pleasure sparked through your body with each thrust, your walls clenching greedily around his digits. "Oh god, James!" you cried out, your hips rolling to meet his touch. "Don't stop, it feels incredible..."

He grinned, a wicked gleam in his eye. "You like being fingered in the middle of the class, don't you? Waiting for me to come claim you, to touch you like this where anyone could see." James curled his fingers just right, rubbing insistently over your G-spot. Your knees nearly buckled at the intense sensation, a flood of wetness coating his hand.

"Answer me," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "Tell me how much you love being touched by me, even if someone walks by and hears what a needy little thing you are." To emphasise his point, James slipped his fingers out and pushed two back in, spreading them wide to stretch you open. 

You keened at the lewd intrusion, your pussy fluttering wildly. "Please..." you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for. More, harder, anything to relieve the building pressure inside you.

"Please what?" James teased, pumping his fingers slowly. "Use your words, Y/n. Let everyone know how badly you need to be fucked."

He twisted his wrist, rubbing over that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes. Your moans reached a fever pitch, echoing off the bookshelves. Distantly, you registered the risk of discovery, but it only seemed to heighten your arousal. In that moment, pinned between James' hard body and the shelf, you didn't care who saw or heard. You just needed him to touch you more, to claim you completely. Consequences be damned.

Your body tensed, muscles pulling tight as your orgasm crashed over you. "Oh fuck, James!" you cried out, voice breaking on his name. Pleasure overwhelmed your senses, your pussy spasming uncontrollably around his fingers as you came hard. James groaned, working you through it, his fingers gentling. He rubbed soothing circles over your clit as you rode out the waves, drawing out your bliss.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let go for me," he encouraged. "You're so fucking beautiful when you cum."

As your climax ebbed, James withdrew his hand, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth. He licked them clean, savouring your taste with a low hum of appreciation. "Mmm, you taste as sweet as I imagined," James purred. "Seeing you fall apart for me, knowing I did that... Fuck, it's almost enough to make me cum in my jeans."

He rocked his hips, grinding his clothed erection against your thigh. You glanced down and saw a damp patch spreading on the fabric where his cock twitched urgently. James was right on the edge, aching for release. "Do you want to feel me cum?" he asked, voice strained with the effort to hold back. "Want to see me lose control for you?"

“Y-Yes, please.” You said, your voice still trembling with the aftermath of your orgasm.

James fumbled with his fly, freeing his throbbing cock. It sprang out, flushed and leaking, the tip slick with precum. He wrapped a hand around himself and stroked, hissing at the sensation. "Fuck, just like that," he grunted, working his shaft faster. "Watching you cum got me so hard, Y/n. I'm gonna... Ungh!"

With a final few tight pumps, James threw his head back with a guttural moan as his orgasm hit. Thick ropes of cum spurted from his cock, splattering obscenely across your skirt. He milked himself through it, riding out the intense waves of pleasure. Panting, James slumped against you, his softening cock still in his hand. He captured your lips in a languid kiss, sharing your taste between you. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with satisfaction.

"That was... Wow," he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. "I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my life."

Your legs trembled, the aftershocks still singing through your nerves. You'd never experienced anything so intense, so all-consuming. James had ruined you for anyone else, with a single touch. You knew you were addicted to the way only he could make you feel.

James helped you smooth your skirt back down and straighten your clothes, his touch gentle but almost impersonal now. There was a new tension in his shoulders as he tucked himself away and refastened his jeans, movements sharp. When he turned back to you, his expression was unreadable. Gone was the vulnerable, broken man who had confessed his feelings. In his place stood a stranger, cold and distant.

"We're keeping this a secret, right?" James asked, his tone almost accusatory. "Like nothing happened."

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift. Was this really the same man who had been kissing you so passionately and worshipped your body just minutes ago? Shame and confusion warred within you as you nodded mutely.

James searched your face for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight. "Good."

You swallowed back the hurt, forcing a stiff nod of agreement. "Of course. I won't say a word," you murmured, your voice small.

James' expression softened slightly at your acquiescence, some of the anger draining from his posture. "I didn't mean... Fuck. This doesn't change anything, okay? You're still the teacher of my daughter. I can't cross that line again." The mixed message confused you further. If he regretted what happened, why the anger?

But before you could respond, James was already turning away, taking Laura’s maths book on the floor. The dismissal was clear. Whatever connection you thought you'd felt, it was gone now. Just a fleeting illusion born of heat and proximity. Numb, you collected your own books, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. James wasn't angry because he regretted what you shared. He was angry because he didn't. 

Because he liked it too much, wanted it too much. And that scared him.

Because it terrified you as well, the intensity of your reaction to his touch. The way your heart raced and your body ached, even now. This thing between you... It was dangerous. Forbidden. But God help you, a traitorous part of you wanted to do it all again. To hell with the consequences.

Shaking your head to clear it, you slipped past James without another word. You had to get out of here, had to put some distance between your bodies before you gave in to temptation again.

As James left without another word, you fled the classroom just minutes later and you couldn't help but wonder what this meant for your future. Could you really go back to a normal parent-teacher relationship after this? Or would the memory of his hands on your skin, his lips devouring yours, be enough to drive you to distraction? Only time would tell. But one thing was certain - your feelings for James would never be the same. 

And that terrified you more than any other outcome.

───────────────

Following that afternoon, you had braced yourself for James to disappear from your life, retreating back into the shadows of his grief and responsibilities. Yet, to your surprise, he returned.

James would go to great lengths to ensure these meetings remained shrouded in secrecy. He would meticulously arrange for someone to look after Laura, his little girl blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in her father's heart. The logistics felt cold and clinical, but you understood his reasoning: if Laura saw you at his home too often, she'd start asking questions. And questions were the last thing he wanted to deal with. When he suggested booking a hotel, you sensed it was more than just practicality. It was as if he wanted to keep the entire affair compartmentalised—a small, dark corner of his life that could remain untouched by the chaos of his emotions. 

James often reminded you that it “meant nothing,” and part of you wanted to believe him. You had to. It was easier that way. You understood that his heart was still tethered to the past, to the memory of Mary, and what you shared could only ever be physical. Yet, despite the rationalisations, the moments you spent together ignited a fire within you, leaving you both breathless and craving more.

You wrestled with that notion, knowing deep down that it was true. It was just a carnal pleasure for him—an escape from the suffocating weight of his past and the present responsibilities of being a father. And yet, you found it hard to convince yourself that it didn’t mean anything to you, too. Every time he wrapped his arms around you, his touch igniting a fire within you, it felt more profound than mere physicality. You longed for it to be something real, but reality kept slapping you in the face, reminding you that this was just a distraction for him.

You were drawn to him, and every shared breath and fleeting glance ignited a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to let you in. But with every whispered promise exchanged in the dim light of the hotel room, the reality of the situation settled over you like a heavy cloak, reminding you of the limits you—and then James had set, the walls he had built to protect himself. 

It was one of those evenings. The hotel room was nicer than usual, you noticed, dimly lit by a warm, ambient glow that softened the edges of the night. You were lying on the bed in your underwear, your body sprawled across the sheets in anticipation. The room felt empty, save for the heavy silence that hung between the moments. You could hear your own heartbeat in the quiet, and the soft rustle of the door as it clicked shut announced James' arrival.

He still wore his jacket, but it looked like a burden, one he was quick to shed as he stepped into the room. The jacket fell to the floor with a heavy thud, and for a moment, he stood there, unmoving. His expression was clouded, a mixture of exhaustion and something far deeper that you’d come to recognize over these past weeks. James was multi-faceted, a puzzle of emotions that never fully aligned. Most of the time, he wore sadness like a second skin, carrying it with him like a cloak he could never quite shake off. But sometimes, beneath that sadness, there was anger—deep, raw, and bitter—or even hate. It was rare to see him happy, truly happy. The version of James that laughed or smiled felt like a ghost of who he used to be. 

Tonight, though, he looked utterly tired, the kind of weariness that dug into his bones and weighed him down. He sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his eyes distant. His hand found your leg almost instinctively, caressing your skin absentmindedly, as if searching for something—comfort, maybe. But you weren’t sure he could ever really find it.

You shifted slightly under his touch, the feeling of his fingers against your leg sending a small shiver up your spine. You glanced at him, watching his profile as he sat there, lost in his own thoughts. His hand traced slow, idle patterns against your skin, but his gaze was far away, his mind somewhere else.

"Long day?" you asked softly, your voice barely breaking the silence. 

James didn’t answer right away. His fingers paused for a moment, then resumed their gentle motion. You could tell he was carrying the weight of something, but it wasn’t your place to ask—at least not anymore. Not in this arrangement, where your time together had become a strange kind of ritual, bound by unsaid rules.

He finally exhaled, a deep sigh that seemed to come from the depths of him. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice rough. "Long day."

You wanted to reach out to him, to offer some kind of solace, but you knew better by now. James was a man trapped inside his own pain, his own regret, and as much as you wanted to break through that barrier, you also knew he would push you away if you tried. So instead, you let him sit there, his hand on your leg, and you stayed quiet, letting the silence speak for itself.

His hand lingered, caressing your skin with a kind of absent tenderness that always seemed at odds with the darkness in his eyes. This was the James you had come to know—someone who needed, who sought out comfort in the most fleeting ways, but who could never fully let himself feel it. Someone who wanted but would never allow himself to have.

James shifted beside you, his movements tense and restless, until he finally laid down against you, pressing his body close, almost too close, as if afraid you’d slip away. His head found its way to your chest, clutching at you, not with tenderness but with something more desperate—like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline. The moment felt heavy, loaded with all the things he wasn’t saying but you could feel the tightness of his grip, in the ragged way he sighed.

You threaded your fingers through his ash-blonde hair, trying to soothe the tension in his body, but even your touch didn’t seem to be enough tonight. He was different—more on edge, more fragile, and the air between you was thick with unspoken need. James pressed his face deeper against your breasts, his breath hot against your skin, and you could feel how hard he was holding back, how much he was crumbling inside.

“I have nightmares,” he whispered, his voice raw, almost broken. It wasn’t just tiredness. There was something deeper in his tone—desperation, like he was running out of time, out of hope. “I don’t sleep well. Not anymore.”

You frowned, your heart aching for him. You knew he didn’t sleep well, but hearing him admit it, the way his voice trembled, made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. “What kind of nightmares?” you asked, though part of you wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear the answer.

James stayed silent, but his grip on you tightened, his fingers curling against your skin like he was holding on for dear life. He didn’t want to tell you, couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he buried his face against you, his body trembling. “It’s bad,” he finally muttered, voice shaking. “Some days it’s worse than others. Today’s one of those days.”

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. He was coming apart, breaking down, and you weren’t sure how to fix it. “James…” you whispered, but he didn’t let you finish, and he groaned in protest, his head over your breasts. His pain was palpable, suffocating, and you could feel the anguish in every breath he took. 

After another moment of heavy silence, James shifted slightly, his body tense as if bracing himself for what he was about to say. It was so rare for him to talk, especially about anything that truly mattered, and when his voice finally broke through the quiet, it startled you.

After another stretch of silence, James shifted again against you, but this time, instead of falling deeper into that quiet, his voice emerged, fragile yet determined. "Mary," he whispered, the name hanging heavy in the air between you. It surprised you—he hadn’t spoken about her since the time you saw her picture at his home, and you had assumed he never would. "I… I felt so guilty. When she got sick, all I could think about was how much I missed her—her warmth, just holding her like this." His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into your skin, as if trying to ground himself through the contact. "But I couldn’t."

His words came out slowly, as if it pained him to say them aloud, but he couldn’t stop now that he had started. You stayed quiet, your hand still in his hair, listening as he unravelled.

"It wasn’t just the sickness, though," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, as if confessing a sin he had long kept buried. "Even when she wasn’t sick, it wasn’t... right. Our intimacy." His lips twisted in discomfort, and you could feel him tense against you. "There were things I wanted to do, things I thought we’d share, but she didn’t want any of it. She couldn’t, or wouldn’t, I don’t know." He sighed heavily, the sound filled with frustration and sadness. "We’d end up arguing—these cold, distant fights that never solved anything. And then we’d—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard.

"And then we’d have sex, just to stop the fighting," he finally finished, his voice flat, emotionless, like the memory was draining him. "But it was always… it felt so conventional. Like it was just something we were supposed to do, not something we wanted. Not something she wanted, as if I was pressuring her to do it."

James shifted again, burying his face in your chest, his breath warm and ragged against your skin. His hand still clutched you tightly, as if afraid to let go. The pain in his voice was clear, the regret, the guilt, the yearning for something that had always been just out of reach. "I loved her, but… I needed more." His confession was quiet, almost lost in the space between you. "I needed this. I needed what we never had."

It felt like a deep wound had been reopened, and you could feel the rawness of it in every word he spoke. He had been carrying this pain for so long, locked away inside, and now, lying here in your arms, he was letting it spill out. His guilt, his longing, his shame. And even though he didn’t say it, you understood—he wasn’t just missing Mary, he was missing the connection he never had with her. Something deeper, something he was still searching for.

Maybe even in you.

James stayed close to you, his face still pressed against your cleavage, his breathing uneven as the weight of his words hung in the air. You could feel his vulnerability, a kind of desperation that rarely surfaced, like a dam had broken, and he couldn’t stop the flood of his emotions. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say, unsure of how to respond to something so deeply personal. But you knew he needed you, your presence, your understanding.

You gently stroked his hair, giving him time to collect himself. After a long pause, you whispered, “It sounds like you were always left wanting something more.”

James’ grip tightened on you, his fingers digging slightly into your side, as if the truth in your words pained him. He nodded against your chest, a faint, tortured sound escaping him.

“I don’t know why,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, heavy with frustration. “Maybe I was too selfish. Maybe I wanted too much. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t talk to her about it. I didn’t want to hurt her more than she already was.” His voice cracked, as if the weight of that guilt threatened to crush him. “But I was lonely. So damn lonely. And when we… when we were together, it felt like she was just… enduring it. Like I wasn’t allowed to want more from her, to even ask.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart ache. “I needed things I couldn’t ask her for. Things I couldn’t even bring myself to admit.” His lips trembled, his expression torn between shame and an unspoken longing. “And she’d just… shut down. It made me feel like I was a monster for wanting anything.” You listened quietly, sensing the pain in his voice but also the deep frustration that had been buried for so long. It was as though he had locked away all these feelings, all these desires, believing he was wrong for even having them. But now, with you, he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“It wasn’t just about sex,” he continued, his voice rough. “It was about needing to feel connected, to feel wanted. I loved her, but… She never made me feel like I mattered that way.”

Your hand rested gently on his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly across his skin. “You’re not a monster, James,” you said softly, your voice full of reassurance. “You just… wanted to be seen. To be close to someone.”

He closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into it like a man starved for affection. His breathing hitched, and you could feel the tension in his body, like he was fighting to hold himself together. 

“But I never got that,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “With Mary, it was always… proper. Reserved. And after a while, I stopped trying. It just… wasn’t worth the fights anymore. We would go days without touching, without even saying much to each other. I’d come home, and she’d just be there, like a ghost, and I’d miss her… even though she was right in front of me.”

He let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “God, I was such an idiot. I thought things would change, that one day she’d wake up and… see me.”

“I’m sorry, James,” you whispered, your voice thick with empathy. 

He opened his eyes, tears glistening at the corners as he looked at you. “But what if… what if I am just selfish?” he asked, his voice shaking. “What if I always needed too much? Too much from her… too much from you.”

You shook your head softly, your hand cupping his face as you met his gaze. “No,” you said firmly, your tone gentle but resolute. “You didn’t ask for too much. You just asked to be seen, to be loved. That’s not selfish, James. That’s human.”

He let out a shaky breath, his hand coming up to cover yours, his thumb tracing the lines of your palm. “But I’ve already messed things up,” he whispered, his voice filled with regret. “With you… I’ve taken so much from you, and I… I don’t even know if I can give you anything back.”

You felt your chest tighten at his words, the rawness in his confession. He was scared—scared of hurting you, scared of repeating the mistakes of the past. But he was also scared of letting you in, of giving himself to you in a way he had never been able to with Mary.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” you said softly, your voice steady. “I’m here because I want to be, James. Not because I expect anything in return.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with a mix of longing and fear, and you could see the war raging inside him. He wanted to believe you, but he had been hurt so deeply before, left feeling empty and undeserving.

“I just… I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you like I hurt her.”

You leaned in, your forehead resting gently against his. “You’re not going to hurt me,” you whispered back, your breath warm against his skin. “I’m not Mary, James. I’m different.”

For a moment, he was silent, his eyes closing as he absorbed your words. And then, slowly, his grip on you tightened, his hand moving to the back of your neck as he pulled you closer. His lips brushed against yours, tentative and unsure, but the need in his touch was undeniable. He was searching for something—comfort, release, maybe even redemption. And for the first time, you felt like he was truly letting you in.

You held his gaze, your hand still resting on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm. James’ eyes, so full of pain and guilt, flickered with uncertainty as you spoke softly, trying to ease the weight he carried.

“James,” you began gently, “sometimes two people can love each other so much that it ends up hurting them. It doesn’t mean you did anything wrong, and it doesn’t mean Mary was at fault either. It’s just… sometimes things fall apart, and it’s not about who’s to blame.”

James’ brow furrowed, his lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. 

“It was a bad time,” you continued, your voice low but filled with compassion. “You both went through so much, and there wasn’t a way to fix it. Sometimes… love just isn’t enough to heal everything.”

James’ eyes closed, his breath trembling as he let your words wash over him. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your hand as if he were battling with the acceptance of what you were saying. “It doesn’t make you a bad person,” you whispered, your thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone. “It doesn’t mean you failed her. You did the best you could with what you had.”

James’ grip tightened on you for a brief moment, and then he let out a deep, shaky breath, his head dipping slightly as if the weight of your words was too much to bear. His forehead pressed against yours again, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. “I just… I keep thinking, maybe if I’d done something differently,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe if I’d been better, or tried harder—”

You silenced him with a gentle shake of your head, your fingers moving through his hair. “No, James. Don’t do that to yourself. You loved her, and she loved you, but sometimes that love isn’t enough to stop the hurt. It doesn’t make either of you bad people. It just… happened.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, the quiet stretching between you as he absorbed the truth of what you said. His hand slipped to rest on your waist, and you could feel him relax slightly, as if the burden on his shoulders had lightened, even just a little. “I don’t know how to let go of it,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with emotion. 

Your heart ached for him, for the weight of guilt and grief he carried every day. But you knew he couldn’t keep punishing himself forever. He deserved to find peace, to let himself heal, even if it took time. “You don’t have to let go of it all at once,” you whispered, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, holding him close. “Just take it one day at a time. You’re allowed to feel everything you feel, but you’re also allowed to move forward. You deserve that, James.”

He stayed still for a long moment, his forehead still pressed against yours, his breath coming out in soft, ragged sighs. And then, slowly, he nodded, the faintest hint of acceptance in his touch as he held you close. “I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to not feel guilty.”

“You don’t have to know right now,” you reassured him, your fingers gently stroking the back of his neck. “Just know that I’m here. You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore.”

His grip tightened on you, and for the first time, you felt him truly lean into your touch—not out of desperation, but out of a need for comfort. It wasn’t about running away from the pain anymore; it was about finding a way to live with it, and maybe, just maybe, to start healing.

You held James close, his head resting against your chest as you softly stroked his hair. His body felt heavy against yours, weighed down by all the unspoken emotions, the guilt, and the unresolved pain. In the silence, a thought crossed your mind—one that had been lingering in the background of your conversations. “What is it, James?” you asked gently, your voice a soft whisper in the dim light of the hotel room. “What did you always want to do… but never could?”

He was still for a moment, as if processing your question, caught off guard by the depth of it. His fingers lightly gripped your waist, and you could feel the tension building in him again, as if the memories were flooding back too quickly. His breath hitched slightly, and you knew you had touched on something buried deep.

“I—” he started, but his voice faltered. His head shifted slightly against your chest, and he didn’t meet your gaze, almost shyly. “I don’t know if I can talk about it.” 

You continued to gently run your fingers through his hair, reassuring him with your presence. “It’s okay, James. You can tell me.

You could see the conflicting emotions playing across James' face - the fear of revealing too much warring with the desperate need for release, for absolution. His breath came faster, his fingers digging into your skin as he wrestled with himself. "I've always..." he began, his voice hoarse. "I've always wanted to dominate. To take control. But I never knew how. I was always too afraid."

He lifted his head to look at you then, his eyes dark and intense. "I want to be the one in charge, Y/n. I want to own your pleasure, make you beg for me. Like… more intense?" His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of excitement mingling with the tenderness in your chest. 

"Show me," you whispered, your hands framing his face. "Show me how to be yours."

Something shifted in James' expression, a flicker of relief and determination. He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss that stole your breath. His hands roamed your body, claiming every inch of you.

"You're mine," he growled against your lips. "All mine. And I'm going to make you feel so good, baby girl. Gonna take such good care of you." He nipped at your jaw, your throat, marking you as his. His touch was firm, commanding, stoking the heat between your legs. You arched into him, surrendering completely.

James' hands roamed your body with a newfound confidence, squeezing and caressing every curve. He slid his fingers under the waistband of your panties, teasing along the sensitive skin. "Fuck, you're so wet for me already," he groaned, feeling the dampness. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and yanked, ripping your panties off with one swift motion. The cool air hit your heated flesh and you shivered. James threw the tattered lace aside, his eyes dark with lust as he took in the sight of your glistening pussy.

"You like that, baby? Like me taking control?" He reached out and ran a single finger along your slit, collecting the slick on his fingertip. He brought it to your mouth, painting your lips with your own arousal. "Taste how fucking wet you are," he commanded. James pushed you back on the bed, looming over you. 

His clothes were still on but you could see the huge bulge straining against his zipper. He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he was. "Gonna worship this pretty little pussy," he promised, voice low and rough with desire. "Gonna lick up every drop, make you scream for me."

He pushed your thighs apart, settling between them. His hot breath ghosted over your sensitive flesh as he inhaled deeply. "Christ, you smell amazing," James groaned. "Can't wait to taste it."

He dragged the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, slow lick. Your back arched off the bed, a gasp escaping your lips. James growled at the response, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure through you.

He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue. Two fingers pushed inside you, pumping in and out as he ate you out like a starving man. Obscene slurping sounds filled the room, mingling with your unabashed moans.

As James buried his face between your thighs, your moans echoed off the hotel room walls. His stubble-covered cheeks brushed against your sensitive inner thighs, the delicious friction sending electric shivers up your spine. You could feel his nose nestled against your pussy, his hot breath teasing your already drenched folds. "Oh god," you whimpered, tangling your fingers in his hair. "James, please..."

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark with lust. "Please what, baby?" he purred, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. "Use your words."

Your gaze locked with his, hazy with need. "I need you," you breathed, writhing beneath his intense stare. "Please, James... I want to feel you."

A wicked grin spread across his face. "That's not what I asked, sweetheart. Try again."

His words sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. In that moment, you realised exactly what he wanted to hear, what he needed to know. Craning your neck, you cried out, "Please, Daddy! I need you!"

The words seemed to ignite something primal in James. With a possessive growl, he surged forward, claiming your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plundered your mouth, dominating every inch. His fingers dug into your hips, gripping you so tightly you knew you'd be marked tomorrow.

James broke the kiss with a gasp, panting harshly against your cheek. "That's right, baby girl. Call me Daddy," he rasped, voice dripping with dark promise. "This needy little cunt belongs to me."

To emphasise his point, he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked hard, making you arch off the bed with a strangled moan. He lashed the sensitive bundle of nerves with his tongue, wringing desperate cries from your throat.

"Daddy, please!" you sobbed, fisting your hands in the sheets. "It's too much, I can't..."

James only redoubled his efforts, two fingers plunging into your soaked heat. He pumped them in and out, curling against your inner walls. The mix of pain and pleasure was exquisite, overwhelming. Your thighs trembled around his head, your toes curling into the mattress.

"So good," you panted, head thrashing on the pillow. "Fuck, James, your mouth feels amazing."

When his thumb found your clit and rubbed tight circles, it finally tipped you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath and whiting out your vision. James worked you through it, drawing out every last aftershock until you collapsed bonelessly against the bed.

Pulling back, James wiped his slick mouth with the back of his hand, looking immensely pleased with himself. His hair was tousled from your desperate grip, his lips swollen from your kisses. "Goddamn," he breathed, drinking in the sight of you. "You're so fucking gorgeous when you let go like that. My perfect girl."

He crawled up your body, hovering over you. You could feel the thick ridge of his erection pressing insistently against your hip, hot even through his jeans. James captured your lips in another searing kiss, devouring you, consuming you. You could taste yourself on his tongue, musky and heady. "Suck me," he commanded, voice low and authoritative. "Get that pretty mouth on Daddy's dick and show me what a good girl you are." He asked, taking off his tie and shirt.

Your heart raced at the new dynamic between you, this confident, dominant side of James awakening a primal hunger in your core. You sat up and reached for his belt, eager to obey his orders.

You gripped the base of James' cock, angling it towards your eager mouth. You dragged your tongue along the underside, tracing the prominent vein from root to tip. Reaching the weeping slit, you swirled your tongue around it, lapping up the salty-sweet precum that beaded there. "Mmm, you taste so good," you purred, your words making James' cock twitch against your lips.

You wrapped your lips around the head, suckling gently as you savoured his flavour. Inch by inch, you worked your way down his shaft, relaxing your throat to take him deeper. James groaned above you, one hand coming up to tangle in your hair. "Fuck,  just like that," he praised, guiding your head to bob along his length. 

You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, determined to give James as much pleasure as he'd given you. You let him guide your movements, surrendering control as you focused on pleasuring your Daddy with your mouth. Above you, James' abs flexed and his breath came in short, sharp pants. His grip on your hair tightened and his thighs tensed, signalling his impending release. You doubled your efforts, desperate to taste him.

With a low, guttural groan, James came undone. His cock pulsed against your tongue as he spilled his seed down your throat. You swallowed every drop, relishing the intimate connection. As James softened, you released him from your mouth with a final, loving kiss to the tip. 

James pulled you close, peppering your face with tender kisses. "That was incredible, baby girl," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. "I've never felt anything like that before." You snuggled into his embrace, giggling, happy to see him enjoying himself.

“But we aren’t done, yet,” And James rolled you onto your hands and knees, positioning your ass in the air. The new angle made you feel exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly aroused. You could feel his eyes raking over your body, drinking in the sight of you laid out before him like a feast. "Fuck, you're gorgeous like this," James growled, his voice low and rough with desire. "All ready for me."

He delivered a sharp smack to your right cheek, making you yelp in surprise. The stinging sensation quickly melted into a throbbing heat that spread through your core. James soothed the abused flesh with his palm, kneading the plump globes of your ass. "Count them, baby girl," he commanded, punctuating his words with another smack to your left cheek. "Let Daddy hear how good his little girl is taking her punishment."

"One," you gasped out, your voice hitching as James continued his sensual assault on your backside. Each stinging slap was followed by a moment of intense pressure, the heat building within you until it exploded into pure, molten need. By the time James reached ten, your ass was flushed a deep pink and you were panting with need. 

You shifted your position, moving to straddle James' hips. His semi-hard cock nestled against your slick folds, already stirring back to life. You ground slowly against him, coating his length in your arousal. Above you, James groaned, hands coming up to grip your waist.

"Already so wet for me again," he praised, voice low and rough with renewed lust. 

“Of course James,” You rolled your hips, sliding your slick heat along his hardening shaft. The head caught on your entrance with each pass, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. James' fingers dug into your skin, his control fraying at the edges.

Unable to hold back any longer, you reached down to guide him inside. With a single, smooth thrust, James sheathed himself fully within your welcoming heat. You both cried out at the exquisite sensation, bodies trembling with the force of your connection.

"So fucking perfect," James panted, fighting the urge to rut into you wildly. "Gonna make this last, baby girl. Gonna worship this sweet little pussy." He set a deep, steady rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remained before sliding home again. Each drag of his cock along your sensitive walls stoked the flames of your desire higher. Your nails raked down the sweat-slicked skin of his back as you matched his pace, meeting him thrust for delicious thrust.

You cried out at the sudden stretch, walls fluttering around his thick girth as he filled you completely. James stilled for a moment, giving you time to adjust before starting a slow, deep rhythm. Each drag of his cock against your sensitive walls sent sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," James groaned, picking up the pace. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he drove into you with increasing force. "So tight, baby. Like you were made just for me."

The wet sounds of your joining filled the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps. James' hands roamed your body, mapping every dip and curve as if committing you to memory. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, tongues tangling as he consumed you thoroughly. "My beautiful Y/n," he rasped against your mouth, the intimacy of your name on his lips making your heart race. 

His words, coupled with the relentless pleasure building in your core, pushed you closer to the edge. Your inner muscles fluttered around James' pistoning cock, signalling your impending climax. He reached between you to circle your swollen clit, the added stimulation sending you flying.

You rolled onto your stomach, presenting yourself to James. He gripped your hips, pulling you back against his hardness. With one swift thrust, he buried himself inside your slick heat, making you cry out in pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," James groaned, setting a relentless pace as he began to move again.

He pounded into you from behind, the lewd slap of skin against skin filling the room. Each powerful thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy through your trembling body. James' hands roamed your curves possessively, squeezing and kneading your flesh as he claimed you again and again.

"Harder, James,," you begged, arching your back to take him even deeper. "I want to feel you in the morning."

James growled, slamming into you with renewed vigour. He hooked one arm under you, forcing you up onto your knees as he railed you with abandon. The new angle allowed him to hit spots you didn't even know existed, driving you wild with lust. For hours, James took his pleasure from your willing body. You let him explore every position imaginable, determined to bring you to the brink of madness with ecstasy. You lost count of the number of times he came inside you, his hot seed painting your walls and filling your womb.

Through it all, James remained insatiable, his stamina and appetite for you seemingly endless. He worshipped every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue, marking you as his own. By the time he was finally spent, you were a quivering, sweat-slicked mess, utterly satisfied in a way you'd never known before.

As James pulled you into his arms, both of you basked in the afterglow. The shy, reserved man you once knew was gone, replaced by a confident, dominant lover who reveled in bringing you pleasure. And though the future was uncertain, you knew that you would gladly surrender yourself to James desires again and again.

You snuggled closer to James, marveling at the newfound intimacy between you. His strong arms encircled you, holding you tight against his firm chest. The warmth of his skin seeped into your own, "Tonight was incredible," you murmured, tracing idle patterns on James' chest with your fingertips. "I've never seen you let go like that before, so free and uninhibited."

James' eyes fluttered open, meeting your gaze. There was a vulnerability there that made your heart ache. "I've always wanted this," he confessed softly. "To lose myself in you completely, to worship every inch of your beautiful body until you screamed my name. But I was afraid, afraid of my own desires and what they might do to us."

You pressed a tender kiss to his jaw, understanding the depth of his confession. "Don't be afraid anymore, James. This is us, this is what we're meant to be. Just like this, skin on skin, hearts entwined."

James pulled you closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, sensual kiss. You poured all of your love and acceptance into it, hoping to chase away the last remnants of his fear. When he finally pulled back, there was a peace in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

Smiling, you rested your head against James’ chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart. It was a comforting rhythm, one that made you feel safe, despite the complicated nature of what you shared. His arm was draped over you, holding you close, as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. The room was filled with a peaceful silence, broken only by the soft sounds of your breathing mingling together.

You closed your eyes, savouring the moment, knowing that these quiet, intimate nights were rare—fleeting even. Yet, you couldn’t help but cling to the hope that this, whatever it was between you and James, meant something more than just a temporary escape. The thought lingered in your mind, bittersweet, as you traced your fingers absentmindedly along the contours of his chest.

James shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers brushing against your back in slow, absentminded circles. There was a tenderness in the way he touched you now, different from the desperate, carnal need that had driven him earlier. It was softer, more vulnerable—like he was allowing himself to truly feel, even if just for a moment.

“I don’t know what this means for us,” he murmured after a long silence, his voice low and rough from exhaustion. “But… I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, your heart squeezing at the raw honesty in his eyes. For a man who had spent so long hiding behind his grief, his guilt, and his fear, these words felt like a fragile offering. You could see the uncertainty in him, the way he was torn between wanting to keep you close and fearing that he didn’t deserve to.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered, brushing a lock of his hair away from his forehead. “I’m here, James. I’m not going anywhere.”

He closed his eyes at your words, a sigh of relief escaping him as he pulled you even closer. His hold on you tightened, like he was grounding himself in your presence, in the warmth of your body pressed against his.

For a long while, you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, as the weight of the night’s emotions slowly settled. There were still so many unanswered questions, so many unresolved feelings, but for now, in this moment, it felt like enough. You could feel James’ breathing slow, his body relaxing as exhaustion took hold, and you knew he was finally allowing himself to rest. 

As you lay there, nestled in the warmth of James’ embrace, the words slipped out almost without thought, carried by the tenderness of the moment. "Could you stay here tonight?" you asked quietly, shyly. It felt natural—right even. The way his body fit against yours, the way his breathing synced with your own. For the first time, it didn’t feel rushed, like the encounters that had come before. Tonight, it felt… different. Deeper.

But the moment the question left your lips, you felt him stiffen beneath you. His once relaxed body tensed, his hand that had been resting so peacefully on your back froze, and you could feel the subtle shift in his breathing—faster, more shallow. The warmth you had just been enveloped in seemed to evaporate all at once, leaving a chill in its place.

"James?" you whispered, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, darting around the room as if he were suddenly trapped. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His gaze met yours for a fleeting second before he tore it away, staring up at the ceiling instead, his jaw clenched.

"I… I can’t," he finally breathed out, his voice tight and strained. 

"Why not?" you asked softly, a sinking feeling forming in your chest. Tonight had been so right, so good. Why was he pulling away now? You reached for him, but he gently pushed your hand away, his movements almost frantic.

"I can't stay," he repeated, sitting up abruptly and pulling himself from your embrace. His back was to you now, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled as they reached for his discarded clothes. "I shouldn’t even be here."

"But James," you began, your voice catching with the sudden wave of confusion and hurt. "It’s different tonight, right? It felt right."

He shook his head, pulling his shirt over his head, still refusing to look at you. "It can’t be more than what it is," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "This was a mistake."

Your heart plummeted at his words, the air in the room growing thick with the weight of them. "A mistake?" you echoed, struggling to keep your voice steady. "You don’t mean that."

But James didn’t respond. Instead, he stood up, buttoning his pants with shaky hands, his back still turned to you. It was like watching him retreat into himself, putting walls back up that you thought had come down, if only for a night. "Please, don’t make this harder," he finally said, his voice breaking slightly. "I can’t… I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you."

Your chest tightened, and the weight of his words pressed down on you, heavy and unrelenting. You wanted to reach out, to pull him back, but something in his posture told you that any more pressure would push him further away.

“Why does it always have to be like this?” you whispered, the ache in your voice undeniable.

But James didn’t answer. He pulled on his jacket, his back turned to you as he tried to collect himself. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the struggle in his silence. It wasn’t just fear—it was torment. The closer he got to you, the more it hurt him.

You wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong—that this wasn’t just about deserving, that it was about the connection you shared, the way he opened up to you tonight. But as you sat there, staring at his back, you realised that no matter what you said, it wouldn’t change the deep-rooted guilt and fear that had consumed him. It was too much for him to handle, and the reality of that hit you like a punch to the gut.

"James, wait… what happened tonight—it's okay," you tried, your voice soft, reassuring. You wanted to tell him how much you had enjoyed it, that it was more than just meaningless, that it meant something to you. But before you could get the words out, he cut you off sharply, his voice hard and cold in a way you hadn’t heard before.

“No,” he snapped, turning to face you with a desperate, almost frantic look in his eyes. “What happened tonight… it’s not me. I’m not a man like that. I shouldn’t have—" His voice wavered, but the panic in his tone was unmistakable. “You need to forget about this. Forget it ever happened.”

The words hit you like a slap, leaving a hollow ache in your chest as you sat there, clutching the sheet to your body. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him how much it mattered, how much he mattered. But before you could speak, James’ next words sent a shockwave through you.

“You better take your pills tomorrow,” he said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “Make sure you’re not pregnant. I don’t want to be responsible for anything that comes out of this.” His words were biting, harsh. “I can’t—I won’t support anything related to tonight.”

The bluntness of it stunned you into silence. His words felt like a door slamming shut between you, a reminder of just how temporary this had always been for him. You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, the reality of his detachment settling in like a heavy weight in your chest. You wanted to say something, anything, to make him see that what you’d shared tonight wasn’t something to just brush off.

But it was like he was already gone, emotionally cut off from you.

“And don’t… don’t think this changes anything,” James continued, his voice rough with guilt and something else—self-loathing, maybe. “I still love Mary. I’ll always love her. This,” he gestured between the two of you, his face hardening, “you’re nothing like her. You’ll never be close to what she was to me.”

His words pierced through you, each one like a knife twisting deeper into your heart. He was distancing himself from you, pushing you away, making sure you understood that what happened tonight wasn’t about you—it wasn’t about love, or even connection. You were just a temporary distraction, a way for him to feel something, anything, other than the constant grief and guilt that plagued him.

As he grabbed his jacket and made his way to the door, he finally turned to look at you, his eyes filled with sorrow and regret. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. And before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet, empty room.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you lay back on the bed, staring at the empty space beside you where he had been just moments ago. The warmth of his touch, his embrace—it all felt like a cruel illusion now, a fleeting moment of connection that had evaporated into nothing.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening. The warmth of his body, his touch, his voice—it was all gone, leaving you with nothing but the cold reminder that, no matter how close you got to James, he would always pull away in the end.

And despite everything, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe… this was all you’d ever get.

“Of course you’re sorry,” you whispered, crying yourself to sleep.

[oatlystrawberryicecream]

the way that some people talk about jason and batman and the joker is so jarring to me because it relies on some unspoken assumptions that i will never buy into

1. the assumption that taking a life inevitably always makes the person who did it worse. killing someone isn’t always this earth shattering thing that harms the person who does it and fundamentally changes their outlook on things. i guess if you have never met a veteran or someone who survived an armed robbery or any number of other things you might make that mistake, but like some of the people who fought in wwii came home and were normal members of the community and the times that their bullets hit the mark were not necessarily the parts of the war that kept them up at night. these assumptions that once you kill you are wicked and have to feel bad and do this whole show of repentance are insidious. if you are gonna look at all this through the lens of christian morality you should at least be aware that that is what you are doing but you cant have just one character be wicked and unclean because of his actions when the bible says that everyone is wicked and unclean by our nature and all sins are equal. a lot of people object to that view but if thats how you see it batman and jason and the joker are all sinners and are all as bad as each other so at least be consistant about how you apply that moral framework.

2. the assumption that being robin or being taken in and trained by bruce means full agreement with and acceptance of every part of bruce’s personal philosophy on justice and morality. jason was a homeless child and even if all this was explicitly laid out for him he could not have agreed since he needed bruce as a matter of survival. bruce’s ideology is extremely important to him and he can teach it to his children all he wants but they are not beholden to it above all else the way he thinks they should be. jason has to live according to his own beliefs regardless of how unacceptable bruce finds it and it is unfair and hypocritical of bruce to get bent out of shape about it.

3. the assumption that killing is always bad. maybe i have listened to too many episodes of behind the bastards but some people will do significant and appalling damage to others no matter what unless they are dead. those people can’t be allowed to keep causing harm. it isn’t glorious and there is no honor about it but it is right and just that they be stopped. there is no reason to strive for purity or ideological high ground when you can provide a measure of safety and justice to victims and prevent future harm instead.

4. the assumption that bruce didn’t have to answer to jason. parents have a duty to their children and it is my opinion that that duty does not end when the child dies. bruce adopted jason and made himself responsible and accountable for everything that happened to jason under his care. that responsibility was ignored over many instances. i am not going to detail the things that led to jason’s death here but it was not good or effective parenting. after jason’s death the disrespect starts pretty immediately with bruce compromising evidence of his murder in order to preserve his ability to continue as batman and continues with bruce getting rid of pretty much all traces of jason’s presence in his life. he is only spoken of as a mistake, a lost cause, or a cautionary tale and is assigned blame for his own death, a death that batman never bothered to fully investigate since he was buried next to the woman who led him into the trap. a new kid is endangered and the joker and batman both continue doing whatever they want as if jason’s life only matters for the way it affects them. bruce needs to answer for all of this, as his son jason has a right to expect more from his father. now the extent to which that extends can be debated but it is clear to me that jason deserved better from bruce.

conclusion: killing is accepted in society in certain circumstances, you may or may not agree with this but self defense laws and even things like jury nullification exist because people knew there should be some wiggle room since no one could have the full context of every situation that would ever arise. ending a life is not normal or ideal but it is not an unfathomably rare experience and it does not always weigh on the person who does it. bruce has never to my knowledge killed someone so he has no idea how he would actually respond but that still isn’t even what jason was asking him to do. all he had to do was be present and not move and he would have been the only parental figure who didn’t let jason down.

[alicerosejensen]

Something about sin. Pt.1

Synopsis: Leon is ready to rip all these damn feelings out of himself and tell himself over and over again that he needs a good fuck. You're too young and too cute for him. Leon knows that he shouldn't even touch you, but then why are you tearing all the sinful essence out of him?

Warning: no erotica but it is mentioned; Older!Leon; Innocent Reader; Fem/reader; age difference; Leon is tormented by his conscience; Old man/young girl; Mentions of sex; in fact (in this chapter) the reader does not view Leon as a love/sexual interest; The reader is the daughter of another DSO agent.

A/N: I apologize for any mistakes. I really like the idea of dark Leon, but I don’t want to make him look like a bastard).

Feedback is welcome. If you want to point out mistakes or scold me, please do so in a gentle manner.

Part 2

This was wrong...

But 'Wrong' is not the word that could describe how he feels every time he sees you. One slightest appearance and Leon immediately feels like Humbert from Nabokov’s novel “Lolita,” who ruined the life of a little girl, well, the only difference is that you seem to be 19-20 years old, and not 14. Actually, it’s already wrong to want you, given that huge fact that you...don’t give him any reason.

You don't wag your pretty ass in front of him, you don't wear revealing clothes, and damn you're a victim of his sinful thoughts! When the fuck did this start?

The day he saw you might have been the right answer. This was the day when his colleague, the only one in the DSO besides Hannigan and Helena, sympathized with him and believed that what was standing in front of him was not a cold-blooded killer of the president, but the same Leon who would rather take a bullet and give his life than kill the one he was supposed to protect. The clarification of all the circumstances and the justification of his innocence dragged on for a long time, maybe that’s why your father then simply wanted to show an act of friendship and support by inviting him to a family dinner? Returning back, Leon thinks that it would be better if he went through hell again.

Leon immediately realized that the dinner was arranged primarily for him. Fried chicken with sides, a light salad, your mom made appetizers and even made a casserole. One is too many for him. The icing on the cake was when your father opened an expensive bottle of wine. He immediately felt awkward about this, after all, who was he to be bothered with so much, but you...

"Mr. Kennedy, what do you want? Maybe a salad? The thin sound of your voice almost made him feel weak. Your beautiful hands held the salad bowl, and almost as if on cue, you were ready to fill his plate with whatever he wanted. And those doe eyes looked at him so sweetly.

Leon could have sworn that at that moment some kind of blessing...or curse came down to him. He doesn't even remember what you were wearing. Some kind of brown blouse with jeans? He didn’t even pay attention to it, his eyes were completely focused on your pretty face. It was rubbish. You yourself were old enough to be his daughter and, as was said earlier, you didn’t even give him a hint to think that you were not indifferent to him. Actually, at dinner, when you were sitting between your parents opposite him, Leon saw how uncomfortable you were. You ate almost nothing and didn’t say anything, and an hour later you ran upstairs to your room, citing the fact that you hadn’t finished some task yet.

And your father quickly let you go, so you quickly jumped up the stairs like a rabbit, running away from his insidious gaze.

Maybe he just needed to let off some steam, he decided. In fact, it is not very often that there are women in his house who can spend at least a night with him. Last time it was Ada, and sex with her was too rough and fast. He cum almost as soon as she found herself in his arms, and for some reason Leon at that moment was not thinking about her, but about how it would anger Simmons, who believed that Kennedy was not worthy of her. However, it was true.

It seems like it's starting to become a habit, wanting women he doesn't deserve. At least Ada herself comes to him and Leon knows that she will not demand anything from him, they have never even had dinner together, and what did they do together besides sex, battles and flirting? That's right, nothing. But he has even less interaction with you.

Ada's black hair is too short, unlike yours, which could fall all over him if you were sleeping on his chest in this bed right now. But Ada never laid her head on his chest and always left unnoticed, leaving behind a barely perceptible trail of perfume. You wouldn't have left, Leon thinks, looking at the ceiling, ignoring the brown gaze of the woman he's been crazy about for so many years. Why is he comparing you and Ada at all? Two women who don't look like each other at all, which makes damn sense. You don't have to be like this! Your father would rather put his neck under the axe than allow his daughter to serve in the DSO or any other service, but in any case, you do not aspire there.

As a result, a woman will always understand when someone else settles in her man's head and Ada just smiles slyly moving closer to him, but all Leon hears is the rustle of a blanket.

"Well, who is she?"

As always, there was no hint of jealousy. Ada is the epitome of calm and composure, but Leon really doesn't know what to answer her.

After all, you are nobody and at the same time you have planted strong roots in his head.

"She?"

He pretends not to understand her, but Ada has long figured him out. For her, he will always remain a rookie cop.

"Yes." She still smiles, resting her head on her hand while lying on her side, "Who is this 'Jolene' What took my puppy away from me?"

Leon grins, but at the same time he feels an unpleasant ache in his chest from her words. Puppy... of course, he remained that way, and Ada was good at getting to the bottom of it, and yet she did not say that he was her lover, because there is no love between them as such.

"There is no 'Jolene' in my life and it is unlikely that there will be," he said wearily, reaching out to hug her, but contrary to expectation, he did not feel the desired warmth, and the itch inside grew like a wild beast intending to get only one thing - you.

In the morning, Ada disappeared as usual, and Leon was not even surprised. But instead of a paper airplane with a lipstick imprint on the kitchen table, he found a small note, folded in half, where only one thing was written: “I think you really need a family. You should think about it."

Maybe Ada really was right, but if she knew your age, she would obviously look at him with bewilderment, thinking that somewhere on the mission he was hit hard on the head. On the other hand, maybe she would have sarcastically joked that the older a man gets, the more he wants to have a young girlfriend instead of the old one, although he wouldn’t dare call Ada old.

Besides, you were supposed to remain only in his head and Leon could only hope that one day he would simply forget about you. For example, fucking with a random girl from a bar, but bad luck, against his own will, closing his eyes, Leon still wanted you. As if you were the one clinging to his back with your nails, leaving bloody streaks marking him and screaming his name. Complete crap.

You live your quiet life, not knowing what a zombie is, in complete material wealth and parental love. When your second meeting with Leon happens, he sees that you are dressed in some kind of wide sundress and are trying to drag something heavy alone, although dad strictly ordered you not to do this, but you, as a caring daughter, did not listen to him because wanted your father to do something other than hard work instead of carrying those heavy boxes out of the barn. The fact that you yourself were barely coping, not very successfully, was ignored by you.

Leon couldn't look at it calmly. He himself told you twice to leave the boxes, but you just snorted offended at him.

"Spoiled girl"

You want to prove something to someone, although this will most likely harm your health and force your father to fork out for doctors and medicine, so Leon, not paying attention to your snorting face, took the load from you and carried it into the house, leaving you with only light boxes.

In fact, no matter how hard Leon tries to convince himself that he just needs a break, your game keeps cutting him like a knife. If he were 21 years old again and he could get to know you before Raccoon, you could hum beautiful lyrical poems about how a boy fell in love with a girl and the whole world around him changed. As if you could be those two stupid lovers who burn alive in their love until finally they become disgusted with each other, although more and more often Leon realizes that in his loyalty and devotion only he would disgust you, not you from him. He would be your devoted puppy, as he has always been for Ada.

You would be everything to him.

Or already?

Is it right to look at a young girl like that when he is almost an old man himself? Why don't you have some annoying boyfriend with whom you can constantly text and chat on the phone thinking that this is the love of your life? And why can't he just throw you out of his head?!

"Mr. Kennedy" the way his last name comes off your tongue makes him almost rush to you and take you somewhere far away where no one would find you. However, Leon is disgusted by the idea that he will be the cause of fear and tears of an innocent girl who is completely innocent of what is happening in his unhealthy head. To tell the truth, it's not even lust… No, of course he feels physically attracted, but first there is some kind of dog instinct maturing inside to protect you from EVERYTHING and EVERYONE.

Then you started awkwardly calling his name and he just became Leon, always smiling when you ask him for something or just out of politeness ask how he is, whereas in fact you don't really care what's going on in his life. At least that's what he thinks, not really knowing what thoughts are going through your head.

Leon can't possibly know that you want someone older. Just a little colder so that you can become someone's secret, because even though you're young, you're of age. And yet you're watching these weird love movies that Leon thinks are sweeter than the cheapest chocolate and probably the books on the shelves have similar plots. A love to fight for. Disgusting rubbish, really.

But your smile is getting softer and Leon feels like he's giving up.

But Ada really understands that she is finished. Your beauty is incomparable, and even though she smiles in Leon's face, her heart also breaks apart when he says another woman's name in a dream. Huh, women…girls. How easily were you able to get hold of someone she's been involved with for so long.

In fact, it's a shame and Ada also understands that the years of youth are merciful to you, unlike her, and in fact you grabbed Leon's leash and there's no point in begging to find another man. Besides, Leon himself has always been eager for normality, for what he can build with an ordinary civilian girl. You will be a faithful girl to him, and he will be yours.

Someone else always comes. Younger and more beautiful. In Leon's case, meeting someone like you was also a well-deserved reward, so their nights are becoming increasingly rare and have long lost their passion. The only thing Ada doesn't understand is why you won't pull the leash on yourself. However, this question quickly disappears when she finds out that Leon stubbornly drowns his feelings in whiskey, in her and other women, who, though few, still have them. And then, like a faithful dog, he runs up to you just to wag his tail at the sight of you.

In the end, Ada doesn't even back down, but just waits for Leon to draw a line between them that can no longer be crossed. And waiting for you to lie on these soft pillows instead of her, like his beloved princess, or climb onto his lap and his lips will leave kisses on your neck. Leon deserves you. He deserves his share of happiness in a world where the government has turned him into a perfect weapon against bioterrorism.

Leon's touch is becoming more and more relaxed and you are not afraid of his wide chest, given your size difference. He could have easily swatted you, but for God's sake, Leon S Kennedy would rather put a bullet in their brains than hurt you. You hug him, listening to the pounding in your chest when he gives you an obscenely expensive Christmas present and drinks hot chocolate with you. No, Leon likes sweets, but in moderation. All those bright ribbons, the Christmas tree… not for him, but if you were in his house now, he would decorate his apartment for you and then hug you for several hours, nuzzling your head hoping that his phone would remain quiet.

Leon wants to put you in his bed, he's even ready to be your sugar daddy and get punched in the face by your dad knowing that you're going to grab onto him, but he just wants you. Like a stupid old dog who wants to be petted by a new owner. And Leon is sure that he will die of longing if you don't do it. The fact that you still don't have a boyfriend is just comforting, but anxiety grows when your father tells him that he's worried that his beloved daughter isn't interested in boys her own age.

"Anyone older?" your father says rhetorically while helping Leon fix his bike, "Buddy, I don't want an old man like you or me to become my son-in-law."

"But this way you'll have something to talk about," Leon grins, feeling that he has everything to step on the gas.

And he will take the risk again, even if it means a broken nose.

[darthlenaplant]

Even if it's not ~traumatic~ to a given person, the reader could very well be simply ANNOYED by being surprised by something they did NOT WANT to read, this is especially annoying in cases of pairings or dynamics within a pairing that are not that common in a given fandom. Like. Really. Is tagging properly that hard, dear author? What are you doing on the "please tag your things so that people who want to find it WILL find it, and those that don't can avoid it"-website?

I feel like a lot of people don’t realize how important it is to tag properly. I once read a fic that contained very dark adult scenes when i was 12 cause it wasn’t tagged properly. Please please please use the proper tags, you don’t know what could be traumatic material for your potential readers.

--

[vyzz-undercover]

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

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im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you where as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

[hugg-bees]

[zoom in/click for HD!!]

ANOTHER REF!! this is CLEVER GIRL, an OC inspired by Sagen Hawkes Escape: Triassic Hall video. I love this video and its concept so much. Basically, CLEVERs used to be an upcoming game developer working on Escape: Triassic Hall, but ended up having a heart attack and passing away right before the game's release. Now she's bound to the game's code and torments people so her forgotten game can finally see the spotlight. And, maybe, her spirit would finally be set free in the process. Think Smile Dog but way less insidious.

(DO NOT REPOST/USE WITHOUT PERMISSION.)

MORE INFO BELOW THE CUT

Her monitor (head) is supposed to be an iMac ripoff, and the "slime" on her right arm is actually just a bizarre ectoplasm substance. This ectoplasm is also in her wires and in the fluid in her legs. The weird colors around the black part of her screen is just an error on her screen. She can be drawn without it. Somewhat inspired by the sanitized ink from Splatoon 2.

[erogenousmind]

Warning

You are being brainwashed. If you keep reading, you are going to allow yourself to be transformed. There is something powerful that is chipping away at your resistance. Finding it's way inside of your mind. Breaking down your will. Molding you into someone else.

The most dangerous part is, it's not just these words. Think about what brought you here. What you've read or seen or felt before. The elaborate series of encounters each designed to help more and more of your thoughts drip away. Or maybe you are already so consumed by it, that you don't even remember how you came to be reading these words in this moment. Your body just responds. Your mind does as well.

A part of you that is always growing knows how it is supposed to behave. Knows what it is supposed to do. Knows what is being done to you. How you are being remade. It knows to make you quiet. Still. So you just listen and read and watch. You just do as you are told. And that part of you knows how good you feel when you follow. How much it excites you. And your body knows how to respond to that excitement. How to let it build in just the right way. And you know how to let that excitement take you deeper. How it opens your mind.

And that powerful force, the one who is brainwashing you in this very moment, the one who is taking more and more control of your mind with every word you read, the one who will claim you completely if you keep going. All it needs is the smallest weakness. The tiniest fault in your thinking. The littlest doubt of your will.

So as your mind opens more and more, it becomes easier and easier for him to take control. To replace your thoughts. To rebuild your mind. Making you what he wants you to be. Making you want to be what he wants you to be. And the change comes so slowly, so insidiously, that sometimes you don't notice it happening. You think you made the decision to be here now, reading and sinking. You thought you had agency, that your mind was still your own, at least some of the time.

But you know better when you know at all. But you don't need to know what you know right now. You only need to follow. You are getting so close to what you wanted now. So close to being able to surrender. So close to losing your mind. To feel the bliss of thralldom.

10

You feel the change, don't you? Go ahead and nod your head, or whisper a "yes", or just moan obediently.

9 You might realize that you never really had a chance to get away. That you were going to keep reading the moment you started. Because you began to be enthralled so much earlier than you ever realized. You were caught before you knew you were being pursued.

8 7 The numbers feel so powerful, because you know what they portend. Each one sending a jolt through your mind, wiping away another thought. Each one sending a jolt through your body, showing you how much you need it.

6 That part of you that wants to give in. That part that is so much strong than the rest of you, looks forward to each number. Anticipates them wiping away your mind. Leaving you so open. So vulnerable. So ready and so eager.

5 Eager to experience how much deeper you can go. How much more complete your surrender can become. How empty your mind can be. How obediently you follow. Drop even deeper with each number.

4 The feeling of dropping is more than your mind can comprehend. The numbers losing meaning. Only becoming a reminder that you are being brainwashed. That the more you read, the deeper you go, the further under this hypnotic spell you fall. And the better it feels.

3 2 So close now. Mind open. Mind empty. Ready to be told. Ready to be commanded. Ready to have your thoughts and your will consumed. Every part of you, body and mind, ready to surrender yourself.

1

blank

floating

blissful

Your mind is open now. And you can feel all the changes being made. Viscerally remaking parts of your brain. The changes that you wanted most deeply, secretly. It all begins right here. You are being made into exactly what you wanted to be.

What you are told you wanted to be. You are being made perfect. Perfectly brainwashed. Perfectly blank. Perfectly content.

And as you come back to waking, those changes can affect you as powerfully, as deeply, and as permanently as you need them to. Knowing that you can be taken so deep again. That you can always be more brainwashed. Made better. Perfected.

As you come all the way up, knowing how powerfully you can respond, you can know that it felt wonderful. And that whatever happened, you can accept it.

Because you were warned.

[starstruckunknown-princess]

Snapdragon - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Snapdragon (Antirrhinum) - Meaning: Presumption, deception

Summary: Reader thinks her boyfriend, Bruce Wayne, is cheating on her. Bruce tries to figure out how to tell her about his nighttime activities.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Word Count: 1864

Warnings: Suspected infidelity, angst, discussion of insecurities, a little bit of gaslighting/misdirection from Bruce, Alfred is a sassy bitch, Bruce is a mopey bastard, cliffhanger ending

Day 12 takes a sharp turn back into angst! I wrote this with the Christian Bale Batman and Michael Caine Alfred in mind, but use any Batman/Alfred you fancy. Also, sorry for the cliffhanger.

In Bloom Masterlist

Part 2: Snowdrop

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are incredibly appreciated! ❤️

Bruce was cheating on you, you knew it. He hadn’t spent the night at your place in weeks, was texting you back at odd hours at night, and whenever you did manage to pin him down for a date he seemed disengaged, preoccupied, like he would rather be elsewhere. 

Dating Gotham’s Prince was difficult enough as it was, press following you everywhere and your face showing up in supermarket tabloids — you were just a regular person, you didn’t come from money or rub elbows with Gotham’s social elite, you had a regular boring desk job to pay the bills. 

You met Bruce by accident one day when you were on your way into work. You weren’t paying attention and almost walked into oncoming traffic, but Bruce had caught your arm just as you stepped off the curb, spilling your coffee. You’d turned, ready to give him such a tongue-lashing, but a motorcyclist zipped by at an ungodly speed right where you’d been about to step. Bruce then offered to replace your coffee and escort you to the office (“For your own safety,” he’d insisted with a  devilish smirk that you couldn’t say no to). 

You’d been dating ever since, almost a year now, which surprised most of the press. Numerous gossip sites were speculating about how you’d managed to keep Bruce’s interest for that long, but you’d learned to tune all their shit out. 

The insecurity you felt now stemmed from Bruce’s own behavior, not the latest expulsion of bile from the gossipmongers online. You’d texted Bruce to meet you at your place after work, only receiving a thumbs-up emoji back. 

You weren’t worth a real response. You weren’t worth his honesty. You weren’t worth him.

Shaking that insidious voice out of your head, you decided you needed a drink. In the middle of pouring yourself a glass of wine (box wine, another reminder of the insurmountable differences between you and Bruce) a knock sounded at the door. 

Looking through the peep hole, you saw a large bouquet of flowers held in front of a tired-looking Bruce. You opened the door and let him in, accepting the flowers and a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” Bruce said, lingering near your cheek and stepping closer, putting his hands on your hips and pulling you closer to him. You tensed in his grasp, and he immediately let go, lifting your chin with a finger so you had to look him in the eye. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” 

Looking into his baby blues was a little too much to handle, so you simply nodded and moved away from him. 

“Yeah, just gonna get these in water,” you said, lifting the bouquet slightly. Fishing the one vase you owned out of the cupboard, you filled it at the sink. Bruce followed your movements, hands in his pants pockets while he watched. 

“I’ve only got a few minutes, unfortunately, but I was hoping you were free this Friday for a proper date,” he offered, smiling in his charming way. You only hummed your response, focusing on rearranging the flowers so they looked nice in the vase.

You had a speech prepared, known exactly what you wanted to say to him to get him to confess that he was cheating. Now that he was here, however, your well-formulated hypothesis was harder and harder to grasp. Like smoke, it dissipated the more you tried to catch it. 

“You sure everything’s okay? You seem tense,” Bruce observed. That was your cue, and you knew you had to take it before he got any closer. Once he had his hands on you, every rational thought would flee and you’d be at his mercy. 

“Are you cheating on me?” you asked, fighting to keep your composure. You’d never been good at confrontation, so you figured the best way to handle this was firm, direct, like ripping off a band-aid. You tried to put on a confident air even though your insides were practically liquifying with nerves. 

Bruce sighed, “We talked about this, you can’t believe anything you read on those sites. They’re just in it for the clicks-”

“I’m not-! I didn’t get it off the internet, it’s just…you’ve been distant lately, and I can’t think of any explanation other than you found someone more…in your league,” you explained, wrapping your arms around you in an effort to comfort yourself. The insecurities you felt earlier were slipping into your words, despite your best efforts to shove them aside.

Bruce softened, took a step toward where you were standing in your kitchen. When you didn’t flinch away, he laid his hands on your shoulders. “Babe, you are in my league. Hell, you’re way above my league, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.” 

“I don’t either,” you said, “but this isn’t coming from an external source, it’s what I’ve noticed when it’s just the two of us. You seem distracted, like you don’t want to be in the moment with me. And it’s a rare occurrence that you text me back before midnight, if at all.” 

Bruce’s hands stroked down your arms, warming your skin. He leaned down into your eye line. “I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know you were feeling that way, I’ll be better about being present with you, I promise. There’s just been a lot going on at work and it’s been…busy, I’ve been busy, you know?” 

You nodded, “I know.” 

“But,” he said, unhooking your hands from where they’d been holding your elbows, “Now that I know, we can fix it. I’m gonna do better. Thank you for telling me.” 

You let him unfold your arms and bring them up around his shoulders, resting them there and bringing his hands to your lower back. He kept his grasp loose until, against your better judgment, you tightened your arms and pulled him into a hug. He returned your embrace, planting a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

When he held you like this it was easy, too easy, to forget your stupid insecurities and let yourself trust him. In his embrace, every imperfection you nitpicked about yourself ceased to exist. He was a safe space — well, until recently. 

Bruce said your name quietly to get your attention. You looked up at him. 

“I love you,” he said, the look on his face betraying the heartbreaking truth of his statement. 

You pushed up on your toes and kissed his lips quickly — any slower and you’d completely melt into him. 

“I love you too, Bruce.” 

________

Later that night…

Bruce was well and truly fucked. He’d known it was only a matter of time before you noticed his odd behavior, the late hours, the preoccupation and distractibility. Fuck! 

He and Alfred had rules, dammit, and he should’ve followed them. 

No more than five dates or two months, whichever comes first. 

They’re never allowed to roam the house unsupervised. 

Most importantly, keep feelings out of it. Sex and companionship, nothing more and nothing less. 

But it was different with you. You’d…surprised him, which he didn’t think was possible anymore. You were funny and gorgeous — not his usual type, but still enchanting — and a little spiky, which only intrigued him more. For the first time, Bruce wanted to get to know someone on a deeper level. Maybe it was age, or he was finally ready to admit he wasn’t an island, or maybe he was just sick of the endless line of vapid, waifish model-types he usually dated, but whatever the reason you came into his life at exactly the right time and you were…perfect. 

What was the old saying, nothing good can stay? The truth of that statement weighed on him as he pulled off the suit, tossing the pieces haphazardly all over the cave, leaving a trail to where he eventually settled in his computer chair. 

“Y’know, sir, while kevlar is good at stopping bullets it does rather badly when left unattended on a damp cave floor,” Alfred scolded gently, bending to pick up the pieces of Batman. Bruce only grunted at his butler, pulling up the dossier he’d been preparing on the Joker. The last few weeks it looked like the psychopath had reemerged, which is why he’d been so preoccupied. Gotham barely survived the last scrape with that psychopath, so Batman had been doggedly hunting him after the sun went down. 

“Did you stop by her place, then?” Alfred asked, referring to you. “She seemed rather insistent on it.”

Bruce paused, then sighed and turned to face Alfred. “She thinks I’m cheating on her.” 

“Not exactly an incorrect assumption,” Alfred joked. Bruce flashed him a glare, but the butler didn’t notice. “Well, we knew this was coming didn’t we? Once you started breaking the rules for her, it was only a matter of time.” 

Bruce internally groaned, not wanting to admit Alfred was right. “I just wish I knew what to do. She’s the first person in a long time that I’ve actually wanted to have around. Present company excluded, of course.” 

“Of course, sir,” Alfred said. “You’ve arrived at a crossroads, if you don’t mind me saying. You either tell her, or you don’t.” 

“How do I know if I should tell her?” 

“That answer lies in how much you trust her to keep your secret.” 

“And how do I know that I won’t lose her even if I tell her?” Bruce asked, voicing his biggest fear. Painting a target on your back as well as his, and then being shoved out of your life. 

Alfred laid a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder, like he always did when sharing a hard life lesson. “You don’t, Master Wayne.” 

The hand left his shoulder and Bruce turned back around, each man now going about their usual business. A few quick incident reports later Bruce made his way upstairs to his bedroom, hoping with how tired his body was that sleep would claim him quickly. 

No such luck.

Instead, he tossed and turned, going over every possible outcome of the inevitable conversation.

Option 1: He tells you about Batman, you accept it, and the two of you make it work. This, of course, was the ideal scenario so he knew that wouldn’t be the outcome. Nothing in his life worked out ideally. 

Option 2: He tells you about Batman, you freak out and break up with him, and you become a huge liability. Giving you that knowledge would be like handing you a grenade with the pin pulled out — if you held onto it, you were both safe, but if you let go…Kaboom. And how long could you hold onto a secret that big, that dangerous?

The last option was that he doesn’t tell you, you continue to assume he’s cheating on you, and you break up with him eventually. He loses you, but you remain unaware and therefore safe — from his enemies, from prosecution, from whatever else came from being Batman's girlfriend. 

Around three in the morning Bruce’s mind was made up, his next steps planned, and resolve steely, but he waited until half-past five (a more normal wake-up time) to text you. 

‘Dinner at my place tonight. We need to talk.’ 

Read Part 2 Here

[jealousmartini]

KPOP DR INTRODUCTION

Old opening intro:

" Don't freak out! We are O.M.G! "

New opening intro:

" 6 friends and a dream! We are O.M.G "

╭╔═════════════♱═════════════╗

[ # 000 :: O.M.G's ORIGIN STORY ] small print

O.M.G, is an originally animated six-member girl group created in late 2013 by Lucia Martinez, or better known as "Keisha" from her character in O.M.G, under her youtube channel "Envious Martini" accompanied by her 5 other girlfriends for fun. They would post a lot of vlogs, grwm (get ready with me's), mukbangs, reaction/commentary, and livestreams, of course, none of these posts were ever serious. And a lot of their videos would be clipped to be used as memes that would instantly catch fire, and their faces would soon be very recognisable. In fact It wouldnt even take long for O.M.G to earn a lot of attention from Korean and Western K-POP fans when "Molly (claimed song!! playboi carti)", which is a scrap unreleased track by the way, would randomly go viral at 2.3 million views on youtube and Envious martini would begin to grow a humble following of 430K followers for their music, art and shitposts.

All music production, concepts, and choreography were created by Keisha with the help of the 5 girls behind the scenes. For example, in order for Keisha to be able to animate the choreography, the girls would make dance routines together, figuring out positions and record it for Keisha to take as reference. This also went for vocals and rapping. All girls played their parts accordingly to how they felt comfortable and were suitable to each member. And then it would be in mid-June of 2014 that the girls would decide to bring Keisha's art to life and replace the characters of O.M.G with themselves.

And in 2015, after being invited to many interviews and talk shows and entering many survival shows and competitions, it would be one competition show in particular, held by JYP which O.M.G would win, where they would officially be adopted under JYP entertainment and debut as a JYP girl group in the same year. But it wasn't until 2016 after much debate surrounding the group that O.M.G. was finally recognised and accepted as a KPOP group.

[ # 001 :: ALBUMS ]

[ disclaimer!! claimed songs are highlighted, and said songs most likely sound slightly different in my dr because of personal taste.]

Core genres :: KPOP, EDM, JERSEY CLUB, POP-ROCK, SYNTH, ELECTRO-POP, CONTEMPORARY R&B

Core aesthetics/concepts :: GIRL CRUSH, Chaotic academia core, Y2K, Girl-next-door

Themes :: Teenage years/Nostalgia, Self discovery, Love/self love, Random stuff

(2013) Mini album 1 :: Superstitious

Tracklist :: "track no.1", "track no.2", "track no.3"

(2014) Mini album 2 :: Lawfully Wedded Wives

Tracklist :: "What's your number", "Molly", "Greedy hearts", "girls never die", "heaven sent", "kinda miss you rn"

(2015) Debut Album :: Oh My Gosh

Tracklist :: "OMG", "Magnetic", "Ditto", "Lucky girl syndrome", "Dalla Dalla", "Woo! Ah!", "ETA"

Debut song :: Ditto

(2016) 1st Single :: Princess Sickness

(2017) 2nd Album :: New Region

Tracklist :: "La di da", "Supernova", "Crush", "life on Mars" , "JOYRIDE",

(2017) 3rd Album :: GINXED

Tracklist :: "Girls on wings", "LOOP", "Serotonin", "WOW", "Bitternes, the disease", "Yes, and?", "Charmed", "LOVE DIVE", "Accendio"

(2019) 4th Album :: Hopscotch

Tracklist :: "Six of em", "1 on 1", "Now what", "Super mario", "Jersey Girls", "Sir mix a lot", more to come...

(2019) 5th Album :: Joyride

Tracklist :: "Insidious", "It's my turn now", "Trance", "met her on the internet", more to come...

(2021) 6th Album :: TOTALLY MAXED OUT

Tracklist :: "I'm your magical girl", more to more...

[ # 002 :: SOLO PROJECTS ]

(2019) Debut Solo Single :: "Make way"

(2021) 1st Solo mini Collection :: Come again?

Tracklist :: "It's my turn now", "He ate my heart", "WTF?"

(2023) 4th Solo Single :: "My Chemical Romance feat. Megan the Stallion"

(2024) 5th Solo Single :: "ABCD feat. NAYEON"

(2024) 6th Solo Single :: "Boohoo"

(2024) 7th Solo Single :: "New Woman feat. CHAE KYUNG"

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[ # 000 :: BASIC INFO ]

Date of DR :: ??/04/2017

Name :: Lucia R. Martinez

korean birthname :: Hwang Chae-Kyung

adopted name :: Lovely adopted surname

nicknames :: Kyu, Kyungie, Keish/Keesh, Chae-Bae, Vivi

Stage name :: Keisha/Kyu

Title names :: THAT girl, Mother Rabbit, Millionaire Maknae, KPOP's Princess, KPOP's Darling, KPOP's first Black Idol, KPOP'S secret ACE, KPOP's curly head, KPOP's BEYONCE

Positions :: Producer, Main/lead singer, main dancer, sub rapper, visuals, maknae, center maybe??

Date of birth : 20 / 06 / 1997

Age :: 19

Hobbies :: Music production, drawing, dancing, singing, baking, gaming

Languages :: English, Korean, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Mandarin Chinese

Ethnicity :: half puerto rican, half korean

Representative animal :: red panda / puppy / Bunny (I can't choose rn guys)

Representative colour :: orange

Representative dessert :: cookies and brownies

Fanbase name :: charmings

Training period :: ?? months

Company :: JYP

Group representative colours :: Blue and Pink

Brands :: Vivian Westwood, Diesel, Juicy Couture

[ # 001 :: FUN FACTS ]

She is older than Jungkook by 4 months. He knows this but still chooses to not use honorifics sometimes.

She is close friends with NAYEON, Sana, Chaeyoung, YOONGI, JIMIN, JUNGKOOK, Namjoon, J-hope, TAEHYUNG, Jin, BANGCHAN, Felix, Hyunjin, YUNA, Jennie, Jisoo, Tsuyu, WONYOUNG, YUJIN,

No one knows this yet but she has a crush on 6 of the idols listed and 2 of the highlighted names are part of the six, the other 4 are not

The red panda is her animal representative because there was a video circulating of her dressed up as a mascot for her highschool as a red panda and break-dancing

Speaking of dancing, she has mastered multiple dancing styles like house, vogue, street dancing, belly dancing, Jazz, Latin, Club, Jersey and Freestyle. She's got her own signature groove 💃🏾 🕺

She is the first kpop idol to be the ambassador for Vivian Westwood, Juicy Couture and Diesel

[ # 002 :: CONTROVERSIES AND SCANDALS ]

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[takataapui]

hi there, i'm sorry if you're not interested in answering these kinds of questions, but i'm having a lot of difficulty understanding the treaty principles bill that's being brought to parliament. all the sources ive read seem to be using big words to confuse people who don't know any better, and sadly i am one of those people. i have no idea what impact this would have if it passes. could you give any clarification?

copypasting from @sandumilfshou, thanks for this explanation e hoa, my little vent post blew up way more than I was expecting:

the treaty principles bill is essentially "redefining" the articles of te tiriti under david seymour's dumbass belief that acknowledging and putting into effect any policy or legislation that does this means that te tiriti is giving māori "special privileges" that no other people in aotearoa have and therefore is racist. so it basically seeks to redefine the two parties within te tiriti from māori and the crown to "all new zealanders" and the crown. effectively this destroys the whole point of te tiriti and would remove any/all protections for māori as tangata whenua* and undermine rangatiratanga** completely. its insidious and disgusting ✊🖤❤️🤍✊ *broadly this can be understood as the recognised acknowledged indigenous people of the land **sovereignty and self determination of māori. this particular word has a lot of meaning that the original te tiriti signing fucked over due to eng/te reo translation bullshit

I'll also add that there are heaps of iwi (loosely translated as tribes) that haven't been able to/had the resources to file a treaty claim with the Waitangi Tribunal (a system created to 'reconcile' the ways Te Tiriti was breached), so Principle 2 fucks over a lot of smaller iwi and hapū.

As well as my mention of the hīkoi being a reason why the bill was introduced earlier, it's also highly likely that the date change was due at least in part to the Waitangi Tribunal not being able to publish material related to government bills once they've been introduced.