#who I've had to be around before so I was very pointedly trying not to engage with him beyond surface level neutral statements

[rubenesque-as-fuck]

It's so fucking wild how some dudes can be 100% oblivious to another dude being creepy as fuck to the women around them

[reysdriver]

Hey darlin'! I just saw your one-shots and i REALLY love them!! I need morr about Eddie with Hopper!Reader <33 Please!! A fluff or a smut where the Reader have to deal with her father. Hope you can answer. Have a nice day!! ✨️

-🩷

You and Eddie try to have a chill night in, but it's difficult when you have the world's most paranoid chief of police as a father — eddie x fem!hopper!reader fluff

warnings: none

words: 1.2k

a/n: thanks for submitting a request! I'm sorry it took so long, I've been so busy lately, and I'm sorry I couldn't figure out how to end it lmao but I really hope you like this fic!!

Even though your dad knew about you and Eddie dating, he was definitely not as okay with it as you would have hoped, but honestly more than you had expected. 

He had met Eddie a few times since he found out you were in romantic cahoots with the familiar criminal, and despite your fears, they had gotten along quite well despite their history and their differences. But no matter how many things they actually had in common, no father would fully trust Eddie Munson to be alone with his little girl. 

“Door open three inches!” Your dad called from the couch. “You know the rules!”

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the bed to open the door to Hopper’s liking. 

The door was open three inches, and you swore that it was the draft causing the door to move slightly, but you knew your dad would never believe you. 

“Seriously, Dad?” You asked him. 

“Rules are rules.” He confirmed. “If you don’t like it, then the boyfriend can go.”

You let out a heavy, dramatic sigh before returning to your boyfriend, who was currently sketching out a Dungeons and Dragons character based on you for his new campaign. 

Eddie looked up from his paper when you sat back down next to him. “You can do a lot with three inches, you know?”

You put a finger over his mouth—which he playfully tried to bite—and you shushed him while holding back a laugh at his incredibly stupid, albeit funny, joke. 

“He’s gonna hear you, and he’s gonna drag you out of here. Keep drawing.”

He put the finishing touches on his design, then let out a sound of satisfaction over it before turning the notebook so you could see it better. 

“I think I did pretty good.” Your boyfriend proclaimed. “She’s almost as pretty as you.”

Oh, how you lucked out with this mysterious dork. You thanked him by pressing a quick kiss on his cheek before your dad became suspicious of you two once again. 

“You think I should get it as some ink?” Eddie asked you. 

“Like, you want to get it tattooed?”

Eddie nodded, eyes going back and forth between you and the cartoon version of you that he just made. 

“Absolutely not.” You replied. 

“What? Why not? Do you not love me enough to let me tattoo you on me?”

He was ridiculous, staring at you with big, fake puppy dog eyes and a pleading lip. 

“Of course I love you, but as your girlfriend, I also need to stop you from doing stupid things.”

“What if I keep your tattoo separate from the creepy skulls and spiders?”

Well, that was an offer you almost couldn’t refuse. Even though it was tempting, you would never let him know that he can get to you like that, so you played it cool.

“Ask me again in a year.”

His face erupted into a devilish smile and he held his hands to his chest like a cartoon character in love. 

“I’m getting a tramp stamp of my girlfriend in a year!”

Before you could protest his proclamation, he pulled you into his arms in what you hoped was just a teasing gesture rather than a genuine expression of excitement for something you were certainly not going to let happen. 

Just a second later, your dad cleared his throat very pointedly, which practically frightened you out of your boyfriend’s arms. 

“El wants to watch a movie.” He announced. “Come watch with us.”

You sat up and shook your head lightly. “Um, no thanks, Dad. We’ll pass on that.”

Your dad raised an eyebrow and looked at Eddie’s arm around your waist. “You have something better to do?”

It was at that point that you knew him telling you about your sister and the movie was an order, not an invitation. You bit the inside of your cheek and luckily, Eddie spoke up before you could say something snarky. 

“A movie sounds great, chief. Count us in.”

“Good.” Hopper said curtly before turning around to the living room. 

Eddie stood up and started teasingly pulling you off the bed. You laid down and let out an annoyed groan, resisting his attempts to move you. 

“C’mon, babe, movie time.” Eddie encouraged. 

“It’s just gonna be The Wild Bunch. That’s one of their favourite movies and I know El’s been wanting to see it again lately.” You mumbled. “I’d much rather stay here with you.”

“Well, your dad might never let me back in your house if he thinks I’m trying anything with his daughter in the other room, so we have to. Plus, I like The Wild Bunch too.”

Your face formed an exaggerated frown as you finally got up off the bed. 

Eddie smiled and escorted you to the living room. And although you had just started to build up excitement within you for this movie night, it already got worse. 

El was in her favourite recliner—the VHS case for The Wild Bunch was on her lap, you called it—but your dad had plopped himself down in the exact middle of the couch. Not only did you have to watch a movie with your family instead of chilling with your boyfriend, but you couldn’t even sit next to him because your dad hates the idea of you having fun. 

Before you knew it, you were in a full on stare-down with the Hawkins chief of police. 

“Take a seat.” He said passive aggressively. 

“I want to sit next to Eddie, Dad. Could you move over?”

He shook his head. “I’m not falling for any of your tricks. I was a teenager once.”

“Yeah, like a thousand years ago.” You mumbled. 

The comment was quiet but your dad still heard it. 

“Careful, any attitude and I’ll assume it came from the moron and he won’t be allowed back in the house.”

You looked over at Eddie with a defeated expression on your face. He looked back at you, sympathetic and willing to comply—the latter was a complete switch from his normal mood.

Your boyfriend understood completely why your dad was worried about you and Eddie dating, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. Of course, Eddie was willing to do whatever he could to seem like the boyfriend every parent would want for their daughter—he really was, some people just couldn’t look past the exterior shell to see it—so he held his tongue and went along with anything. 

The two of you sat down on opposite sides of the couch, separated by your relentless father. 

“Alright, El, play the movie.” Hopper said. 

He then leaned back and kept his eyes on the television in front of you all. 

Eddie soon caught your gaze from across the couch, and he stretched his arm behind his head, oh so conveniently placing it a few inches from your shoulder.

You grinned at him, keeping it subtle, and took his hand in yours. 

The two of you watched the rest of the film like that, holding hands in that slightly uncomfortable way, and the night wasn’t as insufferable as it seemed like it was going to be. All thanks to Eddie, of course.

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

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

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

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

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

read on ao3

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

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you sleep.

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look back up to the doll. 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

The doll does not move. 

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

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

A second passes, and then another. You wait. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Jason.” 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

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

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

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

“Crying..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all leads to Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

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

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

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

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

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Fantasies

Also on AO3

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Escort!Fem!Reader

WC: 2.6k words

Summary: I've done escort!Cooper, so I thought i'd try the inverse ;) // Your favorite regular, the Ghoul, drops by at the Atomic Wrangler for a visit.

Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, crossover (fallout new vegas and fallout tv show), smut, formalized sex work (prostitution/escort), unprotected p in v, radiated creampie (with implied radaway use), swearing, shenanigans in front of a mirror, fingering, alcohol mention, vague dom/sub dynamics, just a little fluffy, two fools who can't get enough of each other, lmk if anything else!

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The Atomic Wrangler was just as he remembered — swimming in smoke, as if lost in a hazy dream, the ringing of the slot machines and the clacking of dice an accompanying symphony. Drunken patrons shambling about or slumped in shadowed corners, chips spilling from their pockets. Bar fights that were quickly, and often messily, dealt with. 

It wasn’t the best place to gamble, he didn’t think, especially with how well he knew the Garrett twins and their wiles. But that wasn’t the reason for his visits, anyway, so it didn’t really matter to him.

At certain tables on the main floor sat sultry figures that whispered promises of ecstatic oblivion. The deepest fantasies come true, if only for a few hours before sunrise. It was worth every cap if it was in the right company, and he happened to be very particular about who he wanted around. 

He knew you usually hung in the anteroom, and he even caught a glimpse of your skin in a rather low-backed dress as soon as he rounded the corner past the front desk. James Garrett caught his eye momentarily in silent question, to which he nodded in response. That meant you’d be booked for the rest of the night – his and only his. 

Since you’d transferred from the Gomorrah, you were a hot commodity around there, and therefore could charge a much higher rate. You also had the chance to pick your own clients, which hadn’t really been an option before, so you were much more exclusive because of it. 

But out of the handful of regulars you’d amassed, you only had one favorite. You heard him before you even saw him, what with the telltale jingling of his spurs, and when you did see him, a slow, easy smile spread on your lips, mirroring his.

Ruggedly handsome as ever, the same easy swagger and suave edge. His hazel eyes on you felt like a promise – like a caress – and you felt a fire begin to simmer under your skin. No one had ever made you feel the way he did; How quickly he could get your blood to warm, pupils blown wide with desire. No matter how much time passed between visits, he’d become a permanent fixture in your body, impossible to forget. 

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in…” you drawled, casually leaning against the bar. “Back so soon, Cooper?”

He chuckled slightly. “Were you countin’ the days ‘til you saw me next, sweetheart?”

You shrugged one shoulder, playfully noncommittal. “Were you?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, following your game. “Guess you’ll be finding out soon enough.”

You let out an amused huff, giving him a once over. “You want your usual drink?”

He nodded and you pointedly leaned over the bar for a quick word with the bartender. He noticed some other patrons craning their necks to get a better look, eyes wide as saucers at the vast expanse of exposed flesh. A few of them noticed him hovering nearby, and any who dared to make eye contact were met with a smug wink and grin. 

Under his gloves, his fingers itched to touch, but he kept his hands to himself. The building anticipation would have a greater payout, he already knew, and he wanted it all to be for his eyes only.

Unfazed by the outside attention, you turned back to him with a bottle of scotch in hand and a suggestive glint in your eye. 

“Lead the way, then, cowboy.”

He clicked his tongue twice for you to follow, making his way back to the main room and towards the stairs. His room — which James had given him a key to for helping with some rather pressing business — was at the very end of the hallway. It was the most spacious out of all of them, but it was sparsely decorated, only meant for temporary visits. Still, it was a nice little sanctuary for you two to escape to. 

“So, what will it be tonight, hmm?” You said, setting the bottle down on top of the old dresser. “Wild cowgirl for you to tame? Or maybe you’ve got some … ailment I can take care of for you?”

You opened the closet door and took out a cowgirl costume and an old nurse’s uniform, flirtatiously raising your eyebrows at him. Many fantasies had been played out within those four walls, and you certainly didn’t mind playing a little dress-up. 

“No, none of that tonight,” he said with an amused huff, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

You tilted your head to one side in curiosity. “What would you have me wear, then?”

He made slow work of taking his gloves off, his eyes roaming down and then back up equally slowly until he was holding your gaze. 

“Well, that’s just the thing… I don’t want you in anything at all.”

You smiled, putting the costumes away and leaning against the door as you closed it. “That can be arranged…”

You reached up to undo the top clasp of your dress, but he raised a hand to stop you. 

“Woah there, I ain’t in a rush. Do it slowly…” 

You complied with a small chuckle, undoing the clasp but not letting the straps fall quite yet. You turned around and then let them fall, glancing coquettishly at him over your shoulder. One corner of his lips tugged upwards in a sly grin, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. 

Without turning around, you shimmied it down your hips and heard his sharp inhale as he saw you weren’t wearing panties. You felt a flutter in your stomach at the sound, intoxicated by your effect on him. Still, you didn’t bend forward for him to get a better look at the apex of your thighs, wanting to string him along for a little while longer. He had said he wasn’t in a rush, after all. 

As the fabric fell to the floor, you stepped out of it, only shoes left to discard. You grabbed a chair and sat across from him, extending your leg to rest it on his lap. Another playful grin on your lips as your hand snaked down to cover yourself in a faux display of demureness, your eyes downcast. 

“I could use some help with my shoes, if you would be so kind,” you said, a sultry edge to your tone. 

His eyes flicked down to where your hand was resting as he swallowed hard, but he kept his bravado close as he undid the straps of your high heels and carefully took them off. His hands caressed your calves but went up no further, almost like a test. You gave him a look that said good boy, but he found a challenge within that look, as well. 

“Now, why don’t you come sit a little closer? Don’t much like how far you are right now…” he said.

You raised an eyebrow, practically halfway on his lap already. “That so?” 

He patted his thighs. “Oh yeah, got a whole lotta space right here with your name on it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you stood. But before you could straddle him, he turned you around and sat you down on himself. Affixed on the wall in front of you was a dirty full-length mirror, and he kicked the chair to one side to get a better look at your reflections.

“There we go, much better,” he said, caressing your arm with one hand until it was over the hand that you were covering yourself with. “No need to be shy now. Pretty sight such as yourself… Can’t just let you miss it.” 

You squirmed on his lap, but he held you fast, burying his face in the crook of your neck and kissing the sensitive skin there. You let him remove your hand and spread your legs, arching against him as his fingers lightly traced your inner thighs. 

“You sure don’t waste any time,” you said, trying to sound teasing, but you couldn’t help a small gasp as he cupped one of your breasts with his free hand.

“Somethin’ about you, darlin’… just can’t seem to keep my hands to myself when I’m around you,” he rasped, nipping your shoulder with his teeth.

Slowly, his hand slipped further up, past your sternum and your throat. His fingers dipped past your lips and your tongue circled around his digits, a low hum in your chest. 

“Go on, get those nice and wet for me,” he said, craning his head to look at you, hips bucking upwards as he felt the sudden suction of your mouth on his fingers. He groaned, his voice raspy as he spoke again.“Oh, just like that, sweetheart.”

You moaned, his fingers pressing down on your tongue for a moment before releasing. His hand immediately dipped down, his hips adjusting so he could keep your legs spread over his. When his fingers found purchase, you felt it surge through you, your back taut as a bow. 

“Holy fuck, Cooper.” You gasped.

He chuckled smugly. “Didn’t I tell ya you’d find out soon enough?”

The words melted away before you could try to respond. Your eyes fluttered shut, head tilting back against him. He grasped your chin with his other hand, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Keep those pretty eyes open, darlin’. Don’t you wanna see how I’m makin’ you feel so good?”

You complied with a nod, your eyes training on your reflection. The sight of his hand’s slow, methodical ministrations on your clit, spreading your glistening slick through your folds, stoked the fire burning low in your belly. 

Your eyes met his through the mirror, the intensity in his gaze nearly making you shudder. He kissed your shoulder and nipped gently at the junction where it met your neck. You squirmed against his grip, pleasure intensifying almost to the point of overstimulation.

Your voice was shaky as you said, “I-I think I’m getting close already… Fuck…”

“That so?” He hummed thoughtfully. “Better not look away again, then, ‘cus if you do, I’ll stop.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to glare at him through the mirror. “You’re so mean.”

He chuckled, taking it as a challenge to be even meaner. His hand found a quick, sloppy rhythm that nearly had your body going into overdrive. You could feel his cock straining in his pants against your backside, heard his barely contained groans in your ear as he made sure you didn't break eye contact. The slight humiliation of watching yourself come undone – so wanton and desperate – tinged with the threat of him stopping, finally toppled you over the edge.

With a cry, your muscles seized up as you felt heat spiral outwards from your core. He worked you through it, even as your legs shook and your knees tried to draw close. In the aftermath, your body went slack against him, your breaths coming out in ragged pants. You smiled at each other mischievously through the reflection. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I can’t say I hate it…” You said, chuckling weakly. 

“Oh, and that was just the start of it,” he said, voice husky. “I’m nowhere near done with you… Or did you forget how long our nights usually are?”

“How could I ever forget?”

You slid off his lap and knelt in front of him, eyes glittering as you reached to undo his pants and pull them down. But before you could even try to get your mouth on him, he hoisted you up and onto the side of the bed on your stomach. You let out a small yelp of surprise, the tips of your toes barely touching the floor as he positioned himself behind you. 

“God, are you just not gonna let me do anything to you?” You teased, resting your head sideways to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I want to touch you, too, you know.”

“You’re forgetting this is my fantasy,” he said, clicking his tongue. “And what I want right now is to make this body of yours feel as good as I know how to. Ain’t gotta do much else but let me spoil you.”

You felt him press against you, the textured skin of his cock sliding against the swell of your ass. You wiggled it a bit, half plead and half tease, eager for the stretch and weight of him inside you. You felt his hands spreading you from behind, getting a better look. A low, rough groan and he couldn’t take it anymore, notching against your entrance and pushing inside. 

You moaned loudly at the immediate stretch, feeling every inch. Your torso lifted, but one of his hands came to rest on your head, pushing you back down against the mattress. With his other hand, he gripped one of your hips tightly, both possessive and ardent.

“Fuck, you’re nice and tight, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Feels so good squeezing around my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him as if in response to his praise. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, exhaling it slowly to keep his composure. He leaned more of his weight on top of you, his thrusts hard and slow, punching breathy sounds out of your throat every time he bottomed out. You tried to get a better footing but to no avail, instead surrendering to his mercy. Or lack thereof, as it were.

The sounds you were making were loud and unrestrained, like two animals mad with spring fever. Flesh slapping against flesh, breath, and teeth, and sweat intermingling. His body pushed and pulled over you with the intensity – the violence – of rolling waves. God, you had missed this a little too much. 

“C-Cooper,” you whimpered, unable to say anything else.

“That’s it. Just let go and give it to me, doll,” he panted, his movements harder and faster.

You felt yourself dissolve once more, eyes rolling back into your skull as you squeezed tight around him. He made a strangled noise, pushing through for as long as he could until he felt ecstasy wash over him as well. His warmth filled you, pushed deep inside by a few last shallow thrusts.

When he pulled out, you barely had time to catch your breath, unable to help a dizzy laugh. He pounced back on you soon after, when you’d playfully tried to crawl away from him. 

It was perhaps a good thing the room had so little furniture, given that you probably would have destroyed it all, anyway. No corner was left untouched as you two seemed to play an unending game of cat and mouse that always ended the same way… only in different positions. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me!” You said, collapsing on one side of the bed and tucking a pillow between you as a barrier.

He chuckled, lying on his side facing you. “Tough luck, sweetheart. Sure don’t seem like the sun will rise any time soon…”

“So that’s how it is, huh? What if I get you next?”

He smirked, a primal edge to the curve of his lips. “You can certainly try, but you better move fast, ‘cus that barrier ain’t gonna protect you from me for long.”

You bit your lip to contain a grin, feigning being aghast. Still, though, despite these threats and the imminent exhaustion, the last thing you wanted was for morning to come. 

Not that you would give him the satisfaction of admitting it out loud, though. At least not unless he worked particularly hard for it…

Well, perhaps he was starting to get close enough. Maybe he would get lucky one of those nights.

-----

[peachshadows]

I love the drama senerios that everyone has been sending you for Sundown! I've got to send me two cents in too. Instead of c!Wukong being upset about c!Macaque flirting with an alternate version of him (though he is upset about that), he's more upset that Macaque didn't clue him in on finding his (NOT kid) successor until Macaque was already in the sundown universe. They found out because they now had to search for both of them and it caused everyone even more panic.

C!Wukong: *bursts into the room breaking the door* YOU! Not only did you dissappear on me while we were trying to find MK, but you disappeared to go flirt, AND WE STILL HAVEN'T FOUND MK!

C!Wukong: You are helping me look for my (kid) student. Then we are leaving back to OUR own universe again! If you want to stay and flirt that's fine (it is not), but only after we find MK! Do you have any idea how hard it was to track you down!

C!Wukong who has lost his kid AND his oldest companion, only to find said oldest companion flirting instead of making sure MK was safe. He would be stressed, pissed off, and hurt at the situation and would definitely lash out at Macaque.

C!Macaque who is still mad at c!Wukong: Well atleast I was helpful in finding MK you were just running around threatening everyone!

Everyone else would just look back and forth between the screaming match the c!Shadowpeach was having. 'This explains so much, but why must there be TWO of them now!'

SD!Shadowpeach thinking 'Atleast we aren't this bad when we fight.' (They are, in fact, worse. C!Shadowpeach atleast doesn't cause it to storm when they fight, and can communicate better then sd!shadowpeach. Slightly better but enough to make a difference.) Hey SD!Wukong would mostly be out of the dog house for cheating if he hadn't flirted with c!Macaque.

No one from the canon verse has been doing well. If they weren't very sure LBD was dead they would have been panicing worse then they already are. That did not stop the canon crew from going on a rampage trying to find MK though. Menwhile MK is in the room but he's been pointedly ignoring the flirting going on around him, so he was (failing at) hiding in the corner away from everyone (except for freenoodles). He does not want to be in this crazy universe. C!Macaque is not helping right now unfortunately for him. He just made the situation worse. Poor MK just wants to go home.

Honestly realistically if I were to write this out (c!Macaque entering the sundown world first before the rest) his first objective is to find MK and get back home, second objective is to stealthily do all of that while trying not to alert anyone of his existence cuz this is a world where he's apparently empress and married to Wukong (imagine that him marrying Wukong as if-) and honestly if he were to be found then I feel like that's where he would try to flirt with sd!Wukong as a way to distract him rather than actually thinking of getting with sd!Wukong

And if c!Wukong did manage to get into the sundown world after c!Macaque that would cause a whole issue cuz he would be tearing the world apart just to find MK (and Macaque) so now sundown world has to deal with a raging Wukong who will stop at nothing to get back what's his

[half-oz-eddie]

Billy wears sunglasses everywhere he goes. Forged some bullshit medical note so he can keep his glasses on in class.

There's nothing wrong, not medically at least. Maybe supernaturally.

Anytime Billy makes eye contact with someone, they instantly fall in love with him.

There were very few limitations. Family members, and anyone more than 4 years older than Billy was immune, but no one else was safe.

He realized he had this "ability", or whatever the hell one would call it, when he was 13. It worked on nearly everyone, but after awhile, using his charm to his advantage wasn't fun. No one wanted to be his friend. Everyone just wanted him to themselves, and sometimes they'd go mad trying to pursue him. He couldn’t let his guard down around anyone.

That's why his family moved to Hawkins in the first place. A jilted girl tried to burn their house down while they were all inside sleeping.

He sat in science class, hardly paying attention, when a tardy student walked in.

It was that King Steve guy everyone had been talking about.

Silky hair, sandalwood smelling, Farrah Fawcett hairspray using son of a bitch Steve Harrington.

Billy hated him, and just as much as he hated him, he wanted him.

He decided he'd make things easy for himself when the teacher paired them up for a project.

He lifted up his glasses, waiting for Steve to look up from his worksheet and make eye contact with him.

Their eyes locked, and Steve's eyes widened. Billy smirked knowingly, expecting that his ability was working.

Steve narrowed his eyes, slightly leaning forward. "Your eyes are really blue, wow." He mentioned, returning to his worksheet. "So d'you wanna finish this up at my house? Or should we go to yours?"

What the fuck? Why wasn't it working? Was it because Billy wanted Steve to fall in love with him? Was that it?

Billy was disappointed. This ability was just as useless as useless could be. What's the point of winning people over, if it isn't anyone he wants?

"Hello? Billy?"

Billy snapped out of his thoughts and nodded at Steve. "Yeah, whatever, let's go to your house."

Billy brought Max home and drove to Steve's house to work on their project.

Billy was determined to use his ability on Steve. Maybe it just didn't work that time. Maybe he needed to try again.

He parked out front, took off his glasses and rang the doorbell.

Steve answered and they briefly made eye contact. Still nothing. Steve invited Billy inside and Billy put his sunglasses back on.

"How come you have to wear those glasses all the time?" Steve asked, offering Billy a beer.

"It's a uh...medical condition."

"Is that why your eyes are so blue like that? You have some kind of light sensitivity thing?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"So it's like...photosynthesis or something? But in your eyes?"

Billy's face fell flat. Maybe it didn't work because Steve's stupid.

And yet, Stupid, Silky haired, Sandalwood Smelling Steve was all Billy wanted. So he took the glasses off again, and Steve looked into Billy's eyes once more.

"They're so blue and...sparkly. It's pretty. I could look into them all day."

Billy's face flushed a furious red. How could he flirt with him so effortlessly?

He pointedly turned away, trying to conceal his blush.

Steve smiled cheekily. "What? Was it something I said?"

"Yeah, it was! I can't believe you fuckin' said that."

"You're blushing." Steve teased. "You're really beautiful, you know. I've never met anyone like you."

Or...maybe it did work. Did it?

"Y-yeah?" Billy faltered. "S-so what?"

"So...you wanna...hang out before we do the project? Maybe grab dinner?"

"What, are you like...in love with me or something?" Billy half joked, really he was trying to see if his ability was working, just not instantaneously like it usually does.

Steve laughed. "I just wanna get to know you. But who knows what the future could hold?"

Billy smiled. He liked this much better than deep diving into a sudden and obsessive love.

Maybe Steve wasn't so stupid. Maybe he was able to see beyond Billy's eyes.

Or maybe...Steve has some sort of ability of his own...

[cookeybg]

Unexpected Cohabitation a JonDami fic

Before we get to the story I have a few words to say...

First of all, Hello!

Not sure if this will reach anyone, but I had an itch to write, so I did. I almost never post anything. I have reposted a couple things but I'm mostly a lurker and enjoy others creativity and thoughts, I like to think of myself as a cat with few brain cells.

Anyways, I read a manga YEARS ago and enjoyed it greatly and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny/interesting if Jon and Damian were stuck in this situation?" Let's see if anyone eventually gets what manga I was reminiscing.

Now, this is the first time I've ever posted anything I've written and I am not confident AT ALL if this is going to be any good, but I really hope someone out there enjoys reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it...Also not sure if I should post it on Ao3???

Well enough of my ramblings on to the story.

Title: Unexpected Cohabitation

Main Characters: Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne (some of the others show up too, the list is too long)

Eventual relationship: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne (my fave)

Stuff to know: No capes, reverse robins, high school AU, no smut, no Brucie Wayne, I know nothing about sports but it will show up, (aaand I think that's it, will add more if it comes up)

Part 1 - Chapter 1

Jon placed his lunch tray next to Kathys’ as he discreetly looked around the lunch room trying to catch a glimpse of his crush. He had only briefly seen him at the mall during summer break and in a panic hid from him behind a rack of clothes. He had regretted not saying hello and had daydreams of himself going up to him, all cool and complementing the brown eyed boy’s pink fluffy hair and then asking him out to watch a movie at the mall theater. Sadly, the daydreams would come crashing down when he remembered his mother placing shirts in front of him and trying to measure him up before heading into the dressing room. It’s not that he was embarrassed of his mom its just, he was wearing sweats and an old hoodie since none of his clothes fit him anymore due to his growth spurt and, well, his mom could be a bit much, sometimes. Throughout the whole shopping trip when she would meet an acquaintance or friend she kept gushing about how quick kids grew and how she wished they would just stop sometimes. Jon would have to bury himself if anyone from school had been exposed to that.

“Looking for Jay?” Kathy asked. Jon looked at Kathy like a deer caught in the headlights and immediately turned red. He sat down abruptly causing his tray to nearly tip unto him. He scrambled to right his milk carton before it fell. Once settled, he sighed and mumbled, “That obvious?” Kathy smirked and bit into her carrot stick making a loud snap. Jon squirmed while opening his milk carton, he took a big swing, pointedly ignoring Kathy’s stare. “Why don’t you just confess?” Kathy asked. “Confess?” Jon spluttered, “He doesn’t even know I exist!” “Jon, you two were in the same history class last year. He knows who you are.” “Yeah. But we never talked.” “Then, how about you talk to him?” That would be so awkward…” Jon bit into his chicken strip. Kathy rolled her eyes and sighed in exasperation. Jon smirked and leaned in conspiratorially, “But I have a plan.” “And that is?” “I’m joining the journalism club.” “What!” Kathy yelled in surprise and then moderated her voice when some people who she startled glared at her, “ I thought you were going to join the baseball team this year, since, you know, your not in a cast anymore.” “The doctor has given the all clear and physical therapy is all done. The doctor was very impressed with how quickly I healed.” “Will they even let you do both clubs?” “Yep, I asked!” Their conversation was cut short when a murmur spread through the cafeteria like a wave. The main players of the baseball team stepped through the open double doors, all nine wearing their letterman jackets. In the lead was the most popular guy in school, Damian Wayne. Whose father was nicknamed the Prince of Gotham. Who in turn married an actual princess from some far off land, giving Damian actual royal blood. Girls wanted him and guys wanted to be him, but from what Jon had heard, guys wanted him too. Damian’s bright green eyes stood out against his brown skin, his gold earring glinted under the florescent light. He scanned the cafeteria with what looked like a sense of boredom. Colin, Jon called him Damian’s second in command, had one arm casually draped around Damian’s shoulders gesticulating wildly with his free hand. The group laughed at whatever the Colin said, but Damian only smiled as he started walking towards their unofficial table. Colin and the rest of the group broke off shoving and cracking jokes at each other while making line to pick up food. Kathy whistled beside Jon, “Now he’s someone who doesn’t know you exist.” “He looks and probably is, conceited.” Jon said offhandedly. “Look at him, he has reason to be.” “Doesn’t mean it’s cool.” “Doesn’t mean he’s not hot.” Jon turned to look at Kathy, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead she was looking in Damian’s direction. Jon looked around and noticed that many were doing the same. He dragged his eyes back to look at Damian. The dude sat straight backed, elegantly eating his homemade meal from some fancy lunch bag that was probably more expensive than anything Jon owned, and scrolling on his phone completely ignoring the many eyes staring at him. Colin returned with the rest of the group nudging Damian and dropping his lunch tray with a loud smack, receiving an unimpressed glare in return. Colin smiled and placed a fruit cup in front of Damian. Jon personally didn’t get the allure. The couple of times he had seen Damian interact with others it was usually acerbic. Somehow that did not lessen his popularity and it left Jon dumbfounded. I good person should be good to others and being polite was a given, his Grandma said so and she was never wrong. Jon shrugged and went back to eating his school lunch. The rest could keep Damian he very much preferred Jay.

I hope you enjoyed it! Will post more soon, hopefully.

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

HI I'm so sorry I vanished, I've had an absolutely MAD few weeks and I'm still going to be insanely busy over the next few months, but now that I have a free moment, have this oneshot I wrote at 2am a few days ago! I'm wrapping up a few chapters of my wips that'll be out soon too!!

It's not the most descriptive thing, but I'm playing around with the concept of turning this into a six chapter thing, so this is more me testing the waters lol

-

For a while, it's just a cough.

Sirius has noticed the hacking cough developing over three weeks, but he doesn't think too much of it. Why would he? Remus downplays everything that happens to him, and anytime Sirius brings up getting it checked out, he's just waved off with a small, gentle smile.

It's only when he passes out that Sirius gets him to do something about it.

He's just gotten out of the bloody hospital wing after the full, and although it's not exactly normal for Remus to be this... shaky, they all just think it's that. As they walk, Sirius can't handle watching Remus struggling with his bag.

"Right, hand it over," Sirius says simply, stopping. Remus stops with him, James and Peter moving a little more before they turn back too.

"Hm? What?"

"Your bag. Hand it over."

"I'm fine, it's fine," He tries to dismiss it, coughing once, but Sirius isn't having it this time.

"Moony, you look like you're about to keel over. You don't get a say in it."

Remus rolls his eyes, but he's quite clearly biting back a smile as he pulls his bag off his back and hands it to Sirius, who slings it over his free shoulder without hesitation. They both go to keep walking, when Remus is hit with a coughing fit. He stops again, hands still jittering as he uses the back of it to try and stifle it.

"Hey, d'you need water?" Sirius asks, going to open and rifle through Remus' bag, but Remus just shakes his head.

"I- I can't- can't-"

Sirius doesn't need him to fill in the blanks. He can see the panic, the paling of his face.

Remus can't breathe.

"Shit, right, come on." Without thinking, he wraps an arm firmly around Remus' waist and pulls him as quickly as he can to the hospital wing. "Madame Pomfrey?!"

She appears in less than a second as Sirius sits Remus down onto the bed. Remus can't exactly complain, resting both forearms against his thighs and dropping his head down as he struggles for breath. Forcing himself not to panic, Sirius reaches out and claps Remus on the back a few times. It seems to work, dislodging something enough to give Remus a breath, but not to free it from his windpipe altogether.

Still, relief courses through him as Remus finally starts taking heaving breaths, and Sirius opts for moving his hand in a gentle circle over Remus' back. Madame Pomfrey crouches in front of Remus, taking hold of both of his shoulders and pushing him upright. Breathing seems to come a little easier for him then, as Madame Pomfrey watches him carefully.

"You're staying here overnight, at the very least."

"Why?" Remus asks with a frown. "I'm fine. S'just a cough."

"That isn't just a cough," Poppy says carefully, pointedly. "It sounds like there's either some kind of blockage, or another serious issue. Either way, you need monitoring. You're staying, you are not allowed to refuse that."

"I'll go and grab you come food," Sirius says, moving his hand to squeeze Remus' shoulder before standing.

"M'not really hungry..." Remus admits. "I haven't been for a while, really."

"Moony, why haven't you said anything?" James asks, stunned. Remus just shrugs, unsure.

"You're still eating. I'll be back in a few minutes."

With that, he makes a beeline for the kitchens, lets the elves gives him enough wrapped food for a small feast, then heads straight back to the hospital wing. James and Peter are still there, Remus having conceded to sitting in the bed, Madame Pomfrey having checked him over carefully and is now leaving him alone with his friends. Sirius drops down into a seat and starts pulling the food out of his bag.

As they all eat in silence, Remus clearly trying to stifle his own coughing every now and then, there's an unspoken knowledge that Remus is probably going to be in the wing for a while. Still, Sirius at least expects Madame Pomfrey to have it figured out by the next day.

Instead, Remus just seems to get worse.

Three days pass, and Remus has gone from bad to awful, having coughing fits at least once an hour, and Sirius is barely leaving the hospital wing at this point. Every day sends him spiralling slightly more into his own anxiety, waiting until Remus has fallen asleep every night to let himself feel.

It's takes another two days for Madame Pomfrey to figure it out, and they're all there when she does. She emerges from her office, making her way over to the bed.

"I know what's happening," she starts simply. "Did you want me to tell you alone, or...?"

"No, it's fine," Remus says, "they can stay."

"You have Hanahaki Disease," she starts, confusing all four of them. Obviously she's expecting this, as she keeps talking. "It's incredibly rare, very few known cases. I had to get in contact with St. Mungo's to get real information about it. Essentially, it is a disease that causes red roses to develop in the patient's lungs."

"Roses?" Sirius asks, stunned.

"Sorry, I- I didn't tell you. I didn't want to freak any of you out." Sirius doesn't even have time to think about that part before Poppy continues.

"It is actually caused by love. Romantic love that the patient believes to be unrequited."

"Oh." That even throws Remus, whose eyes flick to his hands as he starts fidgeting with them over the covers.

Remus is in love.

That almost crushes Sirius.

Mostly because of the word unrequited. It means that any hope he had of Remus ever liking him back flies down the drain.

He doesn't let himself process those emotions, quashing them to focus on Remus. There's no fucking time to wallow.

"There are actually two treatments for this," Poppy says, taking the book from under her arm, titled 'Mysterious Magical Ailments', pulled it open to a bookmarked page and started to read from it. "The patient should initially attempt to confess their emotions to said object of their affections, due to the possibility of the love not truly being unrequited. Reciprocated love is the simplest solution to Hanahaki Disease.

"If this is not successful, the base of the roses can be removed magically. However, this only has a seventy percent success rate. Also, the patient's romantic feelings for the object of their affection will go, and many patients are unlikely to feel romantic attraction again." She closes the book and watches Remus carefully. Remus glances up, eyes meeting Poppy's decisively.

"Remove it."

"Moony, wait. Don't you think you should at least try the other one first?" James pipes up quickly, carefully. "You never know, she could feel the same and, even if she doesn't, you'll get the feelings taken anyway, right? It's worth a shot."

"He doesn't. I'm sure he doesn't. He has no reason to," Remus snaps quickly, devolving into another coughing fit. Sirius doesn't hesitate in doing the same thing he has done every time since he first went to the hospital wing, as Remus leans forward and Sirius reaches out to tap his back, to dislodge the flower in his throat. Poppy pulls her wand put with her free hand, ready, but she doesn't need it. Nobody even has time to acknowledge Remus' revelation, but Poppy steps in the moment the coughing stops.

"I'll have to bring someone in, as it is a procedure I've never carried out before, and it has fairly high risks attached to it. I can get in contact with the same healer from St. Mungo's, she should be happy to perform it."

The healer agrees.

She offers to arrive in two days to resolve the problem. That gives Sirius a lot of time to think.

Firstly, Remus is gay. Sirius could actually have been in with a chance, if he wasn't in love with someone else. Also the fact that he's so adamant that the mystery guy doesn't love him back. Remus doesn't seem to understand just how incredible he is. How much he can brighten someone's day. He's doing everything in his power to avoid telling this person, and it's really bloody confusing to Sirius.

Even Remus starts to second guess it, that evening.

Poppy has accepted that Sirius isn't leaving, and he's nodding off in the chair beside the bed when Remus' quiet voice pipes up.

"Hey, Padfoot? You awake?"

Sirius opens his eyes and lifts his head, offering Remus a smile through the increasing darkness.

"You okay?"

"I was just... is James right?" He asks quickly, eyes meeting Sirius' anxiously. "Is it worth telling him, even if it's just so it's off my chest before I get the roses removed?" Sirius shrugs.

"Yeah, I think so," He says honestly. Remus asked for his opinion, so that's what he's getting, even if it's slightly upsetting Sirius to say. "If he doesn't feel the same way, surely it's worth him knowing. You never know, and it won't mean anything if it goes wrong." Remus nods to himself, glancing down and, for a moment, Sirius thinks he's done with the conversation.

"What if it ruins our friendship?" He asks in a rush. "What if he can never let go of the fact that I literally almost died because I'm in love with him?"

"Then he can go fuck himself," Sirius answers bluntly, clearly throwing Remus.

"Sirius!"

"No, I mean it!" He's bloody frustrated now. "If this mystery guy is uncomfortable because of your feelings and an illness that you can't control, then fuck him! I can't imagine anyone not wanting to spend time with you, so if he really does care about you then he'll get the fuck over himself-"

"It's you, Sirius." Remus' voice is low, almost inaudible, but Sirius catches it. It actually stops him in his tracks, turning to face Remus as shock ripples through him. Remus keeps his eyes fixed firmly down, forcing the rest of his words out. "I'm in love with you. Have been for a while, actually. I know there's no world where you'd ever feel the same way, but I'm getting it sorted, so-"

"You love me?" Sirius asks breathlessly. Nothing feels real, thousands of questions racing in his head.

Mostly the fact that Remus' feelings aren't unrequited.

Sirius has been in love with Remus for years. At this point, it feels as normal as breathing. So how the fuck has Remus got Hanahaki Disease?

As Remus nods, face flushing a deep red, Madame Pomfrey's words come flying back to him.

"Romantic love that the patient believes to be unrequited," he whispers to himself, everything finally clicking.

"I'm really sorry Sirius, I never meant for it to- to do this, I just- I don't know. I'm really sorry," Remus is rambling, and Sirius just can't take it anymore.

With a new resolve and years of unexpressed feelings, Sirius stands, leans in and connects their lips. Only for half a second, pulling away to gauge Remus' reaction. His expression seems to match what Sirius' own must have been a few seconds before. Nothing but shock sitting there.

"...Remus? You okay?" Sirius asks gently, watching him carefully.

"You don't... you can't..." Remus can't quite get through the sentence, stifling a cough as Sirius decides to fill in the blanks for him.

"I love you, Moony. Christ, it feels like I've loved you forever." Remus opens his mouth to protest, but Sirius isn't done yet. Remus needs to know just how important he is. "If you need me to tell you that every single day for the rest of your life then I will. You mean everything to me." Carefully, he sits on the side of the bed and waits with bated breath.

He watches as Remus' eyes dart across his face, seemingly searching for an ounce of truth. Then, before Sirius has a change to register what's going on, Remus has pulled him back in, lips meeting in a much more urgent kiss.

Still, Sirius isn't complaining.

He lets one hand rest across Remus' cheek, the other finding one of his. For someone who is essentially on his deathbed, he's a bloody fervent kisser. Something in the back of Sirius' mind is reminding him that the only thing separating the two of them from the outside world is a curtain that could be pulled back at any time, but it doesn't really matter to him. All that matters is Remus in front of him, real and there and his.

After what could be a few minutes, could be an hour, they both break away, Remus scarily out of breath. Yeah, he's still unwell, they both kind of forgot. Still, it doesn't stop a smile making its way onto Remus' face.

"Okay, yeah, I believe you."

"I think it's safe to say that you're free to go, Remus!" Madame Pomfrey says brightly, sending relief through Sirius. Remus has done nothing but improve, but it's still amazing to hear Madame Pomfrey confirm it.

He turns to Remus, whose hand is in his, and shoots him a gentle smile. A fucking gorgeous blush makes its way across Remus' face, sending a jolt through his stomach.

God, he loves Remus.

Thank fuck he didn't get the flowers removed.

[m3r1m4r5u333]

Btw I NEED TO ramble about the scene in which Buck comes out to Maddie and why it just makes me love her even more than I did before. Maddie is my freaking GOAT ❤️❤️❤️

Why? Well, because she already KNEW. She TOTALLY KNEW. And still pretended to be surprised!!

Why do I say she knew? Well. Because it's 100% canon that Buck rambles about his boy crushes, a lot. A LOT. To everyone!!!

I can't remember how much I've talked about this, but Buck totally had a crush on Albert at one point. There's an whole storyline about it, episodes 4x07 and 4x08.

Here's a recap of how it goes:

Buck goes on a date with Veronica. The date goes BADLY. It lasts for about 90 minutes and Buck leaves humiliated, never wanting to see her again.

Albert is Buck's room mate. Buck comes home, rants about the embarrassing date, announces that he never wants to see Veronica again... Goes to take out the trash, and runs across Veronica, realising that she's their neighbour, lives in the same building. Buck runs home and urgently tells Albert that they have to move!!

Then... Buck knocks on Veronica's door, trying to reconciliate. He does not want awkwardness between neighbours. They agree that the date was terrible, and then... Albert walks out of the shower in a towel.

Next... We see Buck and Taylor (she's a reporter) at work. They're watching a guy who's having a meltdown on a low roof. The emergency is taking forever, Taylor and Buck talk... Or rather.. Buck does!!

Not only does he rant about Albert and Veronica to Taylor, he also talks about them to a random first responder. Albert in a towel!!! has certainly left Buck reeling. It's super obvious that the one Buck actually fancies is Albert. The one date with Veronica was terrible, they definitely weren't ever in a relationship -- but Buck is sputtering about "breaking of bro code!!" and Albert in a towel?? Yeah.

They're not the only ones hearing about Albert. There's also a scene (can't recall which episode) where Chimney and Maddie enter a karaoke bar. Chimney says something about this being nice reprise because he's heard enough about Albert lately...

Anyway, back to Veronica/Buck/Albert/Taylor. Buck invites Taylor on a double date - without telling her it's a double date. Taylor arrives, takes in the queer love square she's been pulled into, very pointedly says that she's heard A LOT about Albert because Buck keeps talking about him... And then she's like "Actually I'm off, this is ridiculous.", and storms off (go queen 👑!)... (Then she and Buck reconciliate. Her capacity to forgive is unparalled, just saying.)

Anyway, back to WHY I LOVE MADDIE. (And Chimney!!!)

The crush on Albert isn't the only obvious boy crush Buck has, is it?

Eddie... The way they meet and Buck goes nuts trying to impress Eddie. The peacocking (mutual peacocking!!!!) is absolutely ridiculous. Chimney watches this mating display dance, shakes his head, rolls his eyes, chuckles to himself... Chimney can tell what's going on, for sure.

Then there's that famous scene in which Buck rambles about Eddie and Chris, is apparently elbows deep online researching for ways to help Eddie with Christopher... Maddie finally asks if the boy crush on Eddie means that Buck is over Abby.

... And there is of course also that scene where Buck assumes that when Maddie meets Chimney and says "he's so cute!", Maddie is talking about Eddie... Even though Maddie and Chimney are before line that seen talking and flirting like they're totally in their own bubble.

Anyway - then let's jump to season 7. Buck is rambling on and on about Eddie and Tommy, and how they've hit off. Apparently has for a good while. Buck is super bothered by their friendship, it's clear he's pressing Chris for intel, snooping around the Diaz home trying to find more information... Maddie listens to this absolutely ridiculous, clueless prattling. And she knows. She totally knows.

Buck is GLASS. He's absolutely transparent. This man isn't straight.

And she's not the only one who knows.

Chimney enters the room. Maddie looks at him "NO! Don't you dare say anything!!!" But Chimney can't resist indulging himself with some subtle teasing.

He jumps in, praising Tommy. "That Tommy's SO COOL 😍!!" Basically just adding fuel to the fire, getting under Buck's skin.

Maddie, in the background is making a face like:

"jdjdkkeke CHIMNEY 🤦 ...Ugh, thank you, darling. 🙄👌You've done it. I'll be here all day, listening to this absolutely brainless jealous meltdown. Fucking great!"

So...

Why won't they say anything, talk to Buck about how ridiculous he's being? Sit him down and spell:

YOU AREN'T STRAIGHT. YOUR BOY CRUSHES CAN BE SEEN FROM OUTER SPACE. Wake up!!

Well... Because they are being patient. Because they are being considerate, because they do not want to press him, because they're letting him take his time, figure it out at his own pace.

Because they know that confronting someone who isn't ready to face their queerness can go badly.

Forcing someone to confront their queerness can backlash, it can make that person retreat further inside the closet.

It can be embarrassing and traumatizing for the closeted person to be pressed about this inner conflict. The closet is a maze, it is scary, and confusing, and the denial can be powerful enough that the closeted person doesn't even have any idea that hey, I'm queer, I'm closeted.

So Maddie and Chimney are being sensitive. They see that Buck isn't ready to talk about his sexuality - he's obviously not even aware of it.

So Maddie and Chimney are giving him the time he needs to come to term with it. They may indulge in some gentle teasing, maybe try to give him the occasional hint to help him along, but mostly they're just waiting, listening, letting him be.

So!!!!

What about Maddie's (my GOAT, I love her ❤️) reaction to Buck coming out? Why did she pretend to be surprised by Buck's attraction to men?

Because she was being KIND. Considerate. Because she loves her brother and realises that this moment... It's not about her. It's about him. It's about the reaction Buck needs, to feel supported.

It's not the time to embarrass him. It's not the time to GLOAT about how smart she is, to have realised, ages ago, that Buck is clearly into into men, too.

She did see it coming, and because she is the BEST sister ever... She prepared. She researched this shit, how to react to someone's coming out in a positive way.

And if this is new to you - pay attention now...

Many queer people say this about their coming out;

It sucks if the person you're coming out goes "I KNEW IT! I CALLED IT! I SAW THIS COMING! YOU WERE SO OBVIOUS!!"

Because it totally belittles their struggle. It can be humiliating to learn that when you were scared, and stressed, and confused, and trying to hide your vulnerable underside... Someone was watching you, and thinking "Pffft. You're so freaking obvious. You're fooling nobody. Just come out already."

This gloating "I knew it" reaction isn't just bad because it makes you feel stupid, embarrassed, to learn that you were being transparent. It's like you have no privacy anymore. They saw your performance and gave it one star.

This "Oh I knew"... It makes you anxious because then you wonder... Who else already knows? Who else am I obvious to? What else am I obvious about?

Learning that they knew... It can be traumatizing. Embarrassing. Scary. Because nobody wants to learn that they're easy to read.

Maybe... you aren't ready to come out to everyone, and this reaction makes you terrified that you won't have the option to get ready, that they will realise what you're hiding, and force you to talk about it.

Because maybe... you're still freaked out abour people knowing you're queer. Maybe you fear people spotting it and lashing out.

Or maybe... You aren't afraid of a hateful reaction, but panic at the idea of even a supportive talk about your sexuality with someone. Sexuality is an universal taboo, talking about is awkward and stressful to almost everyone.

And also, when you come out and the person you told tells you they already knew, that your queerness was obvious, and they were expecting you to come out..?

It can be a shock in another way. Maybe your queerness was something you, at some point, were desperate to hide from others... And clearly, you failed that mission. What else are you failing to hide? Because everyone has something they're insecure about!!! Secrets, traumas, embarrassing moments, vulnerable parts. We all try to guard something.

So being told that your poker face sucks? It can make you feel totally paranoid. You think... Omg. I thought I was hiding this. I tried so hard to hide this.

But clearly I wasn't hiding. They saw right through me. Am I always so easy to read?

Do people know all my secrets, everything that makes me nervous and embarrassed, and scared? Do they just look at me and think "They're so dumb to put up that front, we can totally tell how you really think and feel."

Do people look at me and laugh? Do they joke about me behind my back?

And so on.

Basically, when someone comes out to you and you go "Thank god! ABOUT TIME!!"... You're being a prick.

They're opening up to you. They are being vulnerable. They are trusting you with something.

This moment... Your reaction is important. If you want to be a good ally, and support this person coming out to you.

Your job is to provide reassurance. Support. A listening ear. Your love.

Your job isn't to gloat, or dismiss their fears. Your job is not to induce panic, paranoia, or humiliate them by making them feel dumb.

They may be scared of your reaction. Respect that fear, however irrational it is. It doesn't matter if you're queer too, or think you're the best ally in the world, this moment can still be something they've been nervous about. Don't shit on it by smugly gloating about your excellent queerdar.

Yes, you can be honest, if they desperately want to know if you suspected anything. You can gently tell them that you saw some signs. But really, this moment isn't the time to humiliate them or freak them out. Be sensitive.

....

.... Oops sorry, got lost in the ramble 😅😅!!

Uh... Where was I? Yes.

Basically what I wanted to say with this post is that...

Maddie. Freaking. Buckley!!!! You are the love of my life, does not matter that you are fictional. You're my freaking GOAT anyway. I'm... weak.

Because her reaction to Buck's coming out?!!!

Jdjdjjdjdbndnd.

It actually makes me emotional. It was so perfect. It was so full of love!!!

Because yes, she totally knew, had known for years...

AND she kept that knowledge to herself!!!!

Because she'd seen Buck, the closet he was so lost inside in, and she loves Buck... So she wanted to be there for him.

And she knew that it's not easy to come to terms with one's queerness. That it can be tough and scary.

So she thought "What can I do to help? How can I do my best to support my queer brother?"...

And rolled up her sleeves. She researched this. She found out it's not helpful to press someone, that it's important to be patient. She looked up the experiences of queer people coming out. What is helpful! What isn't! She came up with a plan.

Yes, she totally did. I'm telling you, she fucking studied for this test. To make sure her reaction would be freaking perfect, and help Buck on this journey.

Because she did everything right. She realised that letting Buck know how obvious his bisexuality was to her... Might be detrimental to his well-being, and their relationship.

She understood that it wasn't important that she'd known.

That it wasn't her time to brag about how clever she was, to have seen this coming, but to be sensitive of this struggle, to respect this struggle.

So when the day finally came... She was surprised, yes, to realise Buck had been on a date with a man.

I mean, it came out of the blue, right? Buck had been so oblivious to his closet. She'd missed the moment Buck became aware of the closet, and immediately ran on a date.

She thought Buck was still in the dark, so him suddenly going on a date with a man never even entered her mind as an option.

Then she realised... OH. He IS there? He has figured this out. He's coming out to me, now?

Okay!!! Let's follow the game plan then.

Be sensitive. Don't act like you were totally expecting this day to come.

The identity of the date? That was the real surprise. I mean, just watch the previous scene in which Buck talks about Tommy and Eddie with her.

He does rant about Tommy, but c'mon... It's really Eddie's attention Buck craves.

It's basically a re-telling of Buck's love tangle with Veronica, Taylor and Albert. Buck told himself he wanted Veronica, and that's why it bothered him that Albert "broke the bro code".... In a towel! Except, the one who Buck wouldn't shut up about... Was Albert.

And Maddie sees that it's happening AGAIN. Wow... Her brother really has no idea WHO he is actually crushing on.

Okay, she thinks. Does not matter now! The coming out is the important part, so let's roll with it. Focus, Maddie! Get it right.

And she did. She was patient. She was supportive. She sae that Buck was trying to run from the topic of sexuality like it was a total nonevent that he'd been on a date with a man...

So she was like "Hey, let's just slow down a bit. Let's acknowledge this moment. I now know that you were on a date with a man. You don't need to continue this pronoun game.

Okay. Let's talk about it being a first date with a man, and what this step means to you. You can tell me."

Really, she was so lovely. She didn't gloat about already knowing, she didn't stress him out by being overly emotional - by acting like this was the biggest event to happen on Earth.

She calmed him down.

She made sure to let him know that this didn't scare her, or make her feel awkward.

That she wanted him to talk about this with her. That she was excited for him, and supportive, and wanted to know more, and that it was okay to date a man.

That she would want to know about Buck's relationships with men just like she'd wanted to know abour her relationships with women.

She let him know that she was there for him, ready to listen, and glad to hear he'd been on a date with a man.

That this didn't change a thing, that she would accept and welcome Buck's male partners just as she had always accepted the women he'd dated. The gender made no difference, she was fine with whoever Buck chose to date.

And she also made sure the mood didn't turn too heavy. She let him know that this was great news, something worth celebrating. That she was excited to see him enter this new chapter in his life, and experience new things.

And that she wanted to learn of it, she wanted him to share this new stuff, let her in his life. So tell me more about this hot pilot!

Jdjbdbdnndnd!!!

Really, she was fucking fantastic. This was such a lovely scene. I love Maddie, she's my favorite. I need a tissue, I'm crying.

Oh and also. It wasn't just great writing. The acting here just blew me away. I love them. So skilled, so lovely, so funny, so human. Brilliant, beautiful, both of them. Fucking impeccable.

[tootoomanycats]

Gambling Debts (Kakashi x Reader)

I've had this scene stuck in my head for a fic plot for almost two years, and finally am getting the itch to start writing it out. This is just a brain dump to get the juices flowing and hopefully commit to getting this story going. The story will have NSFW smut scenes in the future, but this fic will most likely be a sloooow burn, so minors please DNI. Set during the time in the early Naruto series when Tsunade was first sworn in as Hokage. Jiriya just took Naruto and Sasuke is still missing. Outline: Just when the new village leader is getting settled in an old acquaintance appears with a village-sized IOU of debts they had collected from all of Tusnade's past gambling spots. When it's clear that Tsunade will never be able to repay the debt, an old village law is brought up and everything is put into question. Warnings: None. Reader is fem-identifying.

“Did you know that when your village was first founded, a law was created where the Hokage's debts are also the village's debts?” As Shizune started to protest you snapped your fingers over your shoulder, on command your elderly hunched assistant scurried forward to place a black folder into the expecting hand. Pulling out simple reading glasses you sat them on the bridge of your nose as the folder opened with very old and worn-looking documents

 “Of course, the founders had no debts and did this as the start of their treasury for the village, but they never updated the law.” Dark eyes glanced pointedly back up to the now nauseated blonde's green face. “They must have also assumed that no Hokage would ever be so foolish as to accrue any debt amounts that could put the village into financial jeopardy.” “But that would mean that…you…no.”

Tsunade shook her head as her body gave out in horror and slummed in the large wooden chair, feeling as if the soul was leaving her body. Shizune looked between her lady and the now terrifying woman in front of her.

 “I don’t understand, what does that mean if she is the owner of your debts my lady?” Kakashi could barely get the murmur out as the realization started to seep into his skin. “It means that depending on how large the Hokage's debts are….” Tsunade snapped out of it and sprung up causing the chair to fly back into the windows behind her, thick beads of sweat dripping from all over her body. “YES! The debts surely can’t be that bad, we can use the extra funds in the treasury to close out what I owe to you.” With shaky hands and clammy palms, she fumbled with a pen from the drawer of her desk.

The atmosphere tensed at the sound of a soft chuckle.  

Reaching over the desk and gently pulling the pen from the blond to your own, you pulled a business card from the breast covering of the skin-tight black dress that wrapped around your figure, quickly jotting down the card before flipping it face down and sliding it in a single motion to where the two women were. Tsunade gulped as she gripped the paper in her hands and slowly flipped it over, Shizune gasped covering her mouth in shock at the number. “My Lady…Konoha…. has never had that much in its treasury. Not even if you add up all the years since its founding.“ Nervously she glanced back to where you still casually leaned against the desk.

“What does this mean?” Unable to stop the sly smile as you pressed off the desk and started walking to the door the sound of high heels clicking echoing in the silence. The assistant scrambled to catch up to their mistress while trying not to drop more files and documents that filled their arms. As the massive doors opened from the two accompanying giant security guards, you looked back at Tsunade who now sat with her head in her hands, and Kakashi who was now leaning against the bookcase for support. When your eyes contacted the petite brunette you spoke clearly, before disappearing behind the doors as they closed. “It means I own your village.”

[nethhiri]

Marooned: Chapter 47

Kid x FemReader x Killer

Warnings: mention of sexual situations, lite trauma

Confessions of a (Grown Ass Man) Drama Queen

For the entire next day, you slept. Kid and Killer had taken you back to the ship and cleaned you up after waking up in a sticky mess with you, Wire, and Heat. The following day, you woke up while it was still dark. You were in the captain's quarters, but Kid wasn't around, neither was Killer. Still feeling a bit... crusty, you decided to shower off. When you were done, you tried rousing Mini to no avail. She would not be woken easily, so you let her sleep and went to the infirmary.

You weren't really trying to sneak around. You were trying not to wake anyone up who still might be sleeping, including Kid if he was in his workshop. Hushed voices caught your attention and you couldn't help but eavesdrop. 

"Kil, what do I do?"

"What do you mean? It sounds like you already spilled the beans."

"What if she doesn't remember? What if she DOES remember?"

"Is this why you've had trouble sleeping?" Killer sighed. "Well, did you mean it? Or was it just the heat of the moment?

"Both?" Kid paused. "Yer feelin the same ain't ya?"

Killer took a while to respond and your ears strained to hear his answer. "More or less... I'm not ready to go there yet."

Your ears got hot and your palms got sweaty. The memory of the other night came back to you. Wasn't this what you wanted? You were overwhelmed at the thought. You had never experienced this feeling with one person, let alone two. Truly, you thought Killer would say it before Kid, not to mention, you never expected that either would say it in that context, or maybe even at all. Kid hated you in the beginning. Though they do say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and when Kid had feelings, they were usually impulsive and strong.

Suddenly, you felt very guilty about what you were doing. You went back to the entry, opening and shutting the door loud enough for them to hear. "Good morning, gentlemen." You walked into view, leaning against the doorframe to the adjoining room. They looked mildly startled, but were nonchalant. You tried your best to appear cool, like you hadn't heard anything.

"Well if it isn't our sleepy little cumpling."

You blinked. Cumpling? "I hate that." 

"What! Cum dumpling? I thought it was kinda cute," Killer pouted. 

"She prefers cum dump," Kid snickered.

"I do not." You added, "I'm rescinding my greeting and would like to replace it with 'Good morning, assholes'."

"Aw don't be like that. We had such a good time two days ago."

"You mean yesterday?"

"Nah you slept a long time, doll."

"Oh. Well, fuck." You glanced outside to see that it was still dark out. "And you guys aren't still sleeping because?"

Kid's face turned pink. 

"I've gotta start breakfast." Killer left, but not before pointedly elbowing his friend.

"I was uh... working on something for ya." Kid rifled around his workbench looking for whatever it was. 

He presented you with a metal bracer. It was fairly plain and a bit thicker than you would expect for something like that. It was very high quality metal, however, which you only knew because Kid taught you how to recognize it. You looked at it and back to Kid, questioningly. 

"It's, um, nice." 

"I said I would make ya something useful, didn't I?"

"I believe your exact words were something along the lines of: I'll make ya something that will blow your tits off." You looked down. "They're still attached." You grinned at him.

Kid huffed, bringing the item to you and using his power to put it around your forearm. "I would have made it more decorative but the whole point is that ya can mold it into whatever ya want. I thought for a while about what would suit ya, but I've seen ya pick up just about anything and yer able to fight with it, so why would I restrict ya to one thing. Ya use your fruit or yer weapon, but with this ya can use both at once." Kid added. "A snake has two fangs, aye?" He pointed to your holstered gunblade and your new addition.

You were impressed that Kid put that much thought into it. It was smart. This way you wouldn't have to look for raw materials to convert. It glowed a soft yellow as you played around with it. First, you made it into a sword, metal crawling down the back of your hand into a long, flat blade. It was still attached to the bracer, leaving your hand free. Simple enough. Next, you changed it again into claws coming from your fingertips, into brass knuckles, into a gauntlet. Then, the metal coated your arm, mimicking Kid's. 

"I'm you." You showed it off. "Wait." You used your fruit to make your hair red and spiky, and matched your facial scars to his. "Now, I'm you."

"Pf. My tits are bigger."

You quirked an eyebrow. You hadn't tried body modification in that way before. You laughed, at the same time making your boobs bigger. "This is so stupid." You made the best impression of Kid's scowl that you could and impersonated him. "Yer a pain in the ass, Rotten."

"Is it wrong that this is turnin me on a wee bit?" Kid took a step toward you, hands outstretched and making grabbing motions. 

"Fucking narcissist." You changed yourself back to normal, minus one thing, well, two things. When Kid's hands touched your chest, it was flat. 

Kid made a pouting face, hands full of nothing. "HAH?!"

"Would you look at that? You did blow them off," you said, cackling. 

"Put them back!" Kid sounded slightly concerned, "You can put them back, right?" 

"What? Am I only a walking pair of tits to you?" This time, you actually returned to your normal appearance.

"No!" He couldn't help himself, reaching out to grab one anyway. 

You knocked his hand away and backed up. "Say three things you like about me, then."

"Mouth, pussy, ass." Kid smirked. "Not necessarily in that order."

You blocked a few more of his attempts, backing away from him, before it escalated into him chasing you around the workshop. It helped that you were smaller and faster than him, and that he wasn't using his devil fruit to grab you. Every time he got closer to catching you, you giggled. He was close to catching you. It probably would piss him off, but you jumped and slid over his workbench, scattering tools and papers to the ground. You righted yourself and rounded on him, forming a sword with your bracer again. It clanged against his metal arm as he parried. Neither of you moved, pressing against each other with equal strength. He didn't look pissed though. He was laughing, too. Both of you were catching your breath.

"Tsk. I don't think you're telling the truth, Captain." You felt his force waver ever so slightly. Internally, you smirked. 

"Get over yourself." Kid forced you back. "Looks like a draw."

"I heard what you said the other night." Your eye bored into his and you waited for the inevitable hesitation in his push, using it to force him back against the bench.

Kid stumbled backwards, falling onto the flat surface. "H-Hold on." Kid pushed himself upon his elbows.

You walked until you were flush with his knees, pushing them apart to settle between his thighs hanging off the table's edge. Your power returned your sword to the bracer and also lowered the height of the table, so that you could bend over him. You licked your lips, grabbing his meaty thighs. 

Kid bit his lip. Were you referring to that? What if you weren't and he outed himself accidentally. Whatever the case, his mouth was running dry with you staring down at him like you were. His face was going cherry red as you picked up one of his thighs and rested it on your shoulder. "Remind me what I said." This way there would be no confusion. And even if you didn't return the feeling, at least he might get to hear it from your lips just once. He could pretend. 

You snickered, hand running up and down his thigh. It was hot, seeing him flustered like this. Maybe he would be open to trying something like this in the future. A thought popped into your head: Could I.... give myself a dick?. This wasn't the time to think about possibilities. No. You had to focus on embarrassing Kid as much as possible. 

You kissed the inside of his knee and leaned down until your lips nearly brushed his ear. Shockingly, he was flexible enough for you to keep his thigh on your shoulder as you did so. "I love ya." When you pulled back slightly to see his face, you were taken by the softness in it. You meant to tease him and gloat about it. This face though, it changed your mind. You cleared your throat. "That's what you said." You looked from his eyes to his lips and back. "I didn't say it."

Kid's eyes flicked the same way yours did, from your lips back to your eyes. "Ya just did."

Before you had a chance to protest or argue that you were just repeating what he said and most certainly did not say it of your own volition, Kid had pulled you down into a kiss. It was soft, not like the hungry, rough ones you were used to with him. Your lips moved slowly against his, alternating between kissing his top and bottom lip. You had released his thigh to instead grab his face, a hand on each side. You hadn't consciously done it. He sucked on your bottom lip, though didn't use teeth or slip his tongue in your mouth. This wasn't a sexual kiss, it was a sensual one, a romantic one. You pulled away and found that you both had a hard time looking each other straight in the face. You let go of the fact that you were simply repeating what he had said, unwillingly to take it back now. 

"We should go-" You started.

"Go get breakfast, yeah." Kid finished.

Somehow, this clarification of feelings, left you both more confused than ever. Neither of you could look at each other. Neither of you knew how to act. This was uncharted territory for you, and somewhat for him as well. You silently cleaned Kid's lipstick smears from each other before leaving, hesitating by the door, awkwardly staring at each other's hand, wondering if you should hold it or not. Was that something you were supposed to do now? What were you supposed to do now?

Breakfast was weird. You sat with the girls for the first time in a while. Quincy teased you, asking if you and Kid had been fighting again. Killer asked a similar question to Kid. You both replied the same thing: "Worse." Quincy and Killer were equally baffled by what that could mean. Especially since neither of you were angry or in a bad mood. In fact, you both seemed to be in anxiously happy. 

This would be the last night on the island. Naturally, everyone was making plans to go out. The daytime was for unfinished errands. The nighttime was for unfinished debauchery. You didn't have any particular errands to do, so you focused on plans for that night. The obvious thing would be to go out with Kid and Killer. Obviously you were avoiding that because of this morning's events. Killer was fine. Kid would be with him though. You asked Heat, but Heat was going to see Jade again, as he had the prior night. Apparently they had taken a liking to each other. You even asked Wire. He wasn't going out. He had routes to plot. The girls were going back to the brothel you had no interest in. So it looked like you would be stuck with Kid and Killer, or you could go by yourself. 

The night started slow. You were at a low-key bar, people-watching and drinking a beer. Unlike the other night, you weren't in the mood to fight, so you were toned down, wearing your regular clothes. Minerva kept you company, lying on the floor next to you. She scared away anyone that you didn't. When that got old, you walked around the streets. The hairs on the back of your neck abruptly stood up with the feeling that you were being watched. Despite that, you scanned the crowd and saw nothing. It was probably nothing. Your observation haki was shit anyway. 

You ran into a few crewmates in the street and in the bars. You were walking amongst the people when you felt it again. You looked at Minerva. She didn't seem concerned with anything, her ears flicking around and her snout twitching to scent the air. You had Mini wait at one of the buildings and walked down an alleyway. If you were being tailed, they would take the opportunity to have you out of sight and alone. Sure enough, someone came in shortly after. Minerva blocked the opening of the alley, leaving no escape route. With one fluid motion, you had the person up against the wall with your blade at their neck. You let your eye adjust.

"Emma, what the fuck?" You let her go.

"I didn't want to shout over the crowd."

Yeah that checks out. "That was stupid. What if I killed you?"

"Then I'd be dead." 

You deadpanned each other. "What do you want?"

"Everyone else is hanging downtown. Come join."

One of the more lively bars in town was packed with Kid Pirates, you even saw Heat with Jade. You weren't actually sure if it was lively normally or if it was like this because of the Kid Pirates. Before you were able to check out the rest of your surroundings, Quincy grabbed your hand and dragged you onto the dance floor, placing a drink into your other hand. You took a sip and curled your lip, pouring the rest into Mini's mouth when Quincy wasn't looking and discarding the glass. You spotted Pomp with a better looking drink and snagged it from his table as you passed. Letting Quincy lead you in a dance that had no relation to the music at all, you nursed your drink until you spotted Killer sitting by himself. You pulled away from Quincy, much to her dismay and headed in his direction. You were just about at the booth when Kid slid into a seat. Turning on your foot, you went to the bar instead, tossing the rest of your drink back.

"So what the fuck is up with you two?" Killer sipped his beer through a straw. He saw you avoid them. 

"Nothing." Kid mumbled, staring into his drink.

"She remembered?"

"Yeah."

"Ok and?" Killer prompted for more information. 

Kid remained tight-lipped. 

"Fuck's sake. I've never seen you stop talking for this long." 

"Shut up, Killer!" Kid growled. Adding more softly, "She said it back... sort of."

"That's good, isn't it?" Killer was puzzled by your behavior. "Why are you avoiding each other now?"

"What do we do now?" Kid had never gotten this far in the way of feelings and neither had you. 

"What do you mean? I would think you'd both be in the bathroom fucking each other silly." Killer stared at his friend. "So you can be in a flat-out orgy together just fine, but you're too chickenshit to dance together? Is that it?" Killer watched as Heat and Jade came out of the bathroom, speaking of. Heat's pants were on backwards. 

"It changes things." 

"It really doesn't."

Kid huffed, leaning back and chugging the rest of his beer. He snapped at one of the waiters for another. 

You returned to the floor after a few shots at the bar. That was all the liquid courage you needed to start dancing. You started with Quincy and Emma then the shifting crowd deposited you near Heat and Jade. You and Jade put Heat in a sandwich, grinding on him from the front and the back. That fucking dog reeked of pussy, and his pants were backwards. Your lips curled into a smirk. Good for them. Your eye caught Killer's and you beckoned him over. He shook his head. You made a fake pout. He shook his head again. You gave him a thumbs down and stuck your tongue out. You danced by yourself for a while, very nearly drunk. You backed into someone, someone large. You didn't bother to see who it was. You didn't care what his face looked like in this state, as long as he was big. And you were planning on finding that out quickly with the way your body moved against his. He cleared his throat. You turned slightly, recognizing your captain. 

You jumped off him and spun around to be face to face instead of ass to dick. "Oh fuck."  You both stared at each other silently.

Kid was several beers and one shot in, enough to work up some courage. "Dance with me." He said it like a command, but the inflection was that of a question. 

You stepped toward him, grabbing onto his shirt. You were too short to put your hands around his neck without it looking stupid. It took him a minute to realize you responded affirmatively. He placed his hands on your hips lightly, as if he thought he was going to get burned by touching you. Both of you were stiff, not really dancing so much as walking in weird patterns and spinning around, like those spinning cup rides at an amusement park. You stumbled over your own feet and Kid snickered. You swatted his chest. That seemed to loosen you both up and soon you were dancing like two normal people, maybe even with the rhythm. Kid's soft amber eyes were on you affectionately, making your heart pound. You were sure you had a blush, too. Kid bent down and you met him on tiptoes to kiss. Just a simple kiss. 

Killer joined you both, "Finally." 

You both flicked him off, but let him in to dance. He made it easier to relax. You were between them, alternating between grinding on one and kissing the other. It escalated from somewhat tame to obscene in a relatively short time. Kid pushed some poor guy and his date out of the way and pulled you and Killer into the bathroom behind him. The tile on the floor was digging into your knees as you gave Killer head, using your hand to jerk Kid off at the same time. Every so often you would switch. There were plenty of angry knocks at the door from people who actually had to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. Kid was quick to tell them to fuck off. Honestly they should be grateful you guys weren't just doing this in the open. 

You emerged from the bathroom wiping the corners of your mouth followed by Kid and Killer. You winked at the first person in line. At this point the bar was dying down, so the Kid Pirates made the decision to head back to the ship. You grabbed another shot to act as a chaser for your bathroom activities and walked outside while the other two hung back to round everyone up. Minerva followed you out and the two of you walked toward the ship. 

There were still a fair amount of people out. There was a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. Maybe I overdid it. A chill went down your spine and the hairs on your arms and neck went up. It was that feeling again. But you knew Emma was still inside. Something was definitely off. Your heart was beating a a fast pace and all you could hear was blood rushing in your ears. Bile started to rise in your throat. You scanned the crowd, still slowly walking. Your body was having a visceral reaction to this presence. Abruptly you felt it, you turned and your breath caught in your throat. Piercing yellow eyes were staring at you. It was him. You saw his face. You saw his white hair. It was unmistakably him. You bent over and retched, but when you looked back he was gone.

You were shaking. You wanted to run but you couldn't. Your hand was buried in Minerva's fur to steady yourself. She was uneasy because you were uneasy, but of course she wouldn't recognize his scent, since she wasn't with you at that time. You nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a hand on your shoulder. 

"Hey. Whoa. Are you alright?" It was Killer. "Did you have too much to drink?" You looked pale, like you were about to pass out. 

"K-K-Kil. I saw him. He's here." 

"Who?"

"Warthin."

Next

Tag list: @bbnbhm @nocturnalrorobin

[isfjmel-phleg]

After my presentation of the Secret Garden and CEN paper, someone in the audience asked about applying the lens of CEN to other children's book from the same era. I thought about it afterward, and the best example that came to mind was Anne of Green Gables.

Anne Shirley, before her arrival at Green Gables, has experienced CEN. It has played out in a much different way for her than it does for Mary and Colin in TSG, due to differences in social class, but the principle has been the same. As an orphan raised in homes that viewed her as an inconvenience and a sort of unpaid servant, she has never had an adult in her life who prioritized her emotional well-being, who took the time to be kind to her, to listen to her, to teach her how to function in the world beyond basic survival. She is aware that no one wants her after her parents' death, and she is made to feel guilty by her caretakers for having the audacity to exist and need to be "brought up by hand." It's difficult for Anne to even talk about these experiences when Marilla asks her. She's relieved to get relating them over with, because "Evidently she did not like talking about her experiences in a world that had not wanted her."

And then there's this exchange:

“Were those women—Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond—good to you?” asked Marilla, looking at Anne out of the corner of her eye. “O-o-o-h,” faltered Anne. Her sensitive little face suddenly flushed scarlet and embarrassment sat on her brow. “Oh, they meant to be—I know they meant to be just as good and kind as possible. And when people mean to be good to you, you don’t mind very much when they’re not quite—always. They had a good deal to worry them, you know. It’s a very trying to have a drunken husband, you see; and it must be very trying to have twins three times in succession, don’t you think? But I feel sure they meant to be good to me.”

Anne has clearly been mistreated, but she's describing--and pointedly not describing--suggests less of aggression and physical harm and more of something missing, an emptiness, a lack of love--CEN. Likewise, she herself exhibits some signs that can be associated with this type of maltreatment. Difficulty with emotional regulation, attachment problems, extreme sensitivity to rejection, negativity toward herself, excessively immersing herself in imagination (a mild dissociative tendency), anxiety around social situations (regarding how to behave correctly and whether people will like her), etc.

And in a way, the entire first book of the series deals with how she finds healing from her past of CEN, through gaining the love and acceptance of her new family, of friends, of an entire community.

From what little I know of L. M. Montgomery's life, CEN was likely a factor in her own upbringing, and it repeatedly features in her novels (The Blue Castle and Jane of Lantern Hill, for instance, in particular feature heroines who have experienced CEN) with poignancy. Montgomery paints moving portraits of how badly children can be scarred by a lack of love and affirmation.

Anyway, situating Anne's backstory as rooted in CEN helped me put my finger on one of the reasons that I felt that the recent series Anne With an E--at least the first season, which is all I've seen--misunderstood the nature of Anne's past. In this version, we see flashbacks to Anne's past, in which she is being viciously bullied by other children for her talkativeness and imagination. They even go so far as to stuff a mouse into her mouth, and the show suggests that Anne has PTSD as a result of this kind of treatment.

And yeah, Anne's childhood in the book isn't great and clearly has hurt her deeply, but this interpretation felt off to me. What Anne has to say--and not say--about her past in the book suggests not that she was targeted as an object of others' aggression but that she was disregarded. No one was giving her a second thought. That's not as dramatic and shocking as vicious bullying, but it's another, more subtle, insidious kind of maltreatment, just as hurtful in its way but harder to pin down. It's easy to portray a quick, sensational scene of our protagonist being obviously, overtly, grandiosely mistreated, but how do you show the gradual piling up of years' and years' of being treated like you don't matter? All the tiny incidents that chip away at one's sense of self-worth? The building of a worldview in which you must earn love and acceptance but somehow you can never manage it and of course it's your own fault?

And I'm reminded how recent adaptations and retellings of TSG shift the narrative toward grief, which is easy to dramatize, big and impressive and full of obvious pathos. It's an easy way out of depicting a subtler kind of suffering, and the same way, Anne With an E replaces Anne's CEN with bullying and PTSD. There is a place for such stories, but Anne's isn't one of them. It's almost as if there's an inability to understand or a reluctance to depict any kind of suffering that isn't big and grand and shocking. There are many ways that people can be deeply hurt, and it doesn't always look like a major traumatic event that's easy to pinpoint. Sometimes the hurt isn't a tidal wave that engulfs in a single devastating event; it's a slow drip that erodes oneself away little by little. That's closer to what is depicted for Anne, and Montgomery's other protagonists who have experienced CEN, and it's important to recognize what exactly is going on because this sort of thing still happens every day in the real world, in many forms, and it needs to be seen and combatted. And seeing this form of maltreatment play out in literature helps us recognize it and empathize with and reach out to those whom it has impacted--or possibly even to identify it in our own histories and search for our own healing.

[artistsfuneral]

The Road to Kaer Morhen - p.3

“Well some of us decided to make use of the daylight and get supplies,” Jaskier answered, proudly holding up their new belongings. The Cat Witcher frowned at him, head cocked to the side, “Rope? What on earth do we need rope for, it's a mountain path not a cliff climbing exercise.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and – pointedly ignoring Aiden – knotted the rope to the side of his pack. He'd keep the charm in his belt pouch for now. “I mean seriously, Jaskier. Wouldn't food have been better? It's not like I can help a lot in that department, given the overall,” Aiden stopped himself from continuing and waved at himself with a sour face. Jaskier sighed.

He really couldn't phantom when he had developed the habit of running into half-dead witchers in need of heroic rescuing, but at this point it had happened too many times to still be considered a coincidence. Much like it had been the case with the other three Cats, the Viper, the Griffin pair and who afterwards had insisted on being called his Crane Wife, Jaskier had found Aiden just on time. After the failed assassination attempt in Yspaden and a horrible week spent hiding in the alleys and basements of Luton, Jaskier had collected enough coin and courage to head east, towards Kaedwen. Then, when traveling through the forests of Gelibol, he suddenly came across a merchant's cart and a man with amber eyes who introduced himself as Roland Treugger. Despite the fact that the man was an excellent liar, more so than the backstabbing cretin Valdo Marx himself, Jaskier almost instantly understood that there was something off about the merchant. Lo and behold, Jaskier wasn't being paranoid and the noise he heard coming from the inside of the wagon was not some caged animal to be sold at the next market, like Treugger had insisted, but Aiden bleeding onto the floor. Jaskier remembered very vividly how after that particular discovery he had turned back around and looked at the other man with a look so dispassionate it made Treugger stumble backwards. What Jaskier – despite Aiden's constant insisting – did not remember was the fact that Treugger had straight out stumbled into Jaskier's blade. Sixteen times. It certainly was a nice thought, but alas Jaskier was nothing but a humble bard and the short sword he carried with him was mostly for decoration. Aiden didn't believe him for a second.

Nevertheless the damage had already been done and while the Cat Witcher was lucky enough for both of his broken legs to heal properly, the same couldn't be said about his left arm or eye. In the passing day he lost both. Over his many years of travel the bard had to witness countless heartbreaking fates, but watching Aiden wake up only to realize what gruesome things had been done to him would stick with Jaskier for a long time. Aiden, like any witcher, was saved by his astonishingly strength and tough heart. His humor helped a lot too, as Jaskier was quick to learn.

Spending a fortnight hidden away in the forests had given them enough time to get to know and befriend each other. So when a troop of nilfgaardian soldiers found their camp, splitting up wasn't on the table anymore. Now Jaskier was stuck with a new travel companion and around a hundred horrible jokes on his mind about how Aiden was all-right, even if there was hardly anything left of him.

“No need to worry, sunshine, you forgot that I've been following Geralt around for around a century or so, I know my outdoor survival.” The bard chimed in, trying to lighten the mood again. Instead he watched how Aiden's right eye tightened. “Yeah, about that-” the witcher started, but was promptly cut off by him again. “Figuratively! Of course I meant it felt like a century. I was exaggerating, I'm a bard!” The deadpan look Aiden gave him was more than telling.

“Anyways! I think we really should get going. We've been pretty lucky so far, so I guess it's probably only a matter of time before someone comes looking for us.” The bard said, looking out the window of their small room to make sure that his fears hadn't become reality yet. “Need a helping hand?” he asked and watched with amusement as Aiden's face turned from disbelieve to being outright scandalized. “Fuck off!” He laughed and flipped Jaskier the bird, before finally getting out of bed. “You are going to end up in hell, bard,” the Cat Witcher tsked at him and went to collect his clothes from a stool nearby. “Oh shush, don't even pretend we don't share the same humor, pussycat.”

“Never said I was going to to meet Melitele either.”

“Ugh, sunshine, you're so dramatic!” Jaskier sighed, well aware of the irony behind his words. He watched, out the corner of his eyes, how Aiden slipped into his shirt, pants and coat. He struggled to secure the green sash around his waist that was supposed to keep his pants up like a belt. Aiden fought for a moment before managing to tighten the knot by holding part of the sash down with his elbow. Jaskier quietly thanked the gods for the small success and shouldered his pack and lute, checking the room twice for things he might have forgotten, while Aiden put on his boots and silver sword. He knew the Cat knew that he was watching like a hawk, but neither of them braced the topic of Jaskier's over-protectiveness.

Aiden was about to shoulder his sea sack when the two men were stopped mid-movement by loud voices coming from outside. Their eyes met and Aiden, closest to the open window, dropped to the floor just as quickly as Jaskier pressed himself against the far back wall of their room. Jerking his head towards the window he silently but sternly told Aiden to check out the commotion. After all he was the witcher, not Jaskier.

Aiden made a face at the bard that could we equally translated as 'Duh.' or 'Fuck you.' but dutifully inched closer to the window and listened. Not a moment later the witcher's pupil thinned into a predatory slit that fixated on Jaskier in a way that unmistakably meant trouble for them. “Redania,” Aiden mouthed without making a sound and then proceeded to make his way towards Jaskier, crawling on all... threes, in a way that he would've found hilarious if it weren't for their dire situation. “Soldiers,” Aiden whispered once he had reached the bard, “looking for a bard and his witcher in the name of the crown. They probably think I'm Geralt.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed underneath his breath, his heart hammering inside his chest as he willed his brain to think of a plan.

“There's a back door!” he suddenly remembered, having seen one of the innkeeper's daughters enter the house through the kitchens. “If we make it downstairs in time, we can escape through the yard.”

Aiden bit his lip. “Too risky. We don't know if any of the soldiers are already inside the house and the courtyard could be closed off. I say we climb through the window in the hallway and down the balcony, then make a run for it. Through the market and straight into the forest.”

“You want to jump off a balcony with two freshly healed legs and then get us separated in a crowd, are you mad!?” Jaskier hissed and slapped his hand against Aiden's shoulder. “There's no way the courtyard is closed off! And even if, we can just climb up and out.”

“Oh, but that's not risky at all. What happens if they surround us?”

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✨🌿🌼✨

How do you pronounce Kaedwen in your head? like Cat-Wen or Kate-Wen? I've always said it like cat-wen, but I started watching the nightmare wolf movie thingy and I'm pretty sure they said kate-wen. and I didn't like it.

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[staytinyville]

Seonghwa

PLEASE REFER TO MASTERLIST TO GET FULL TAROT READING EXPERIENCE

↣ Summary: After you hear that your father has appointed you to be his heir, you question yourself if you are ready for it. Seonghwa is your long term friend and future advisor, who tell you what you need to hear.

↣ Characters/Pairing: Park Seonghwa x gn!Reader

↣ Genre: Fluff, Historical Fiction, 

↣ AU/Trope info: Game of Thrones!au, royalty!au, historical!au

↣ Word Count: 1.5k

↣ Warnings: None

↣ A/N: All I saw while writing this was House of Dragon. But I won’t add the dragons here. But I can only imagine Seonghwa as a Targaryen. OOO, on a black dragon with red eyes. AHH! Ateez needs a house of dragon!au.

THE EMPEROR

Authority, Establishment, Structure, a Father Figure

You are taking on a fatherly role (even if you are a male or female). The place you are currently at is a role that is meant for you to take the lead in situations that call for advice. You are the patriarch of the group that makes people feel secure.

You are someone who claims respect and authority towards their followers. You are seen as a leader who is just, and people will like when you are in those kinds of positions and know how to handle what people want and how to get what people need. Not only that, but you are fair in your leadership and give everyone equal chances. 

You know a lot about what you are doing and how to do it. You might have enough experience in the area and if not you are very knowledgeable in it. Because of this, you are seen as someone people look up to often when it comes to certain things.

IV THE EMPEROR

You sat with your back straight as the master read out some testaments your father already had written. While he was only in the room next door, still resting, he decided it would be best to leave a will before his passing. That way his children wouldn’t fight over what would happen to the kingdom without his true word. 

“Your father has asked (Y/N) to be named his successor once he passes.” Your head snapped up, looking between your other siblings. 

Your brother’s eyebrows raised, looking over at you in astonishment, and your sister pursed their lips in order not to say anything. Each of them didn’t dare to make a scene or argue over your father’s decision. However, you were beyond confused. 

“What?” You asked, eyes wide. “Are you sure?” You told the master pointedly. 

“That is what his majesty has requested.” The man told you softly. 

“Is he well to take visitors at the moment?” You stood up from the chair, causing all your siblings to look at you oddly. 

The old man looked at your worried expression, sighing to himself. Everyone knew how you were as a person. If you had questions, you were going to find a way to get the answers. 

“Only for a moment.” He told you. 

You both walked over to your father’s chambers, the man sitting up in bed as he swatted at one of his nurses for trying to force him to drink his tea. Your shoulders dropped at how pale he looked. His skin was sweaty and he seemed to hack after each breath he took. 

“Father.” You called softly, giving him a small smile as you grew closer. 

“Hello, Dear.” He squinted his eyes for a moment, pausing to take a look at who he was speaking to. 

“It's (Y/N).” You told him, kneeling down at his bedside. 

“Ah, my little (Y/N).” He smiled, moving to try to pinch at your cheek, but all it felt like was a grab with the little strength he had. “You have grown so big. What are they feeding you?” He asked. 

“The same as you.” You chuckled. 

“I do hope it's not that nasty tea.” He whispered to you. 

“Of course not.” You laughed, giving the nurse on the other side of the bed a smile. She rolled her eyes playfully, turning around with the cup of tea, realizing he wasn’t going to be taking it.

You sighed as you turned back to your father, trying to determine if he was good enough to speak to you on the matter of the throne. 

“Father, I've come to ask.” You started, taking a hold of his hand. “Are you sure you want me to be your heir?”

“My heir?” He immediately frowned, looking at you oddly. “I'm dying?” He questioned himself. Just as he did, he began to cough violently, gripping onto his chest as it began to hurt. “Yes, there it is.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded like more coughs. 

Once he seemed to have calmed down, he turned back to you with a soft smile. “I've had you as my named heir for ages.” He said. “Ever since Seonghwa came to me to tell me all about the time you led an army into war with invaders.” 

A smile overtook your face at the mention of your oldest friend and advisor. He had been there for as long as you could remember, always keeping you from trouble and being the one to get you out of it. Everyone always loved him–he was a people person. You worried about the day someone would come to take him from you, but to this day he always told you that you were the first person in life. 

“You've always been so kind, too. You know more than you care to admit.” Your father continued. “Seonghwa knows it too.”

You chuckled, squeezing his hand as you knew what he meant. “Where is that boy? I need to see my son-in-law.” Your father looked around the room, waiting for the man to pop out. 

“Son-in-law?” You immediately said, looking at him confused. 

“Aren't you two married?” He asked you.

“No, father, I'm not married.” You shook your head. 

“I'm going to miss the wedding!?” He shouted, causing you to flinch. 

You had been the youngest of five children–which is why it was a shock to learn that you had been named heir. Your sisters had been betrothed and your brothers had settled down. One of them already had three kids. And for each of their weddings, your father had been there; to walk them down the step. 

However, you knew that compared to all of them, you had been the closest to the king. It wasn’t because you were the baby of the family. If anything, being the baby only meant that sometimes he wasn’t able to play with you the way he played with your siblings when they were children. 

Instead, you would ask if you could sit with him during council meetings or have him read a story to you. You had always found the things that made a kingdom fascinating. So you took it upon yourself to follow your father around whenever the chance was given. It was how you knew so much about being a king. At least that was what you told yourself. 

Seonghwa was someone you loved with all your heart. And it wasn’t uncommon for you to think about him in a different way that wasn’t just friends. He was the person you could count on–the one you could tell all your problems to. 

Your shoulders dropped as you looked at your pale father. There was only so much time he had left and you wanted to make sure he saw all that he could possibly want. 

“Is that what you want?” You asked him.

“All my heart could ever need.”

You stood in front of the mirror stationed in your room. Your maids had finished dressing you in your attire, making sure everything was suited to your needs. Your hands smoothed down any wrinkles you saw–which were none, but your anxiousness seemed to make you think differently. 

While normal people would find themselves nervous for something as big as their wedding, the only thing you could possibly think of was how you would become named heir to the whole kingdom after. 

“Am I really ready for this?” You spoke out loud, turning around to face your advisor and future husband. 

Seonghwa was messing with the sleeves of his suit, looking up at you when you spoke. “Do you want my advice as your advisor or as your friend?” He asked you.

“Give me both.” You told him. 

“You're immature and a nuisance to everyone who is in your close vicinity.” He told you without so much as pause. 

“Seonghwa!” You gasped out, swatting at his arm. 

“As your advisor,” He continued. “You care a lot about your people and have seen plenty of politics to know how to rule.”

“The people love you and are willing to give you their respect. You will be an amazing ruler for the people.” He told you. 

“I grew up with you. I've seen you do the stupidest of things that would jeopardize your health—but I have also seen you give up so much in order to keep the kingdom alive. You have seen many things in your lifetime which have given you the knowledge needed to become king.” He grew closer to you, placing his hand on your cheek as his thumb rubbed over it. 

“As your oldest friend, I love all those things about you. You are someone truly remarkable.” He whispered. 

It was only a few days ago that you had asked for Seonghwa’s hand in marriage. The boy had looked at you oddly for a moment, but when you explained why, he understood. The only thing he said after that was that you seemed to have jumped ahead a lot of steps. He wanted to court you first, but it seemed that had to be skipped over now that you were going to be named heir. 

“And your advice as my husband?” You gave him a teasing grin. 

“I do hope you're prepared for later tonight.” 

Your eyes went wide as you went to punch his arm this time. 

The man gasped out and rubbed at the sore spot, pouting. “This is why you led an army.” He whined. “You hit like a barbarian.”

“We trained together.” You rolled your eyes.

“Yes, but you always tried harder. Try hard.” He teased you. 

You raised your hands again, lightly slapping at him. He moved his own arms to swat back, trying to playfully fight back. “No! No abuse!” He said, quickly grabbing your hands and holding them away from him.

He grinned at you, leaning his forehead against yours. “I'll be waiting for you.” He whispered, breath hitting your lips.

“I love you.” You told him.

“I know.”

Tags : @cultofdionysusnet , @wonderlandnet , @pirateeznet , @k-vanity

[loveinhawkins]

For the "give me title suggestions" post:

Ooh for the Nancy dive scene rewrite you could call it 'holy diver"

The other one I've got no clues so imma just shoot off some randos

Loss of our stars

Read between the lines

Silent sleepers, unlikely keepers

oh read between the lines would actually work well for the Nancy POV ‘the Dive’ scene rewrite

Made up fic titles game

-

When Steve gets dragged back under Lover’s Lake, they all reach for him simultaneously; it’s just a matter of luck who happens to get there first.

Robin gets pulled forward, almost toppling over the side of the boat, but then Steve slips through her fingers.

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” she says, and in barely a blink, she dives in.

Nancy stands to do the same.

“Woah, hey, hey, hey,” Eddie says, voice high and tight with anxiety, “let’s just fucking think for a second.”

Nancy feels sorry for him; she’s sure that many years ago, she might have had a similar response to his, but she’s long since learned that there’s often no time to think, she can only do.

But then, just as she’s about to take the plunge, something stops her. There’s a sudden knife in her chest, cutting through her breathing.

Maybe it’s a delayed reaction to seeing Robin dive, to hearing Steve choke right before he was dragged under.

Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s looking down at the water, dark as ink, and a thought that haunts her floats up to the surface again: that water was one of the very last things Barb saw.

She stumbles over to the other side of the boat and retches.

“Woah, hey,” Eddie repeats, but it’s softer now, and she feels him gently wrap his hand around her forearm, steadying her. “Wheeler, you okay?”

“Row back to the shore,” she says through the knife in her ribs. “Tell Dustin that—”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Eddie says with a humourless laugh.

He looks down at the water, ripples still marring the surface from where Steve and Robin once were. Nancy sees the resolve in his eyes take hold.

His hand moves until he’s gripping onto hers. He’s trying to take deep breaths, stuttering on them. She can feel him shaking.

I’m sorry, she thinks.

She squeezes his hand as tight as she can.

“I’ve got you,” she says fiercely; when she makes a promise, she means it.

He nods. “Together.”

She doesn’t once let go—not until she knows for certain that they’ve both made it through, and then they’re running to where Robin is yelling, battling with some creature, and when Nancy spots Steve on the ground, sees the blood, her heart stops, and for a moment she thinks I’ve lost him, I’ve lost him—

Then there is no time to think.

Afterwards, she’s tearing at her shirt with determination, because there is not a chance in hell that Steve Harrington is bleeding out on her watch.

She has to stop for just a second, still shivering from the coldness of the Lake.

“Nance,” Steve says quietly, “I just—thanks. You didn’t have to…”

“Shut up,” she says without looking, comes back to herself and tightens the bandages, heart aching every time Steve groans in pain.

She wants to shake him until he understands that he is worth it, worth everything—that she would never not try and save him. If she loses anyone else, she’s going to burn it all to the ground.

She tries to push back the tide as they walk through the woods. In the distance, she hears Steve thank Eddie, all awkward and quiet, and she hears Eddie spin some absolute bullshit that makes her want to shake him, too; he makes her sound so damn capable, twists everything until even his own heroics somehow sound like cowardice.

For a moment, she turns to them and finds a fleeting lightness.

“Eddie Munson, you lie like a rug,” she says, laughing, and from the glow of her torch, she sees him flush. She looks at Steve and tells him pointedly, “He dove right in with me.”

Steve smiles at her, young and hesitant. His body is slowly angling towards Eddie like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it, and Eddie doesn’t pull away, not even when their arms keep brushing against each other.

For a little while that sight is enough to spur her on, but her smile fades away as the knife in her chest returns, and she can’t find the energy to acknowledge Robin’s jokes, because all she can think is oh, Barb would have laughed at that.

And then every single thought comes back to Barb—a lancing pain, like a vine taking root in her head.

Robin gets through the Gate. Then Eddie. Then—

“No,” she says to Steve, “you first.”

“Nance, come on,” Steve says. “You already—you’ve done enough. Lemme have this.”

“That’s—that’s not how this works,” Nancy says, as the knife cuts in deeper, and the vine grows, and God, she thinks, looking at Steve’s eyes shining in distress, there’s too much, there’s too much in my head; it’s going to drown me, and I’m so worried I’ll drag you down with—

Blinding pain. She sees so much. Too much.

Everything.

And then she’s back, and she’s falling, and Steve is yelling at her hoarsely, and she’s gasping for air, and all she can say is—

“I saw her, I saw her, I saw her.”

She’s sobbing.

“Nance,” Steve whispers. He knows. And then he’s embracing her, and he’s whispering, “You’re here, you’re here,” into her hair, like he needs to convince himself, and she realises that he’s crying a little, too.

When they both can breathe a little better, they look up.

Eddie’s hanging from the rope, hand outstretched.

And Nancy knows he dove right in. Didn’t waste a second.

She takes his hand.

“I’ve got you, Wheeler,” he says.

Together, the three of them climb up, up, up into the light.

[obigem]

As he approached Matthew on the top step, he decided to open pleasant enough.

"Matthew, funny seeing you here," he said brightly, "so I take it Cordie's words were persuasive, and you aren't returning to boarding school?"

Matthew turned at the utterance of his name.

"Jacob is it?"

"Jairo." Jai corrected him pointedly.

"Right. Such an odd name, it's not easy to remember, is it?" Jai ignored his dig, so Matthew continued on. "Well, Cordelia insisted on helping me join a club. I'm not quite sure why she took an interest in such a project—"

"But she did. And well," he got sentimental as he rubbed the back of his neck, "I figured why not indulge her?"

"How very nice for you." Jai's voice grew tense. "Cordie, she's the nicest person I know, so it doesn't surprise me at all that she would want to help you."

"She's sweet and kind and giving. She has a pure and open heart. But you, you don't posess any of those qualities, do you?"

Matthew rose an eyebrow, "Well, tell me how you really feel, 𝘊𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘰."

Jai ignored the dig and continued on. "I don't particularly like you."

"My dislike for you is for many reasons, but the most important is what you've done to Cordie. You might think it's fun to tease her, be rude toward her, and cause her grief, but I'm not laughing. If you have anything resembling a heart, you won't force her to help you."

"You've caused her enough grief, so if you think I'm going to stand around and watch you attempt to subject her to more, you've got another thing coming. Leave her alone. Stop taking advantage of her good nature and back off. I'm only going to ask you once."

"Or you'll what? You gonna 'pop' me, Jared? You gonna 'jump me with your boys?'" Matthew mocked him.

"So is this what you want? To force someone who can't stand you to spend time with you? You really want to be that pathetic?"

"Pathetic?" Matthew paused then he began to chuckle

Matthew's chuckle started out as a low rumble, but before long it only escalated in volume as a loud bellow he was unable to stop.

"What is so funny?" Jai was now annoyed.

"Oh, nothing. Just that I should thank you."

"Thank me? For what?" His curiosity now piqued.

"When I first came home, I let my confidence get the better of me. The idea that I could have a chance with her was quickly snuffed out. I was convinced I no longer had a shot with her. But thanks to you, now I know that I do. So thank you, Jairo. You've reignited my drive."

"So, what? You intend to take her from me?"

"I've no intention of taking her from you. But if she decides to come to me willingly I won't turn her away."

"And I'm to believe you'll stand back and won't try anything?"

"What is it to you? You afraid she'll leave you, boyfriend?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." Jai lied. "I just don't like being played with. Nor do I like the idea of you hitting on my girlfriend to try and shoot your shot. It's disrepectful to our relationship."

"Hmm, seems I hit a nerve. I really do have a shot, don't I?"

"I don't know what you mean." Jai could feel himself getting nervous. He was letting his disdain for Matthew get the best of him, and the look on his face was starting to betray the conviction he put forth.

"Sure you do. That's why you're worried. And that's how I'll win."