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jennxxe · 1 month ago

Text

Funhouse rules.

pairing — jason wise x fem! reader

summary — you make him jealous on purpose at a carnival so he rails you in an abandoned haunted house attraction.

warnings — 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, angry sex, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, rough sex, a bit of degradation, public sex, oral (f receiving), light marking/bruising, established relationship, spitting, boob worship (or is it), jealous jason, cursing

a/n — sorry for being inactive yall, exam season is whopping my ass. request from @h34rtsf0rianmckinley <33

The air crackles with light and movement, cotton candy haze drifting through neon, carousel music mixing with screams from the drop tower in the distance. It's late enough that the sky’s dipped into deep velvet, but the carnival’s still wide awake with lights flashing, games barking, crowds shifting.

You’ve been walking the fairgrounds with Jason for a while now, his hand’s locked in yours. He’s wearing that sleeveless red tee that clings just right, showing off the cut of his arms, that lean build that’s always coiled like he’s ready to fight or fuck. Low-slung jeans, a Varsity jacket, worn Vans, and that smug, sideways smirk that always curls deeper when he sees you looking.

You’ve caught him clenching his jaw three times already though. Once when a guy stared too long while you waited in line for funnel cake. Once when your top rode up on the swings. And now it’s just buzzing under his skin.

“You want a corndog or something, babe?” he asks, tone easy on the surface, but there’s tension beneath it.

You glance up, smiling like you don’t feel the static radiating off him. “Nope. Just thirsty.”

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “For a drink, or for attention?”

You shrug. Don’t answer.

He huffs out a laugh but it’s tight, his thumb stroking once over your hand before dropping it.

You reach the ring toss stand, and Jason’s already sizing it up with a cynical eye. The kind of setup only idiots fall for. He mutters something under his breath about it being rigged, but before you can respond, the guy behind the counter catches your eye.

Backwards cap. White tee. Cocky little grin.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, handing you three rings without a glance at Jason. “First round's on me.”

You feel Jason still beside you. You part your lips just slightly, let that flirtatious smile ghost the corners of your mouth. Not quite committing. But not walking away either.

You take the rings slow. Deliberate. Bend a little too far forward, feel your ass brush against Jason's thigh, let the guy at the booth drink it all in.

“Thanks,” you say sweetly, batting your lashes as you glance up. “Hope I get lucky.”

Jason doesn't speak. His silence is loud. His arm is still, but not relaxed. That muscle in his jaw ticks, and you know you just lit a match. You toss your last ring, making sure it misses, and the carnie leans in, smirking.

“Almost, sweetheart. You want me to show you how it’s done?”

Jason moves immediately almost, hand at your waist. Fingers gripping tight, yanking you back so your body collides with his chest. He’s hard, tense, breathing through his nose like he’s deciding whether to slam your back against the booth or just drag you away and handle it elsewhere.

“She’s already got someone who shows her plenty,” he says. You can feel how pissed he is in the press of his hand, in the heat rolling off him.

The guy behind the counter blinks. “Dude—”

Jason doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is locked on yours. “She’s taken. Back off.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. His mouth is suddenly right next to your ear, his voice nothing more than a sharp whisper. “You think that was cute?” he mutters, tone low as he drags you away from the booth. His hand stays on your waist.

“I thought it was fun,” you whisper back, breathless; half teasing, half daring. Jason’s grip on your wrist is tight, not painful, but definitely not gentle either. He’s pissed.

“You think that was funny?” he huffs, dragging you through the carnival crowds like he’s trying not to full-on throw you over his shoulder “Seriously?”

You stumble a little on the uneven pavement as he weaves you through the maze of food stalls, game booths, and wandering kids with balloons. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back.

“Jason, chill—”

“Don’t tell me to chill,” he snaps, not yelling.. and definitely not quiet. “You let that loser flirt with you right in front of me. Right in front of me, babe.”

And then, he sees it. That old haunted funhouse. It’s roped off, dark, half-abandoned. One flickering light over the entrance and a crooked wooden sign that says CLOSED FOR REPAIRS in faded red paint.

Perfect.

Jason shoves the caution tape aside like it’s not even there and pulls you through the side entrance, his hand locked around yours now instead of your wrist.

The door slams behind you with a hollow thud, and instantly it’s like stepping into another world—dim, warm, thick with the smell of dust, plastic, and whatever old fog machines leave behind. The walls are lined with cracked mirrors and dusty mannequins dressed in torn-up costumes. Red lights flash slowly overhead, like a heartbeat.

Jason turns to you, chest rising hard, eyes wild with frustration and something much deeper.

“I told you not to pull shit like that,” he says, voice lower now but still heated. “You know how I get.”

Before you can respond, he grabs you again. Backs you up into one of those warped funhouse mirrors. It’s cold against your back, your reflection broken up and twisted around you. Everywhere you look, you see his hands on you. Your mouth parted. His body flushed against yours.

His hands shoot up and pin your wrists above your head. His chest hits yours a little too hard, like he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be right there, right on you.

“You like being looked at?” he says, breath warm, face close. “You want people staring at you? Watching you throw your ass around in front of some random dude like you forgot who you belong to?”

You smirk, just a little, because yes, you did it to get under his skin and it worked. His eyes drop to your mouth, and for a second, he just stands there. Then his grip tightens just a little and his voice drops again.

“You’re seriously gonna make me lose my shit in a funhouse.”

Your lips part like you’re about to say something snarky, another little tease, maybe one more push but Jason doesn’t give you the chance.

His mouth crashes into yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and frustration and heat. He bites down on your lower lip and pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you again or throw you on the floor and fuck you.

“Well,” he pants, smirking but there’s nothing playful in it now. “Too bad. ‘Cause tonight? You’re mine.”

He grabs your hand and pulls you deeper into the funhouse, his fingers laced tight in yours like you might try and bolt. You stumble after him down a narrow hallway lined with cracked mirrors and old Halloween decorations, one of those spinning vortex tunnels tilting around you as you pass through it, the whole place groaning like it might fall apart any second.

Eventually, you reach an old back room behind a sagging curtain. There’s busted animatronics slumped in the corners, old fog machines, forgotten clown masks tossed in a bin.

But what really gets his attention? The couch.

“Sit,” he says and before you can sass him, he’s already pushing you down onto it, his body following yours like he can’t stay away from you anymore.

He crawls over you with that same look in his eyes you saw earlier at the ring toss booth. He’s already tugging at your top with one hand, just enough to expose the edge of your bra, just enough to make your chest rise up into him. Your breath stutters. Your thighs shift. And he sees it all.

“No distractions,” he says, voice low but breathless. “No more games. Just me. Just this.”

The couch creaks underneath you. Something hums behind the mirrors, old machinery or maybe the leftover life of this haunted place. But none of it matters. Because the only thing you can hear right now is Jason’s ragged breath... and your name on his lips.

“I’m not lettin’ you walk outta here,” he says, mouth right at your ear, hips already settling between your thighs, “until I fuck the idea of any other guy outta that pretty little head.”

He grins, flushed and out of breath, thumb sliding just beneath your bra. “Hope you’re comfortable, baby,” he whispers, voice teasing now. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You barely settle on the couch before Jason’s all over you. His hands are everywhere, one grabbing your face, fingers spread across your cheek and jaw while his mouth slams down on yours. It’s teeth and tongue and heat like the previous one, his lips moving against yours like he’s punishing you for making him feel this way.

His body is hot and heavy and solid on top of you, pressing you into the ruined cushions like he’s trying to fuse your skin with his. Every movement is tense, urgent like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you or just fuck it all out of his system.

You rake your nails down his back and he groans, hips jerking into yours on reflex, grinding down with enough force to make the breath leave your lungs in a sharp gasp.

“God, fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice ragged. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

He drags his mouth down your neck, biting hard. Not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make you gasp, your back arching up into him. His lips find that soft spot just above your collarbone and suck, tongue hot and sloppy and possessive, until he pulls back and sees the angry red mark bloom on your skin.

“You loved it,” he pants, his voice rough and way too close to a whine. “You liked him looking at you like you’re some fuckin’ prize.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours with a groan, his tongue forcing its way in. It’s messy. He’s panting into your mouth, breathing like he just ran sprints, like he’s sick with how badly he wants you.

His free hand slides down to your waist, tugging your hips up again to grind against him, his cock hard and thick in his jeans, pressing right into where you need him most.

“You are a prize,” he growls into your mouth, “but you’re mine. You get that? Mine, babe. I don’t give a shit who else tries. I’ll win every fuckin’ time.”

His grip tightens on your waist and he thrusts against you again, just enough to make you squirm. You feel it building already, the way his body’s so much on top of yours, the way his mouth won’t stop, his fingers bruising into your hip.

Your head tilts back as he kisses you harder, deeper, hands gripping your thigh, dragging it over his hip so he can slot himself tighter between your legs. The couch groans beneath you, old springs creaking as he shifts his weight, grinding down with ruthless precision.

His teeth sink into your collarbone and you whimper, hips lifting into him like your body’s already begging.

“You wanted a reaction?” he pants, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown. “You got one.”

Jason’s fingers fumble at the hem of your shirt, and there’s not a second of hesitation. He just grabs and yanks. The fabric bunches up under your arms, stretched and twisted, half-off your shoulders and exposing the top of your bra. He doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t even give you a second to adjust.

Your mouth parts like you might protest, tease him, say something bratty but all that comes out is a moan when his hand covers your breast and squeezes. Just a full, possessive grab that makes your body jolt under him.

“Yeah?” he growls, eyes locked on yours. His voice is rough and breathless, chest rising hard against you. “You like showing off like that? Walking around with your tits bouncing under that little top, like you forgot who fucking owns ‘em?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh, making you gasp. Before you can answer, his hand slaps your chest just enough to leave a flash of pain that has you gasping and arching into him. Then he’s grabbing again, rougher this time, dragging your bra down so it’s twisted under your chest. Your breasts spill out, flushed and sensitive, nipples hard in the cold air and Jason doesn’t wait.

His mouth is on you in the next breath. Hot lips crashing down over your nipple, tongue flicking hard, fast, wet then he bites. Not deep, but enough to make your back arch and your nails scratch down his arms. You feel him groan against your chest, like the sound got ripped from his lungs just by tasting you.

“Fucking mine,” he mutters against your skin, not even pulling away to say it. His teeth drag across your breast, and then he sucks hard, lips sealing around that bruised, bitten flesh. He moans into it and you can already feel the heat between your legs pulse.

Sucking hard, dragging his tongue around your nipple, then biting again. He pulls back for a second to look at the mark blooming across your skin, deep red, maybe purple.

His mouth finds the other breast, this time starting rougher with no buildup, no warning. Just a sharp, open-mouthed bite that makes you cry out, and his hands pin your wrists back against the couch cushions before you can even think about touching him.

“You’re not moving ‘til I’m done,” he grits out, lips dragging across your chest. “You wanted attention so bad? Good.”

He switches to your other breast again, gripping it with his full palm like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. He leans in and sucks hard, messy and wet, his mouth pulling at you with that desperate noise like he doesn’t care how obscene it sounds.

Your back arches, body hypersensitive, nerves raw under the drag of his tongue. He pulls off with a loud pop, breath panting against your skin, and just stares.

“Goddamn,” he pants, dragging a slow stripe of his tongue up your chest, hot and slow. “You really thought you could flirt like that and not get fucked up for it?”

His hand hits your tit again, sharper this time. It bounces hard from the impact, and he is still grinding his thigh between your legs.

“Keep playing, baby,” he growls, grabbing both your breasts now, squeezing them together. “Go ahead. See what happens.” He leans in again, mouth against your ear, voice dark and breathless. “You’ll be walking outta here with bruises only I get to see.”

You can barely breathe. Your legs are trembling now, wrapped around his thigh, grinding without thinking because fuck, he feels good. The heat, the pressure, the way every move he makes lights you up from the inside out.

His mouth is everywhere. Your chest, your collarbones, the soft underside of your tits. He kisses hard and fast, then bites just to watch you squirm, groaning into your skin when your hips twitch against his leg.

He pulls back just long enough to look down at you; hair messy, lips red and shiny, his breath ragged. “Not done yet,” he says, almost to himself, before he starts tugging at the button of your shorts.

Jason’s fingers fumble at the button of your shorts, breath puffing hot against your chest. He’s not smooth with it. You squirm under him, hips lifting just enough to help, but he grabs you by the waistband and tugs hard.

The button pops. The zipper drags open with a hiss. He peels your shorts down your thighs, not bothering to be careful, dragging the denim past your knees, then all the way off and tossing them somewhere behind him like.

“Look at you,” he mutters, running one hand up the inside of your thigh while the other palms your ass. “All worked up from a few slaps and some attention, huh? That’s all it takes, babygirl?”

He grips your panties next, fingertips hooking into the sides, thumbs pressing into your hip bones and just stares for a second. At the wet patch between your legs. At the way your thighs twitch. At how ruined you already look.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tilting back for a second like he needs to breathe through it. “You’re soaked.” Then he rips them down in one smooth motion. He drags the damp cotton down your legs and off your ankles, eyes locked on your pussy the entire time.

“God, you’re so hot like this,” he pants, voice barely holding it together. “Flushed. Desperate. Fuckin’ dripping.”

He drops to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs so wide it makes the couch creak, and his thumbs drag up the inside of them.

Your thighs are trembling, muscles clenching around nothing as Jason settles between them, his hands keeping you spread wide. His eyes are locked on your cunt, swollen and slick and pulsing from everything he’s done and everything he hasn’t.

He’s been teasing you for what feels like hours, fingers ghosting over your skin, tongue dragging slow and mean along the inside of your thigh, but never where you need him.

You buck your hips, chasing any kind of friction.

He just smirks. “You really thought I’d let you cum easy?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and sharp with that cocky, jock-boy edge that makes your stomach flip. “After that little show you put on out there?”

He leans in low, lips barely grazing your inner thigh, and his fingers slide up to the heat between your legs. Just knuckles. Enough to make you jolt.

“C’mon, babe,” he taunts, fingers trailing lazily through the wetness between your folds. “Bet he would’ve begged to eat this pretty pussy the second you bent over for him.”

You whimper, hips twitching. Jason huffs a laugh. He spits. It lands right on your clit, sticky and shining in the dark.

“Oops.”

His fingers immediately slide through the mess, swirling it in tight circles over your swollen bundle of nerves. Just one flick. One sweet, devastating flick that makes you arch off the couch with a gasp.

And then he pulls away. You cry out, wrecked and helpless, thighs still shaking as your orgasm slips just out of reach. Again.

Jason leans back on his heels, sucking the wet off his fingers like it’s nothing, grinning at the way your body trembles.

“Nah,” he says, voice low, cocky, breathless. “Not yet.”

He leans in again, tongue licking one long stripe between your folds, wet and hot and when he wraps his lips around your clit, you nearly lose it. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips rocking up into his face but then—

He stops. Again.

You let out a strangled whine.

“Mm-mm,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s savoring you. “You flirted, remember? You made me jealous. So now I get to decide when that pretty little pussy gets to cum.”

He slaps your inner thigh, not too hard but hard enough to jolt you. “Lie still.”

And then his fingers are inside you—two of them, fucking up into you at a brutal pace that makes your eyes roll back. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit, pressure just enough to make your whole body tighten and just when you’re right at the edge, legs shaking, moaning his name—

He pulls out again.

“No—Jason—fuck—!”

“Uh uh,” he pants, leaning over you, mouth brushing your ear as his soaked fingers grab your throat. “You don’t get to cum until I say so. You don’t get anything until you learn to behave.”

He starts again, faster this time. Harder. Fingers curling right where you need them, his thumb grinding into your clit, lips kissing and biting your neck like he owns you and when you scream his name again, body clenching so close to the edge—

He stops. You sob.

“Please—”

Jason smiles, cock hard in his jeans, sweat dripping from his hair as he looks down at you.

“Not good enough,” he hums. “Beg like you mean it. Or I’ll keep doing this until the damn sun comes up.”

“Please—Jason,” you sob, voice cracked from moaning too hard, too long. “I-I need it—I need you, I can’t—please, baby, I’ll be good, I swear—just fuck me, please—”

That’s all he needed.

“Finally.” He grabs your hips, flipping you up higher on the couch with rough hands, your back hitting the armrest, legs thrown open.

His belt clinks, zipper dragged down with vicious speed. You feel him. Heavy against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t warn you. He lines himself up and slams in, the stretch brutal, perfect, making your body jolt so hard you knock your head back against the couch.

“Fuck—Jason—!”

He groans deep in his chest, like it physically hurts to be inside you, he’s so pissed, so turned on, his fingers bruising your hips as he sets a punishing rhythm.

“You don’t get to flirt. You don’t get to fucking beg for it after acting like a little slut unless I say so,” he growls, snapping his hips into you with every filthy word. “This pussy’s mine. Got it?”

You’re crying now, half from overstimulation, half from how goddamn good it feels. His cock hits deep, relentless, dragging over that spot that makes your whole body lock up. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other grabbing your throat; not choking, just holding.

His eyes never leave your face. “Say it.”

“M-mine—yours—it’s yours,” you sob, body trembling violently under him.

“Damn right it is.” He fucks you harder, all frustration and jealousy and weeks of pent-up need slamming into your core with every savage thrust. Your thighs are soaked. The couch is creaking. His sweat drips onto your skin and you don’t even care that your clothes are in shreds on the floor.

You feel yourself building again, right to the edge and you can’t even say a word. You just sob his name, legs tightening around his waist.

Jason feels it.

“Cum for me,” he orders through clenched teeth. Your whole body shakes, back arching, breath gone, nerves on fire. He lets out a strangled moan and follows, his hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you as he buries himself to the hilt.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Only your breathless, wrecked body shaking under him. Only his weight holding you down, cock still twitching inside you.

Then he leans down, breath hot on your lips.

“Bet you won’t try that shit again after this.” he whispers, smirking now.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

You both come stumbling out of the haunted funhouse like nothing happened but it’s so obvious something did.

Your hair’s a mess. Your shirt’s pulled down but not quite right. Your shorts are twisted at the waist, Jason’s jacket draped over your shoulders. And he’s got that grin on his face.

That smug, post-fuck, victory lap grin.

He slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight into his side as you head back toward the noise and lights of the carnival. You can barely walk straight and he’s clearly loving it. Every time you stumble, he tugs you closer, laughing under his breath.

And then of course you see him.

That guy from earlier. The one at the ring toss.

He’s leaning against the booth now, still handing out cheap stuffed animals, but his eyes lift when you pass,

Jason sees him too. And oh, he doesn’t let it slide. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and laced with mock sympathy.

“Aw, look at that,” he whispers. “Your little fanboy’s still here.”

You elbow him weakly, but he laughs, loud and cocky.

“What? You wanna go back and thank him? Maybe bend over the booth again so he gets a better look this time?” he teases, bumping your hip with his. “Might as well. Not like he’s ever gonna see what I just saw.”

You glare up at him, flustered, cheeks burning.

Jason just grins wider, boyish and smug and way too pleased with himself.

“Nah,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re walking funny enough. He’ll get the message.”

Then he smacks your ass, quick and playful, right there in public, and keeps walking like he didn’t just say the dirtiest shit in the middle of a family carnival.

Yeah. He’s back in jock mode. And he’s never letting you live this down.

#final destination x reader #final destination #final destination franchise #the final destination #jason wise #jason wise x reader #final destination 3

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lyn31 · 4 months ago

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Campus Fair (Zayne/MC)

Summary

A chaotic campus fair, a stubborn bet, and one disastrously spicy decision—all under Zayne’s unimpressed yet undeniably fond gaze.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader College AU, fluff, banter, silly, chaos, games, cute.

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The second you step onto the fairgrounds, your eyes light up. The entire campus is buzzing with neon lights, game stalls, and the mouthwatering scent of deep-fried food. Students weave through the crowd, arms full of plushies and snacks, laughter echoing in the air.

Meanwhile, Zayne looks like he just clocked into a nine-hour shift.

“You’re actually excited for this,” he notes, sipping his caramel macchiato like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Obviously,” you scoff, dragging him forward without hesitation. “What, are you too sophisticated for a campus fair?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

You roll your eyes. “You say that now, but I will get you to have fun.”

He hums, clearly unconvinced, but follows anyway.

Your first target? The game stalls.

You zero in on a ring toss booth, eyes set on a massive stuffed animal hanging from the top shelf. “I need that.”

Zayne follows your gaze, unimpressed. “You do realize these are rigged?”

“Coward talk.”

He exhales slowly, but before he can walk away, you grab his wrist. “Wait—let’s make a bet.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“If I win,” you smirk, “you have to wear something ridiculous for the rest of the night.”

Zayne glances at the rack of bunny ear headbands.

He crosses his arms. “No.”

You grin. “Yes.”

“No.”

“You scared?” you taunt. “Afraid I’ll actually beat you?”

That gets him. Zayne exhales but you catch the split-second hesitation before he reaches for his wallet. “And if I win?”

You pause, then shrug. “You get to pick the prize.”

A slow, knowing smirk curls at his lips. You suddenly regret everything.

Five minutes later, Zayne, as it turns out, is suspiciously good at stall games.

“You have got to be cheating,” you accuse as he lands another perfect shot.

He pockets his winnings with an infuriatingly calm look. “Steady hands,” he says, as if it’s that simple.

“Okay, surgeon.” You fold your arms. “What are you picking?”

Zayne considers the selection of prizes. Your eyes drift toward the giant plush, already mentally preparing to claim it—

Then, right in front of you, he reaches for the tiniest, most pathetic key chain-sized plush.

He plucks it off the rack and hands it to you.

You stare at it. Then at him.

“…This,” you say slowly, “is what you chose?”

He meets your deadpan stare with smug amusement. “You have to carry it around all night.”

You gape at the insultingly tiny plush.

You glance back at the massive stuffed animal you actually wanted.

You squint at Zayne.

“…You did this on purpose.”

He says nothing, but the ghost of a smirk is enough confirmation.

Your eye twitches. “I hate you.”

Zayne is already walking away, annoyingly pleased with himself. “No, you don’t.”

You glare after him, but he’s not even looking at you—his gaze has shifted, subtle but deliberate, toward a nearby food stall. It takes you a second to realize what’s caught his attention.

Of course. The cake stand.

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Zayne still has a funnel cake with him. You have no idea how it’s lasted this long—he’s been casually picking at it since the food stalls, unfazed by everything else. Even now, as you step into the haunted house, he takes another bite like this is just a casual evening stroll.

You, on the other hand, actually try to enjoy the atmosphere. It’s a typical setup—cardboard gravestones, fog machines that are way too heavy on the smoke, and students dressed up as “ghosts” who can’t even scare a toddler. Yet, you find yourself smiling. It’s cheesy, but fun.

That is, until a fake skeleton rattles right behind you.

You jump, eyes widening.

Zayne notices, his voice low and teasing. “You’re scared.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, quickly straightening your back like you were just casually moving. “It’s just… I didn’t expect that.”

Zayne’s expression is unreadable, but you can feel his amusement. He doesn’t react to a single thing—the skeleton, a pop-up ghost, the rattling chains—all things that would typically make most people flinch. He just keeps walking, funnel cake still in hand, like nothing is happening.

Another prop shifts in the corner.

Your body freezes for a split second before forcing yourself to move again. You refuse to look at him, knowing full well he’s enjoying this.

Then, you realize—he’s walking closer.

He takes another slow bite, watching you. “…Why are you walking closer?” you mutter, half annoyed and half amused at your own reaction.

Zayne stops beside you, tilting his head slightly. “Do you want me to leave you behind?”

“You can try.” You narrow your eyes—even as your hand instinctively reaches for him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, squeezing your hand briefly before going back to his funnel cake. “Not scared, huh?”

You smack his arm lightly, snorting in defiance. “Shut up.”

He just hums, clearly entertained. “Yes, yes.”

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Somehow, only the two of you end up in the escape room challenge together.

“This is a teamwork game,” the student volunteer at the entrance says, clearly doubting your ability to work together.

You exchange a glance with Zayne.

“…We’ll be fine,” you assure them.

Five minutes later, you are not fine.

“Okay,” you huff, pacing the room, “there’s clearly a clue in this book.” You flip through it aggressively.

“There isn’t.” Zayne is already fiddling with a lock in the corner.

You ignore him. “It says something about a ‘hidden message’—”

“That’s a red herring.” He clicks the lock open.

You blink. “What—how did you—”

“You were overthinking.”

Your brain struggles to process how effortlessly he’s solving everything. “You didn’t even read the book!”

“I didn’t need to.”

You squint. “You’re annoying.”

“Mm.” He unlocks the last door. “And yet, you still lose to me every time.”

You glare at him. This isn’t over.

You’re not done yet.

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Your next challenge? The Spicy Inferno Eating Contest.

Zayne gives you a look as you approach the sign-up table. “This is a terrible idea.”

You wave him off. “You don’t understand.”

“What exactly don’t I understand?”

You tilt your head toward the first-place prize hanging behind the stall—a black hoodie with an embroidered anatomical heart on the sleeve.

It’s perfect. It screams Zayne.

“I’m winning that for you.”

Zayne stares at you. Then at the challenge rules, which basically translate to “this will ruin you.”

He exhales. “That’s not necessary.”

“Of course it is.” You flash him a grin. “You complain that I keep stealing your hoodies, so I’ll get one for you.”

Zayne presses his fingers against his temple.

Still, he doesn’t stop you.

Twenty Minutes Later.

You are suffering.

Your tongue? On fire.

Your stomach? A disaster zone.

Your dignity? Nonexistent.

You somehow managed to finish the final round, but at what cost?

Across from you, your opponent—a grizzled senior who’s clearly done this before—claps you on the back. “Not bad, kid. Thought you were gonna pass out halfway.”

You can’t even form words. You just nod weakly, chugging the milk they finally gave you.

Zayne, watching from the sidelines, unimpressed but assessing. Then, without a word, he moves.

When the announcer hands you the prize hoodie, you barely have the strength to lift it.

You stumble toward Zayne, shoving it into his arms. “Won it… for you.”

You expect a snarky remark.

Instead, Zayne catches you immediately, his hands steady, firm. His gaze sweeps over you—calculating, assessing.

“You can’t even stand properly,” he says, voice flat with disapproval.

“I’m fine,” you wheeze.

Zayne pointedly ignores you. Instead, he moves. One second, you’re attempting to stay upright—the next, you’re off your feet, hoisted effortlessly into his arms.

You yelp, clutching at his shoulders. “Hey—! I can walk!”

“You can’t.” His tone is final.

“Zayne, put me down.”

“No.”

“I’m not dying—”

“You might as well be.”

You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “This is so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just poisoned themselves over a hoodie.”

“…For you.”

Zayne exhales sharply, shaking his head. Then, softer. “…Idiot.”

Still, he holds you closer.

And despite everything—despite your stomachache, your suffering, your poor decisions—you can’t help but feel warm.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

I love them so much! and I'm so single help 🫶🏻😩 this Caleb experience and Rafayel experience👀

I was editing to add the rest of the series part but it was too long ahahaha so here's just the whole list: College AU list ✨

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kinkyrubberdoc · 3 months ago

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keepfunnels01 · 2 months ago

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frownyalfred · 6 months ago

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in “love comes quickly” i cant imagine how awful it was for Bruces family to endure his hopeless pining for like THREE YEARS. i can’t believe that sunlamp setup in the medical wing was made that long ago, I can’t imagine the reactions of any of the kids (or Alfred) peering over Bruces shoulder at suspiciously kryptonian-oriented blueprints and giggling about how whipped this man is.

giggling for only three seconds though because i know they’d all actually despair about how distracted he is on patrol (especially around the time when everything ramped up near the end), Dick or Jason would give him so much shit if they ever found out he punched a wall over Clark

And the thing is, for those three years he really did keep it compartmentalized, because he’s Bruce Wayne! He funneled his money and time into building Clark a sun room. He fucked Hal Jordan on the DL and Hal was very cool about it. He went on patrol and kept his life moving.

But yeah, Alfred was probably sick of that shit. Was it an accident that he led Clark down to the Cave when Hal was there? Who’s to say! But Alfred wasn’t unhappy when Clark found out, I’m sure. Every single micro expression from him down in the Cave had me giggling.

And yes, the “white boy with the hole in the wall that they punched” memes would be on fire in the family group chat.

#asks #anon #love comes quickly #batman #bruce wayne #dc #myfic #theresurrectionist #batfamily #clark kent #superman #superbat #batlantern #green lantern #hal jordan

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ifyouencounterwolf · 2 months ago

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I rewrote TDA storyline because there are a lot and I MEAN ALOT ginormous misses regarding character presentation, depth and development. There is either nothingburger overloaded with nothing substantial, or criminally underdeveloped plots that are skimmed over or not covered at all.

To me, TDA is supposed to be a story about the Slayer's time among the Night Sentinels. And I refuse to see all the emotions, growth, experiences, conflicts, creativity and the brea(d)th of an entire once bright civilization being funneled into one or two characters' interaction with the Slayer.

I want to see a real world shaped by brothers and sisters, warriors and believers, not just the royalties and elites.

Considering the last two games I don't personally buy into "it's foreshadowing" or "setup" talks because doom writers are famous for not knowing what those two words mean.

For my own sanity's sake I will proceed to use my own version of the storyline in my works. So this is more of a ref sheet.

Here is ~3000 words of my wish fulfillment and none of the male fantasies.

First and the most prominent, Thira is not introduced directly to the players but through King Novik. More like how Vega is first presented: A character with a clear goal which is to assist the Slayer on minor tasks, but bears the potential for more stories surrounding herself.

King Novik introduced her as the heir to the throne, having been studying "how to queen" her entire young (she was young and I think we need to admit that) life and now he thinks she's finally ready to stand closely to learn from him and Valen. However, with only an observing duty, she doesn't have actual commanding power or the authority talking to Kreed Maykr directly as of right now, she is there to get her people to become familiar with placing her face to a future queen.

Bonus plot: Novik heavily implies that he was being a little overprotective of his only child and wanted to shield her from the cruelty of actual warfare. Because dead wife etc. He wants Thira to stay as far behind as possible, and tells Kreed Maykr how important Thira is to him, in hope of the latter honoring an old father's wish to have Thira protected in Maykr's fortress while the demon is rampaging outside. Because while Novik could sacrifice himself for the people, he still has a weak spot for his child.

Also he might have told Thira otherwise when he was telling his men to stay away from the Slayer. He adviced Thira to directly ask for help from the Great Slayer, if it ever gets to that point, emphasizing on the civilian casualties if needed (the fastest way to get the Slayer's attention), who seems to be the only reliable option they have.

I am a firm believer that a character should appear less but more concise, given more information on the go and through their own actions, not by existing here and there like an insert to the plot itself to make them relevant.

We will not have Thira being the main target of the camera panning until probably during the Siege Part 2. This is to give more light to King Novik, other Sentinel officers and Commander Valen, whoever's in control of the frontline management, showing their experiences and how they divided up the work instead of a total collapsing at the first sight of Hell.

Moreover, just like Marok and other younger generations of the Sentinel people, Thira was raised upon a belief that Argenta is superior in every way compared to other civilizations. And she is naturally wary of the implication that they needed this Outlander in a war that determines their own survival. In short, it makes no sense for any immediate "trust" and "understanding", like that's just quick? Especially when Thira only knows the Slayer after the Divinity Machine.

(She could have been shown to set up a private investigation and get to know the other side of story from Sentinels who went through three Hell Expeditions with him while he was still the Doomguy. But it wasn't there and it wasn't implied.)

In Siege Part 2, when the barrier at one of the city gates was broken by the sudden appearance of a Titan, King Novik took the Heart of Argent with him and went as far away from the evacuating citizens as possible, waiting for prince Ahzrak's arrival.

Thira was given temporary authority to command the continuation of evacuating every civilian, in representation of the King. The commanding officer that was previously doing that was KIA as he took it upon himself to stop the Titan from advancing and presumably failed.

Commander Valen was still at the frontline trying to stop the horde from overwhelming the city's defense from all directions. the hangar was ready, the only thing they needed is time.

Thira found herself for the first time in her life, not having anyone to look to for directions.

Remembering what King Novik's last advice to her was, Thira asked the Slayer to return and to draw the horde towards him, while she attempts to finish what the other commander has started.

This could be an opportunity to insert one of the running gags where the Slayer is doing absolutely not what is asked to do. e.g. He was asked to lock down some gates to redirect the horde, but instead he opened the gates and only locked it behind him and just killed everything within because fuck authority.

This also echoes the last chapter where Thira and the other Argentas who finally found their inner strength, were drawing the hordes to themselves, giving the Slayer a clear path to assassinate prince Ahzrak (as well as everything in between them).

Back to Thira, who clearly lacks experience found herself amid chaos and panic. She did her job at commanding the soldiers to guard the outside, herself calming the people down, reminding them that the Sentinels and their king are still out there fighting for them, and she will not leave their side for her own safety. Thira lead airship to airship to take off to safety, calling the Order of Aerum for air support. etc.

At some point we see an imp snuck up behind her as she was helping injured soldiers to get on board. Her Wraith power was activated by then, as she shielded the projectile from the soldier, then she kills the enemy showing some degrees of hand-to-hand combat skills (instead of just describing it in the codex I guess! ). She seemed to be aware of this, but is uneasy and frustrated with a power that is practically useless if she couldn't control.

This will really pair nicely with Thira's other designs where she was shown either wearing armors and a chainmail that made her actually look like a Night Sentinel than just something pink. Or the design with a more severe disfiguration caused by the Wraith power, symbolizing a deeprooted feeling of shame and alienation because of it.

When the Slayer has exterminated all the demons around the hangar, the evacuation was smoothly done thanks to Thira. Thira then pleaded with him to rescue King Father, but Slayer is already on the move to do just that. Because again, the Slayer commands himself.

Since her wraith power is foreshadowed here, we again don't really need her for the Ancestral Forge parts. The whole spending two chapters for a character to showcasing her avatar state to unlock one of the shield runes that is later just...out there in your path, is as confusing as it gets. We are having Thira for a more important role later.

Instead, we have Commander Valen asking the Slayer to accompany their search party in the AFs for the actual Heart of Argent, since both are historical sites and hold deep spiritual meanings to the Sentinel people, with direct encountering of the nature's guardians and mythical creatures. Also Ahzrak is looking for the Heart too, they will need someone as strong as the Great Slayer on their side when either of them found the artifact first.

Oh... and THIS is where we could insert as much plot of Slayer with the people who still know him as the Doomguy or the Outlander, as to our hearts desire. *Hell expedition and Unholy war flashbacks*

These are the same kind of people who said his weapon is "primitive" and as good as a pile of scrap metal by the time it came to them, and then augmented his Earth combat shotgun instead of throwing it away, disregarding his values.

These are the same kind of people who keep designing new cool shits for their new guy, or when they saw the Slayer eyeing one of their older designs of big guns and went: "Oh you like those? Well by all means it's not like we want it to gather dust here. So long as you could handle it it's yours... Oh you've already snatched it from my hands. Perfect."

These are the same kind of people who saw the bond between the Slayer and Serrat and said: "You know, we could get her prosthetic wings. Set it to max speed level as well. Give her cool turret as well. You wouldn't mind the whiplash would you? "

Heck, these are the same kind of people who wouldn't yap about safety protocols and just launch the Slayer like an ammunition pod with their catapults like in TAG2. They've clearly done it before and they enjoyed it as much as the Slayer did.

These people knew him and cared about him, enough to free him from the slave class and train him in their ways. They even attempted to remove the device Maykrs had installed on him to no avail. Upon further inspection they told the Slayer it is strapped to a self-detonation setup. And they questioned why the Maykrs would want to kill him at some point, if he was the supposed "precious holy weapon" of the Khan Maykr.

Commander Valen shut them down as it was blasphemous to question the Maykrs.

There are just so much potential in these two chapters that are served as a breath of fresh air with all the cool visuals put inside. We should see environmental changes to the forest as we clear it of demonic invasions: The bird sound starts to take over again, the rustling of leaves, the babbling of streams somewhere out there. We could also hear from the comms the other Sentinel soldiers. Since the entire story of TDA is about the Slayer's time among the Night Sentinels. Some of them may now have time to lament about the total destruction of the Holy City of Aratum. Which is one of their richest, last well-preserved cultural and religious studies before the Maykrs completely overtook it and outlawed the Wraith worship, and it certainly should have had an impact. Where others may dismiss them as they are more aligned with the Maykrs. Just some neat foreshadowing about the rift among the Sentinel ranks.

They could talk about the secrets of Argenta people as they give more details about the forest they are in right now, alluding the cosmic realm, the Wraith power, etc. And unbeknownst to them it was also recorded and reported back to Kreed makyr.

This further development between the Slayer and Commander Valen's mutual trust would serve as a proper setup as to why Valen insists on reviving the Slayer by any means necessary later in the story.

What's more important is we could see more of Marok. We could see a depiction of Marok and Valen's strained relationships regarding their different beliefs: A young son ambitious to surpass his father's legacy, an old father haunted by the horror of war and the prices paid for glory. These precious contexts shouldn't be hidden deep in the codices.

I am a firm believer that Valen is The Wretch. Who made the Praetor suit for the Slayer. So here he is the one who led the Slayer to unlock a shield rune and upgrade his weapon. Another neat tie to previous games' lore. Which we lack in TDA. And mayyyybe no need for the avatar state and chanting scenes. Kinda too dramatic imo.

Then the Slayer is sent to Hell to kill Ahzrak.

Except that was exactly what the antagonists wanted. They gave out a location signal as a lure so King Novik would order the Slayer to leave Argent D'Nur for a while. We then see Prince Ahzrak and the Witch, who has figured out that the Heart of Argent is the people (I like it however cheesy that is), showing footages of Thira and several civilians and soldiers who had a Wraith resides in them, that only appears as a self-defense mechanism when they are under extreme distress.

The camera then pans to the back where we see many Argenta people are locked inside some iron-maiden structure (like in the cutscene where Thira was freed, we see many similar cages alongside hers without any elaborations), subjected to torture and experiments, attempt to extract the Wraith from them. Make it Maykr's technologies even. They seemed to be able to subdue the Slayer with the tether, would be enough to make the Wraiths do their biddings.

We are hearing them screaming in pain, their begs for mercy or a quick death, and how it has become an eerie unison of high-pitched ringing in the background as to capture the sheer number of them. It was as if that nightmarish vision that broke the Slayer out of his control has become a reality after all.

And then Thira was the last to be captured, as she was receiving reports of a massive abduction of Sentinel people and their life signals discovered in an unknown realm, during the time Slayer was in the Ancestral Forge. She reported her investigation to the Kreed Maykr, unsuspecting the latter was in this the entire time, and would not let her investigation come to fruit with the Sentinel people discovering what they are after.

Through the next 5 chapters, we as the Slayer are tasked to not just save Thira, but the people who have shown us kindness earlier in one way or another.

Say, there are scenes where:

A civilian back in the Village of Kalim, who blurted out "Thank you, Slayer" as they were escorted out of the battlefield.

An engineer who gestured the Slayer to move along before going back to collect their papers, without seemingly intimidated by him passing through.

The Sentinels in the search party nodded and bowed their head at the Slayer in reverence.

Because, after all, the Slayer was treated with a different respect in Argent D'Nur (than on Earth during the time of Eternal). He was found in one of his most vulnerable moments, on the verge of death, only to prove himself to be more of just another frontline fodder by fighting all the way to become the best, from the bottom of the Coliseum. He was regarded as an Outlander, someone whose home is not here but far away, gone. But he was more of a Night Sentinel than many. The humans back on Earth worshipped him, feared him, scrambled away at the sight of him, they don't even know he was from Earth. On the other hand, the Sentinel people knew his origin, in that he started just like every other prisoner they received, and that demystified him by a lot. While I do like what Eternal has done to show how intimidating the Slayer was in other, ordinary people's eyes, I had wished for a little change here in TDA consider those differences.

Then as we finally reached the end of our rescue mission, we could have the Slayer attempts to save them one after the other. There are simply too many of them to save but the Slayer kept at it, getting hit and thrown back by the Wraiths not just once, but many, many times. He tried to absorb the power to get them out of that controlled, unconscious state, but even a half-god like him has his limits and besides, there is no Praetor suit. So, in the end, the Slayer is overwhelmed. He could only watch helplessly when the demon prince appeared, the ritual was performed, and all these people he was trying to save were seemingly killed, as their souls were separated from their bodies.

Oh that rage will make him crawl from the deepest ring of Hell just to get back at Prince Audacity.

Last and not the least change I will make regarding the final battle. I need it to be that, as Prince Ahzrak is weakened, Thira, among other Sentinel people broke out and started freeing others as well as destroying the ship from within. His control over them turns out to not be absolute either. As Thira returns to her father, she has a look of guilt on her face: It was her idea that she should leave both Novik and Valen to be at the Command Station, where she knew that with her gift, she would also be a target of the demon prince. She put herself in harm's way to send back the exact location where her people were taken. But instead of scolding her, King Novik understood that she was simply trying to prove herself to be a competent future leader, not overshadowed by her father's great legacy.

And basically my version of Thira is independent from the Slayer, she will not ogle nor give wistful glances over him. She will not stand by his side donning the name "Doomgirl" by any chance. There are more potential of them doing separated works at different fronts in order to achieve the same goal. She is not the one, definitely not the only one that's "there for the Slayer".

Thira is here to become a better version of herself, because she is too young compared to others at her status to be an exceptionally talented and flawless leader. She is here to only do the things she could do and within her ability, not to get a glow up and kill 10,000 demons by the wave of her own hand. She is inexperienced and doesn't have the God's-eye view to never say or do a wrong thing her entire life.

She is also here to reconcile with the ancient spirit residing within her and act as the first of many Sentinel people to seek to understand themselves and their own misunderstood, beautiful gods, paving the way of cutting ties with the Maykrs.

Okay I think I'm done here.

#FINE I'LL DO IT MYSELF #doom #doom the dark ages #doom slayer #night sentinel #ref: argent d'nur #ref: the slayer #ref: thira #opinionated #writing log #hcs

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