#corner board trim

[images2keep]

Roof Extensions - Modern Deck An illustration of a medium-sized minimalist deck with an addition to the roof

[demoness-one]

I finished siding my house today, no more siding EVER 🎉

[clementine-thedestroyer]

Kinktober day 31: Gangbang - 141 x reader

Warnings/tags: F!reader, f receiving oral, PIV sex, ect. Over stimulating, light bondage.

Um…. Better late than never?

If you’ve been following me for a while, you know that I didn’t finish Kinktober remotely on time, but I guess if you can say one thing about me, it’s that I’ll keep trying.

Anyways, just pretend like it’s not August.

There’s a hand over your stomach, resting over the layer of fat covering the area as you try to take deep breaths. In, and out. All in an attempt to calm yourself.

Your hands are restrained above you, secured to the head board via a pair of handcuffs one of them got from god knows where. The four of them are all standing over you, watching you with varying degrees of patience for what’s coming next.

Over the years, you like to think you’ve memorized every inch of your partners. Where Price’s and Johnny’s hands were both large and calloused, John’s were always warm to the touch with thicker fingers, short, neatly trimmed nails, and a thicker layer of hair on the backs- while Johnny’s were almost always ice-cold with dry skin, bitten-down nail beds, and old, picked at hangnails. Kyle and Simon both had longer and slightly thinner fingers, but Kyle kept his nails neatly trimmed, often just slightly longer than Price kept his, while Simon’s nails were more often than not left unattended. Simon would rather just tear the ends whenever he deemed them too long than bother finding a pair of clippers. Both Kyle and Simon’s hands were rough from work like the other two’s, but Simon’s preference for wearing gloves left his a bit softer than the rest’s, which posed a stark contrast to the remnants of past injuries that decorated his hands like medals- scars and crooked fingers and swollen joints- all with a story to tell and a memory to stir.

At this point, you think you could tell blindfolded whose hands were on you, so even without looking, it’s easy to tell that the hand on your stomach belongs to Price.

His fingers ghost along your skin, ticking just enough for your core to jerk and your breath to hitch at the touch. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes, nearly shrinking back at the undeniable hunger to his gaze.

You jerk your gaze away, shifting on the bed as you try desperately not to squirm. You feel the weight of their eyes on you, their full attention devoted to watching, admiring, lusting over your body laid out for them.

Price’s hand pulls away from you as he takes a step back, tugging a cigar out of his pocket and clicking on his lighter as he speaks in a calm, authoritative tone.

“Alright, boys. Let’s take care of our girl.”

And with that, it’s as if a spell is broken. The other three all take a step away, shuffling around you in wordless understanding as Simon takes his place as the first between your legs.

“It’s alright love, ‘going to get you nice and stretched open so you can take us.” He says, pulling off one of the black leather gloves covering his hand and slipping his hands under your butt to lift your hips, tilting them up for a better angle. Wordlessly, Johnny grabs a pillow from the top of the bed, handing it to Simon to prop your ass up, which he takes with an unintelligible grunt.

After positioning you how he wants you, Simon bites the fingertip of his remaining glove, tugging it off before rubbing slow circles into your clit with the pad of his thumb.

You let out a needy noise, arching your back and trying to grind down onto the pressure on your clit.

You don’t do much more than turn your head into the warmth of his skin when Kyle and Johnny sit down- with Johnny moving behind Simon, watching with a slack jaw and hungry eyes as Simon rubs easy circles into your clit, and Kyle takes a seat beside you, pulling your head into his lap and tucking a wayward strand of your hair behind your ear. Already, you’re nearly too out of it to notice Price taking a seat in the dark, brown leather chair situated in the corner of the room and taking a long draw from his cigar, exhaling and filling the room with the rich smell of his favored brand.

A needy moan escapes you as Simon moves his touch lower, rubbing at your hole with two of his fingers but not pushing in. You try to arch your back to wiggle back down onto his fingers, whining softly when he only pulls his hand away.

“Be patient.” He says sternly, and you want to whine about it, but you’re distracted by Kyle’s thumb running over your mouth, pressing gently at your lips.

When you part your mouth for him, he smiles, running the pad of his thumb over your molars and the inside of your mouth as you struggle not to try and speak around his finger.

“So pretty.” Kyle coos, holding your head gently as he continues to distract you from Simon’s prep work.

“Right’ Bonnie lass she is” Johnny adds, nodding dumbly as his accent thickens to the strongest you’ve ever heard it.

Simon chuckles, “Careful, Johnny, you’re drooling.”

“Wha-?” Johnny’s head snaps up, looking around in confusion before he rolls his eyes. “Very funny.” He grumbles, settling back into his spot.

Kyle laughs, continuing to stroke at your hair and hold your head in his lap.

Without warning, Simon pushes a finger inside of you, curling it up and rubbing circles into the walls of your cunt in a way that mirrors his motions at your clit.

You moan, jerking your hips and squeezing around his finger as tight as you can to wring every bit of sensation you can from the digit.

Again, Simon chuckles, pausing his rubbing of your clit to lean down and lift his mask, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the swollen bud.

The stubble lining his jaw pokes and prickles at the sensitive skin between your legs and you whimper, trying to squirm away even after he pulls away.

“You like that, princess?” Simon coos, slight condescension evident in his tone as he rubs at your thigh and works to stretch your enough to fit a second finger inside of you.

You whine and shake your head no.

“S’ scratchy-“ you mumble, wiggling your hips even as you’re held firmly in place.

Simon laughs, a deep, amused noise that you’re rarely allowed to hear in full force.

“Alright love, I’m sorry. I’ll make sure I’m clean shaven next time.” He says, before beginning to work a second finger inside of you and ducking his head down to give your clit a firm suck.

You can feel his triumphant grin against your skin when you moan and try to fuck yourself on his fingers.

“It’s fucking- yer hand.” Johnny practically whines, and you feel a surge of arousal move through you at the view he must be getting- of Simon’s hand pistoning in and out of you as your cunt seems to swallow his hand with each thrust.

The force behind the fingers fucking you intensifies and Simon’s tounge circles and rubs at your clit and Kyle pushes his thumb deeper into your mouth, holding your head still and using his thumb to press firmly down on your tongue, trapping the muscle against the bottom of your mouth.

You moan loudly, unable to cut off or muffle any of the sounds you’re making as your hips twitch and jerk.

Your cheeks burn as you realize you can already feel an orgasm beginning to build, each thrust feeling better and better as the feeling begins to build.

“Add another, Simon.” Price says from his chair in the corner. He’s leaned back in his seat with his legs spread comfortably. In one hand, he holds his burning cigar while the other lazily rests atop the tent in his pants as he watches the four of you in the bed.

Simon pulls his mouth away from your clit and sits up. You feel a third finger prod at your entrance, whining when it’s pulled away instead of pressed inside you alongside the other two.

“I’m trying.” Simon growls, looking up. “Garrick, get me the lube.” He adds, thrusting his hand hard enough into you for you to bounce and be shoved slightly up the bed.

You moan, trying not to drool around the thumb in your mouth, swallowing whatever drool had accumulated when Kyle moves his thumb to rest between your lip and the side of your teeth. He turns and uses his free hand to reach behind him and yank open the nightstand drawer, grabbing the bottle of clear liquid before passing it up to Simon and Johnny.

Simon’s hands don’t move from between your legs, instead, Johnny is the one to take the bottle and pop open the cap, squirting a generous amount onto where Simon’s hand is buried between your legs.

You moan as the slide of his fingers inside you turns 100 times sweeter, it’s almost enough to completely distract you from the stretch of a third finger being pushed into your cunt, and you can feel your orgasm creeping closer and closer with every thrust of Simon’s hand.

“It’s alright Bonnie, you’re almost there- Simon’s just got real gnarly fingers, not a good fit for pretty girls like you.” Johnny coos, rubbing his hand up and down over your tensed stomach in a soothing motion.

“Shut it.” Simon growls, decidedly unamused, increasing the force behind his fingers and going down to suck and lick at your clit until you’re twitching- hips jerking as you cry out and cum around his fingers.

You’re squirming your hips down and side to side to try and get Simon’s fingers deeper inside of you and drooling from both ends. From above your head, you can hear Kyle laughing, although you’re not sure whether at Johnny’s words or the pitiful display you’d just put on. Even Price is stifling a chuckle from his seat in the corner, looking down to hide his laughter even as his shoulders shake from the force of it.

Simon’s hands don’t still, even after the last aftershocks of your orgasm finally fade. Instead, he adds a fourth, continuing to bully your clit with his tongue and batter your inner walls until you’re writhing from overstimulation.

Kyle’s thumb goes back to pressing down on your tongue, and you let out what you're sure is an absolutely debauched sound as you squirm. It’s like you’re a doll stuck between them- made solely for them to poke, prod, play with, and bully. Your moans and cries only serve to spur them on further, and your squirming is easily negated by the strong arms that hold you in place.

You look pleadingly at Price, begging him with watery eyes to make Simon give you any kind of mercy, but he only laughs, his legs spread as he languidly jerks his thick, full cock and watches the four of you.

“Don’t look at me like that, Dove. I can’t save you.” He says, and you sob, looking up at Simon and tugging on where your hands are cuffed to the head board.

Simon switches from his mouth to using two fingers to rub circles into your clit, not missing a beat as he keeps pace with the hand currently fucking you.

“Simon- I can’t- it’s too much-“ You whine, only to be cut off by a hash slap to your hip.

“Shush. I’m almost done.” Simon responds, not looking up from where he’s meticulously stretching you open that last bit.

You open your mouth to speak, but Kyle shoves two fingers deep into your mouth, watching with a pleased grin as you gag and choke around the intrusion.

Tears that may be a bit more than reflex prick at your eyes, and just as it’s about to be too much, Simon pulls his fingers out of your cunt with a lewd, wet squelch.

“She’s ready.” He says, scooting back and wiping his hand on the side of your stomach, leaving a streak of cold wetness shining on your skin. “Who’s first?”

“ME!” Johnny yells, practically flinging himself forward. He scrambles between your open legs and yanks open the fly of his pants, freeing his drooling cock and giving it a few rough pumps before climbing on top of you.

Kyle has to move out of the way so as to not be crushed in the whirlwind of energy Johnny has become. He makes a teasing remark you can’t quite catch as Johnny captures you in a wet and messy kiss.

His hands trace the curves of your body, taking every opportunity to grab onto the pockets of fat you carry and squeeze. He gropes at your tits, ass, hips, thighs- anything he can get his hands on, all while kissing you as deep and hard as he can.

“Fuck, Bonnie- yer’ perfect.” He pants, giving your tit a particularly harsh squeeze. “I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

You can hear rumbles of “get on with it” from across the room and Johnny scoffs before sitting up, giving a slight roll of his eyes as he pats you twice on the hip.

“Alright, alright, the peanut gallery is getting impatient. Roll over for me, love.” Johnny says, and his face splits in a grin when you do exactly as he says, letting the chain of the handcuffs keeping your hands above your head twist as you roll on your stomach and get onto your knees. You keep your upper body against the mattress, sitting in an ass-up, face-down position that puts somewhat of a strain on your back.

The position prompts a deep groan from Johnny behind you. Your cunt is aching again. Johnny’s groping and kissing and practicing jumping your thigh had been enough to make you as wet and needy as you felt around Simon’s fingers.

“Fuck- Simon, you should’a opened up her ass for us too. Bet she could’ve taken two of us at once like that, yeah?” He asks, and you moan at the thought, squeezing around nothing as you press your hips back, silently begging for Johnny to hurry up and get inside of you.

The only response from Simon is a noncommittal grunt, but you hear a vague “we’ll see,” from Price.

Without warning, Johnny’s cock starts pushing into you and you moan, a warm, happy and content pleasure spreading through you as his cock easily slides inside of you.

“Fuck!” Johnny curses, hips stuttering halfway as he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip on your hips turning bruising as he takes deep, panting breaths.

“Gonna cum before you’re even inside our girl, sergeant?” Price barks, his words degrading but his tone light and amused. Regardless, you feel the jerk of Johnny’s hips in response.

“No, Sir.” Johnny says through gritted teeth, taking a final shuddering breath before pulling out and beginning to fuck his cock into you.

You moan, already somewhat lost in the pleasure as your head turns to the side.

You find Simon standing near the edge of the bed, looking down at you with his cock out and an unreadable expression. You feel yourself drooling at the sight of his large hand roughly jerking his fat cock, and you feel almost compelled to put on a show for him- moaning messily when Johnny curses and doubles over, thighs slapping your ass as the room fills with the sounds of sex.

When you see Simon’s hand tighten around himself, you take it as a victory, making a show of letting Johnny keep you pinned in place. His knees rest bracketing you on the mattress, while his hands pin down your arms by the wrists and his cock forces you again and again deeper into the mattress.

You’re so close, and it’s almost enough- but you don’t come with Johnny. He tries, continuing to fuck you even after you feel his thighs shaking and his cum spurting inside of you, but after a moment of fucking you though his own orgasm, he curses, pulling out and panting out apologies as he strokes your hair.

You whine when he pulls out, feeling his cum beginning to drip out of you and flopping onto your side to ease the strain on your back.

“Fuck- fuck, I’m sorry Bonnie. ‘Sorry I didn’t make it good for you. I can take care of you, I promise. I’ll lick your pussy so good you’ll never wanna-” He starts, being cut off by Kyle shoving at his shoulder, rolling his eyes.

“You can do that later, mate. ‘Rest of us want a go.” Kyle says, nudging again at Johnny to get him to move.

“But-“ Johnny whines, looking desperate.

“Kyle will take care of her, Johnny.” Price says, and Johnny relents, moving so Kyle can settle between your legs, his hands running up the sides of your hips gently.

“Alright love, it’s okay. I’ll take care of you, how about you just roll onto your back for me, alright?” He says, gently guiding you to roll back onto your back.

You mumble something incoherent, needy and dripping. Your body aches from holding your earlier position and you nearly moan in relief when Kyle scoots you up on the bed so your shoulders can be bent.

A hand smooths over your stomach and a kiss is pressed into the inside of your thigh. Kyle is sweeter about it than Johnny, rubbing appreciatively at whatever parts of you he can reach as he pulls his cock out.

“Please, Kyle-” You whine at the sight, admiring his- fittingly- pretty cock as he guides the tip to your hole.

He laughs, smiling down at you while his guides his swollen tip to your hole.

“It’s alright, I’ll take care of you.” He says, pressing in slow and steady while petting gently at your still sensitive clit.

You moan in relief, relaxing into his touch as he starts to pull out and thrust back in, rolling his hips into you so his cock hits every right place.

Again, it’s slower- sweeter than with Johnny, but you find yourself enjoying it just as much. The drag of his cock inside of you steadily increasing in pace, Kyle’s undeniably handsome face smiling down at you, the stimulation to your clit- all making for a slow, building orgasm that feels less intense but longer and harder all at the same time.

“Kyle-“ You whine, letting your head fall back and shuddering as he sucks wet hickeys into the tender skin.

When you come, Kyle is quick to follow, groaning at the feeling of your cunt squeezing and pulsing around his cock and grabbing you by the hips to pull you as deep onto his cock as he could as he came.

“Fuckin’ hell-“ Simon growled, watching the two of you, eyes transfixed on how your head flopped lazily to the side, watching him with hazy, post-orgasm high eyes.

You hear similar sentiments from around the room, but you’re too taken by the sight of Simon jerking himself off- almost mean in how he tugs and strokes himself.

You barely notice Kyle pulling out- too distracted with the sight of Simon practically bullying his cock into an orgasm.

“You’re up, Simon.” Kyle pants, heaving deep, heavy breaths as he moves for Simon to take his spot.

“Don’t fucking think I need it.” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Our girl paints’ too pretty of a sight.”

You squeeze your thighs together with a soft moan at the feeling of cum oozing out from between your legs, struck by a sudden urge to keep as much of it in as possible.

“Wait- Simon, inside-“ You say, spreading your legs, silently begging with your eyes as you try to reach out for Simon, desperate to have his cum inside of you with the other two’s.

But it’s too late. Simon groans, shuddering as he catches his release in his hand and braces himself against the night stand.

You watch as some of the precious liquid oozes out of his cupped hand, whining needily at the sight of it going to waste.

“Fuuuuck, L.t.” Johnny drawls, watching Simon’s hand full of cum with almost as much need as you.

“You didn’t finish inside….” You mumble, your lower lip wobbling. You’re sensitive enough that even this feels like it’s enough to bring you to tears.

Simon laughs softly at your despair, glancing down at his hand full of cum before slapping it against your cunt with a loud squelch, earning a yelp from you and a laugh from Soap as your back arches and his palm hits your thoroughly worked clit.

“That better, love?” Simon coos, his tone condescending as he wipes a tear from your face with the pad of his thumb, leaving what was left of his cum smeared on your face.

Despite the mocking nature of his words, you find yourself nodding. You would probably thank him for smearing his come over your abused cunt if he asked.

Before it can go any further, Price is stepping forward. You’d been so absorbed in the other three that you hadn’t noticed him standing up until just now- when he’s towering over you and holding his cock out, already moving to situate himself inside you.

“Alright, that’s enough. Leave the poor girl alone, she’s still got one more round she’s gotta’ give us tonight.” Price says, lifting your legs to his sides as he slowly starts to push in.

You make a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and with the first thrust, you’ve already lost it- your entire body is bounced with the slaps of his thighs against your ass and moaning like a porn star as you do.

“Do you think that if we fuck it back into her enough it’ll take, Captain?” Kyle asks, earning a groan from Price.

“Fuck- don’t joke about that, Gaz.” He growls, his hands squeezing at your waist.

Vaguely, you can hear Simon say something about you already having “a belly full of cum,” and the other’s reactions to that statement, but you’re too lost in your head to understand what they’re all saying.

The only thing that mattered was the head of Price’s cock hammering into you- you were well and truly fucked dumb. Your clit was over sensitive and your cunt as a whole felt sore in the best of ways. You were too sensitive to take much more than a few minutes of Price fucking you like he was- thrust after thrust, bullying the same spot until the heat in your belly started to build and build until it snapped and you came with a cry, spasming around Price’s cock as he continued to fuck you. His own pace only started to falter when your moans turned to pitiful overstimulated cries- his hips twitching as he finally finished, burying himself to the hilt and gritting his teeth, groaning as he shot his load into you.

He remains draped over you for a moment, panting as he tries to catch his breath- stroking gently at your hair to keep you nice and floaty through your post-orgasm high. When you crack your eyes open, it's to Kyle unlocking your handcuffs and massaging the blood flow back into your hands while Price slowly pulls out of you, leaving you to whimper at the rough drag of his cock as it leaves you.

“Fucking hell…” Johnny groans at the sight of all the cum pooling out of you, his eyes wide and focused. Price is quick to catch his staring, patting Johnny on the shoulder as he speaks.

“Go get some water for her, alright?” He says, to which Johnny nods, swallowing thickly before standing up and grabbing a cup from the nightstand, going towards the bathroom to fill it up.

He nearly walks into Simon as he’s coming out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth. Johnny ducks to the side he sees him, barely managing to fit between him and the wall, which earns a raised eyebrow from Simon but not much else.

Price sits you up and leans you against Kyle, who’s perfectly content to hold you and coo soft praises to you while he pets at your hair and rubs your back.

You’re absolutely exhausted, and Kyle’s arms are more than comfortable enough for you to start to doze off in.

“You did so good for us, Love. So good.” Kyle says, wiping some of your tears away with his hand as Simon spreads your legs, making you perk up as he starts to gently wipe away all the cum, slick, and lube that’s smeared between your thighs.

No matter how gentle he is, the rough material of the washcloth is hell against the tender skin of an already sensitive area. You whine at the pain and try to close your legs, but your attempt only results in firm hands holding them apart.

John watches you squirm for a moment, still catching his breath as he watches Simon clean you up.

“Stop squirming.” Simon says, rolling his eyes at the whine you make in response, but ultimately continuing to work to get you clean.

Johnny comes back from the bathroom with a cup of water, standing to the side as he waits for Simon to finish before taking his place and working in tandem with Kyle to get you to drink something.

“Come on, you’ve got to drink some water before you can drift off.” Johnny says, and when the first bit of water touches your lips, you find yourself suddenly parched, draining the entire glass in a single sitting.

“Good job.” Kyle says, patting your head when you finish the water, pulling it to rest against his chest the same way you had been before.

You try to say thank you for the water, but all that comes out is a muffled, unintelligible noise. The moment your head’s back against Kyle’s chest, your eyes are closed.

After getting you situated, Simon folds the rag over to present a clean side and hands it over to Price, who thanks him before using it to clean the remnants of cum and slick off his cock, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up once he’s done.

“Alright, hand her over to me.” Price says, standing up and sitting down at the head of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard.

You groan softly as you’re passed from Kyle’s lap to Price’s, but you’re quick to settle into his arms regardless.

Around you, you can hear the sounds of the other three settling. You feel the bed dip as someone (or someones) lay down beside you, and someone pulls a blanket up over you.

“It’s alright love, you can go to sleep now.” Price says, patting you on the back and placing a kiss behind your ear.

You barely manage to acknowledge his words before you’re out cold.

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

[the-californicationist]

The Fox & the Hound (Ch. 01)

Inspired by a tag on @ceilidho's tumblr post reblogged by @garbagecompactor3263827 where Johnny wants to sink his teeth into a newbie porn star.

MDNI/18+ NO EXCEPTIONS

AO3 Link - Comments/Reblogs very appreciated

You watched him prep in the shared bathroom. People were bustling in and out, and a lighting manager was handing him a fresh razor, reaching over him for her films. He trimmed around his fat, flaccid cock with a practiced hand, getting the hairs just right. Part of you wished it was still the 80s when bush was en vogue . The rest of him remained furry, thankfully, and just as you were about to tend to your own garden, he caught you looking. That same glint in his eyes sparkled, like a hound that had spotted the writhing tail of its fox, ready to crack its bones in his huge maw. He’d been looking at you like that all day. He laughed, but he didn’t ride you for gawking. If anything, he looked a little relieved. What had you gotten yourself into?

Nothing had gone according to plan. This was your first real shoot, and the original actor who had set you up with this production company wasn’t even in the film. Film , your internal monologue chided you, it’s a porno, you filthy slut . Okay, a porn film. You’d sent nude photos here and there, and you’d even landed in Playboy as a back-page lube advert girl. It was a start. But, now, here you were about to shoot your first porno , and the only thing you knew about this guy was that he had fought for this part. 

He was beyond famous. You’d heard that Johnny Dangerous was the man of the hour, and that most of the girls who needed to boost their bankrolls called him up to ask him to co-star. You’d never even heard of him until today, and after hanging around the catering cart, you learned that he was the one who had paid actual money to star with you. 

It was probably some power play. Maybe it was your novelty. Banging the brand new porn actress must have been some sort of game. You didn’t care. This one gig was about to pay off your loans and buy you a brand new car all at the same time. You just needed to survive Mr. Dangerous. 

“Honey, are you comin’? We gotta shoot outside before the sun goes down.”

The voice came from the doorway, but you weren’t the honey, for once. They were talking to him. He didn’t answer. He just nodded, dismissing them, throwing his bright green swim shorts back on and rubbing the remainder of the oil into his broad chest. He was staring at you, biting hard at the inside of his cheek like he had a secret. Then, his expression became resolute, and he spoke to you softly, the way you do when you’re trying to coax a cat out from under a car,

“You gonna make it, lass?”

“Yeah,” you swiped on some waterproof mascara as an excuse to stare into the mirror and not at him, “I’m just a little nervous, that’s all. That seems normal.”

“It is,” Johnny moved closer to you, fluffing his own eyebrows in the mirror right alongside you, “Very normal. I’ll take care of you, hen. Nothin’ to worry your wee head about.”

You smiled. You didn’t want to thank him, exactly, but you wanted to be nice. Cordial. Professional. 

It wasn’t very professional of you to stare at the way his cock bounced as he adjusted his shorts, though, was it?

Then, to your shock, he leaned down and planted a kiss on the corner of your lips, tasting your sticky, cherry gloss, and saying, 

"See you in a bit, bonnie. Gonna make you feel real good." 

You stopped. He was gone, and for the first time that afternoon, you were alone. He lingered in all of the cracks and crevices of you, though. Now that he had pressed his lips to you, the spell had begun, and you realized you’d be fucking this man for hours. You drank your water from your icy jug, trying to turn it into liquid courage.

“Okay, okay, uhh… cute, yeah. Love it,” the director, Mike, appraised you like he worked on an assembly line, swooshing you over to the diving board with his hand, clutching a venti Starbucks cup in the other, “You look great, babe. Go sit on the diving board and let’s do a little preamble. Feel yourself up, pretend that you’re sunbathing in Malibu and not fuckin’ Santa Clarita, mkay?”

You made your way over to the diving board, walking in a way that you assumed was sexual, making a sexual face, and moving your hands across your tits…sexually. You thought it was a fine job until you heard the cut whistle. 

Mike was behind four people, two cameras, and an iPad when he shouted at you again,

“This isn’t a goddamn church service, babe. C’mon. I get hard when Chuy over here drives too fast, and this is not doin’ it.” 

“Sorry,” you said, moving back to your mark, determined to be positively the sexiest sunbather he had ever seen. 

“Mikey,” you heard Johnny’s voice call out, “Lemme kick it off.”

“Shut up, Johnny. I can’t afford your extra minutes, you skank,” Mike laughed and sipped his triple caramel mochaccino. 

Johnny came out from his shaded tent and cut his eyes at Mike before staring right at you,

“No charge. Just want it to be right.”

“Ugh,” Mike rolled his eyes behind his too-small sunglasses, “You and your…” he used scare quotes, “... art . Fine. Whatever. I just don’t want to shoot in the goddamn dark, so hurry up.”

Johnny walked around the pool, stroking himself across his shorts to stay hard. He was so thick that it looked like he was petting a handle of vodka back and forth. You tried to control your face, but you were getting more and more nervous as he came closer and closer to you.

“C’mere, bonnie,” he pulled you up from the diving board and held you in his arms.

If it wasn’t for the twenty people sweating to death in black tech clothes and eating dried-out hummus from foam plates standing around you, you would have felt like you were at your high school formal, being cradled gently in hands that wanted to do so much more. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispered. 

You obeyed, for some reason. There was nothing else to do but obey him. 

When he bent to kiss you, you knew it was for the cameras, because the angle of his face was open and softly spread so that the way he sucked your lips into his mouth would be seen by A and B-roll film. You kissed him back, trying to turn the sexiness up to eleven, rubbing your hands on his rigid cock to appear wanton and needy. 

He shuddered, and you thought you’d done something wrong. The look in his eyes told a different story. They were feverish, daring, and his pupils were fully blown. You could smell the coconut sunscreen someone had applied to him, and you could feel his breathing quicken in his huge body. 

Mike’s nasally voice came over the speakers,

“Let’s get a boom in there and pick up some of the kissing noise, please. Also, Johnny, some of your famous accent there, baby. You know what the ladies like.”

You were being kissed again, now set up for everyone to hear. He was devouring you, and you tried to keep your footing, grabbing his hulking shoulders and running your hands across his hirsute form. His muscles rippled and stretched beneath your touch, and he spoke his lines,

“Thought you would sneak into my wee pool, did ya, hen?”

You gave your voice a high-pitched lilt,

“Yes, I just wanted to get nice and tan.”

“Aye?” He pulled the tie on your bikini top, “Wouldn’t wanna get any tan lines, huh?”

You shook your head no, kissing his bare chest and feeling the top slither off of you to hang around your waist. 

“Wow,” his voice had changed its timbre, “Look at these pretty tits. Jesus…”

Johnny brought his mouth down to your nipple and sucked on it, licking on your beaded nub until it tightened for him, making sure to allow the camera man a full view of your perky breasts as they filled his hands. 

You moaned, and then you remembered to moan the right way, high and whiny. The higher the pitch, the higher the profit, they’d said. 

Johnny stopped suddenly, looking you in your eyes,

“Go back, lass. The first way. Do it the first way.”

“Johnny!” Mike complained, “Do you wanna come sit in this fuckin’ chair, or are you gonna focus on gettin’ your fat dick wet? Stop directing mid-scene. Cut. Cut. Start over with the tit sucking, and we’ll take it from the top,” Mike changed the tone of his voice and smiled at you, “You’re doing great, babe. Ten outta ten.”

You felt Johnny move his mouth to you again, but this time, his eyes were watching you, looking at you and waiting for you to make a choice. He was eager to make you moan, sucking hard and then soft, letting his long tongue lave over you like an animal, nibbling at your skin and making your blood rush to the surface. 

You moaned for real, testing the waters. Johnny smiled so wide you could see his back teeth, his jaw open and parting to let his tongue come forward to do its work. 

“Tha’s it, hen. Lemme hear you.”

His enormous hand squeezed your other breast, and he moved his mouth between them, stirring up your pleasure like a whisk in cream. Soft peaks. 

You obliged. The more you moaned, the more he fondled. He was yanking at your strings and ripping the bikini from you quicker than you had assumed he would be, especially since you were still in the outdoor scene. Wasn’t this all supposed to be inside?

“Christ,” Mike groaned, “I look at my email for five seconds and you’re almost nose-deep in her asshole? Johnny, this was supposed to be at couch scene three. Can - hey! Can somebody get him a book?”

Someone handed him a book, and he tossed it in the bushes,

“I dinnae care if it’s scene five thousand, Mikey. Just shoot it vérité, mate. Just like old times,” Johnny barked. He was getting more and more ruffled as Mike kept cutting in, almost like he was impatient to be done with it. Done with you?  

Mike turned his head to his assistant and asked,

“How many minutes do we have? Are we good? Okay. Okay!” He threw up his hands, “Okay, Johnny, you prima donna bitch. Let’s take it inside.”

The Someone with the book now passed Johnny his robe and he shouldered it on. He looked around and barked again,

“Aye! Hers? Give it here.”

He then had your robe in his hands and put it over you, cloaking you in its soft terrycloth, making sure you were covered. It was such an abrupt stop to your pleasure, one that you were not used to making, and your body railed you for it. Your pussy throbbed, your nipples ached, and your belly was full of butterflies. He held your hand as you walked inside. Just as you were about to get into position four on couch three, he pulled you back, nodding up at Mike and his team of people.

“Okay, lets get lighting on couch scene three, Billy. Hey! Hotdog! I didn’t say pull the lamp. Put the lamp back. Thanks, my man. Two more clicks on the warm light. Okay, gross, one click. Perfecto.”

Mike’s head popped over his iPad,

“You lovebirds ready for scene three?”

“Hang on,” Johnny grumbled, removing his swim trunks and flip-flops. 

He positioned himself on the couch and spread his legs, jerking himself back to full hardness and staring right at you as he did so. 

“C’mon, bonnie. I’m ready for you.”

You made your way over to the couch and knelt down. You didn’t mean to, but you hissed when your knees hit the cold, hard tiles. 

“Sorry!” You whispered to him.

He took his hands off his cock and pulled you onto the couch with him,

“Here, bonnie girl. Like this instead, yeah?”

Johnny pushed himself out along the length of the couch so that you were both laying on it. You placed your knees on the arm of it, raising your bare ass in the air for B-roll shots, your face perfectly positioned at Johnny’s raging hard-on. It was massive up close. His plump head and thick rod had seemed normal in his huge hands, but now that your small fingers were wrapped around him, you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. 

“Okay, fuck,” Mike smiled, drinking his coffee and nodding, “That’s hot. Good call, new girl. Smart.”

You smiled back at Mike, grateful for the praise, feeling like you were going to knock it out of the park. Then, Johnny’s cruel hand grabbed your hair and turned your head up to stare into his eyes. He grinned like a demon,

“You don’t have to smile at him, lass. He’s a fuckin’ bawbag.”

“JD! Can we get on with it?” Mike rolled his eyes. 

You got on with it. Something in Johnny’s demeanor had stirred a dark place in your belly. He was possessive, and he didn’t like you smiling at Mike. He did like the way you took each of his balls in your mouth and sucked on them with loose, pouty lips. His moans were cut short, not wanting to over-saturate the reel with male grunting sounds. Apparently, the straight male audience wasn’t a fan of anyone’s grunting but their own. 

He also liked when you tried to take him into your throat, moving your head as far as you could down his shaft, choking on his cock until you felt drool coat the inside of your mouth. You spit it onto him, and he wrenched his eyes shut, unable to watch you fuck your own face with his shaft. 

“Okay, while Johnny’s taking a nap or whatever that face is, let’s get B-roll in here for her mouth. Also, let’s take a minute or so of that gorgeous ass she’s got up there for us. That’s gonna be money, my friend. You are gonna be Miss Popular!”

In the place where you were staring before, Johnny’s face of agony and bliss, now there was a big, black lens. You could see yourself, bobbing up and down hungrily, and you pulled out all the stops. You suckled gently on his glans, lapping up his precome dutifully, enjoying it enough to moan again. 

He jumped, and Johnny’s hand snaked its way under the camera to squeeze the life out of his shaft. 

“Hey, mate, move to B-roll of her ass, would ya?”

The camera man laughed,

“About to lose it, Johnny? I thought she was the newbie.”

“Shut up, mate.”

You stayed stock still, watching as the camera moved to your rear end, feeling beyond exposed. You played with your pussy, spreading it open, fingering yourself, all of the things you were supposed to do. And, to be honest, it felt great. You needed to come so badly, a warm breeze would have been sexy to you at this point. 

Johnny stared down at you, his dick still in the prison of his fist, panting,

“How are we doin’, lass?”

“Good, you?” You appreciated the check-in. 

“Good. Ready to fuck you. So damn ready.”

His voice and his eyes were predatory. You felt like his prey. Prey had claws, too, though. So, you licked his shaft again, and you fed his own line back to him,

“I’m gonna come so fast. You’re gonna make me feel so good, baby.”

His face changed into a look of shock. Just then, Mike rang the bell,

“Alright, it’s couch doggy and - what does this say?”

“Light,” someone told him.

“Okay, light spanking? You okay with that new girl? It says you signed off on it.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged. 

“Okie dokie, just checking. Sweet. Let’s get there.”

Johnny was standing at the arm of the couch, positioned behind you were you couldn’t see him. You felt his hands rub your cheeks and spread them wide, opening your core up to him. Then, that long tongue was lapping up your wetness, and he was talking with his mouth full,

“Mmf, so wet for me, lassie. That’s my good girl.”

Your pussy clenched and you knew he could see it. You thought he might laugh or make some other comment, but he kept your secret, licking the inside of you with soft, languid strokes, you gave him another clench - this time on purpose - waiting to see if you could rile him up again. 

“Oh, fuck,” Johnny moaned, “You’re so ready for me. Fuck me, wait.”

He stopped eating you out, which was the opposite of what you were going for. This shoot was a disaster, and you really needed this gig.

“I’m sorry!” You said, turning around.

“What?” His brow furrowed, “No, just wait. Mike!”

“What is it now? Johnny - this is why I didn’t call you about Manuel Ferrara’s gangbang.”

“I just need my bag.”

Mike’s sigh was theatrical,

“Everyone take five.”

The bell went off again. You sat on the couch and the same someone brought you your robe and a water. You smiled and thanked them. Johnny had disappeared, but when he came back, he was wearing a thick, black cock ring, tightly secured around his shaft and balls. 

“Okay,” he sighed, sitting by you on the couch, robeless.

“Are you alright?” You asked, offering him some of your water.

He took it, gulping down two huge swallows before responding,

“Aye, lass. Just had to stop myself from ending this show too soon.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise,

“I thought it was for the opposite reason. Must be hard to keep it up for such a long time, especially with all these breaks.”

He laughed,

“Usually, yeah. But, not today.”

His eyes were raking over you, still hungry for you even though he’d seen it all already. It would have been a lie to say you weren’t hungry for him, too. It was intoxicating, the way he stared at you, eager and joyful. You weren’t surprised he was so popular. 

“Annnnnd, we’re back, people! Baby, could you perch up there again, please? Now that Mr. Princess is done preening, we can shoot a fucking porno.”

You repositioned yourself back to where you were, and someone came by to re-oil your ass cheeks. They felt shiny, and you hoped you looked great. Watching the film was going to be humbling, but this was your first time and you were learning so much. 

Johnny took his place behind you, and you felt the familiar, heavy slap of a cockhead on your pussy lips, sticky and exciting. You gasped. He responded, 

“That’s right, hen. It’s time for your reward.”

He began to feed his head into you, and the crown of it popped into your hole with some resistance. Behind you, his thick fingers spread your cheeks apart, and you felt one hand leave just to return in a sharp smack. You cried out louder. He sank in a little deeper, moaning right along with you. He slapped your ass again and growled,

“Fuuuuuuck, that’s too tight, that’s too tight. Oh, Jesus.”

You keened, embarrassed, but unable to stop the noise that came out of your mouth. 

“You like it, lass? Gettin’ this pretty little cunt all stretched out for me. Gonna make you beg for this cock and only this fuckin’ cock, ain’t that right?”

“Yeah,” you moaned, your voice straining, “Only this cock, baby. Fuck me nice and hard.”

You regretted every word because he was pleased to oblige you. He slammed himself down into your aching hole, pressing through your walls, through your wetness and the oil and the lube, and it still wasn’t enough. You felt like you were tearing apart, especially when he pressed you onto his hilt. 

Everything slowed way down. You saw white, for a moment, and you felt tears well up in your eyes, burning on their way down your cheeks. He was trying to ease you though it, but you were coming on him. Your whole body was shaking and trembling, and his girth was forcing an orgasm to rattle through your core. You even felt him fighting to stay inside of you, battling against your tightening walls, desperate to keep his position, nestled at your womb, deep within you. 

“Oh, fuck! Lass! Holy God, that pussy is tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You felt him slap you again, but the sting was gone. Your body had flooded you with orgasmic endorphins and adrenilne, and it was going to take a lot more than a “light spanking” to get your attention away from the cosmic nova exploding in your belly. 

Johnny’s thrusts were that of a hungry beast. He didn’t falter, nor slow, nor stop to check and see if you were even still alive. He was chasing himself down inside of you like a dog with its tail. Over and over and over, you felt the heavy weight of him pushed forward, smacking into you, feeling his hips snap repeatedly spearing your core with his enormous rod. He was grunting with abandon now, just barking out cries along with you, and when you looked at him over your shoulder, his face was bent and twisted in such a rage that it frightened you. He looked inhuman.

Suddenly, you were lifted from the couch, and his hands were around you. He flipped you over and held your thighs pressed down to your chest, creating an even deeper angle. You regained your thoughts quickly enough to hold your legs pinned for him, only half-worried that you’d tumble off the couch. 

You weren’t sure it was possible though, since his grip on your waist was so punishingly tight. He was fucking you so hard and so fast that you were feeling it in your bones. Your hips were taking the brunt of his sex-fueled wrath, and you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow. 

Then, his fingers found your clit, rubbing accurate and pleasure-filled circles around and around, making your lips swell with intensity. You were going to come again, and you told him so,

“Johnny… you’re gonna make me come, baby.”

“Come,” he snarled down at you, his eyes wild and haunted, “Come on me. I wanna feel you fuckin’ squeeze me out. Come. Come. Come, lass. Come for me, pretty girl. Oh! Oh, there it is. Yes, yes, yes, good girl. Good girl. Fuck!”

He rode you through your orgasm and stalled, leaving himself inside of your fluttering walls, basking in the sensation, trying to catch his breath. Johnny sat on the couch and you climbed into his lap, taking his cock in your hands and guiding it back into your dripping hole. 

“Bonnie,” he sighed, kissing your neck and grabbing your ass in both of his hands, “You feel like heaven. God, baby, don’t stop. Just like that, don’t stop.”

You were rocking back and forth on him, and you could feel his swollen head rubbing at the end of your pussy, bullying your cervix, making you feel too full. 

“It’s too much, baby,” you confessed, squishing your breasts together and letting him move his mouth across your nipples once again, “You’re too big. Filling me up… I’m so full.”

“You’re so tight, lass.”

He said it like a prayer. His eyes were glassy as they stared up at you. All of his bravado and flirtatiousness was gone, and it had been replaced by boyish wonder. It was as if it was his first time to feel the inside of a woman, to be hugged, warm and wet, engulfed in her core and playing within her the oldest song known to man. You sang it for him, not for profit anymore. His bewtichment was complete. You were totally and completely ensnared by him. 

Then, he held you to him, clutching you to his chest and screaming out loud, braying and writhing beneath you. He was coming. You felt him pulse, over and over, spilling and foaming and frothing around the edges of your hole, soaking you from the inside. 

You rode him slowly, back down from his high, and he gasped with every roll of your hips, looking at you in some sort of horrible ecstasy. 

Mike’s bell went off in your ear.

“Okay, folks! Thanks so much. Let’s wrap it. I’m sure some of this is salvageable. Johnny, and uh… whatever your name is, you still owe me garden scene six and upstairs… um, is it pool table? It’s pool table. Wanna be back here tomorrow at two?”

Johnny gave an exhausted thumbs up, and so did you, finally sliding yourself off of him with a wet milky sound. 

“Um,” you tried to catch your breath, “Thanks, for helping me today. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

He looked at you quizzically, almost a little hurt. It was a confusing face to see, but you didn’t really know him that well, so you waited for his reply.

“Sure, bonnie.”

You untangled your legs from him and pulled on your robe, leaving him on the couch. You needed a shower and some brand of fast food, as soon as physically possible. 

The bathroom was steaming when you hopped in, and you were covered head to toe in coconut smelling soap when you heard a knock at the door. 

“Uh, come in?” You peeked around the glass partition.

It was Johnny. 

“Got room for one more, lass?”

You looked around behind him, half-expecting a camera to pop out. He noticed your reticence, and he shook his head,

“Nevermind. Forget I asked.”

“Hey, yeah. Sure, if you want. Come on in,” you moved deeper into the shower, letting him step into the billowing steam. 

At first, he was silent, just washing himself, scraping the suds over his body and sharing the water with you. But, then, he asked,

“Wanna get a bite? I’m starvin’ to death.”

“Me, too,” you laughed. 

“Class,” he smiled.

There was another long pause, and then when you turned off the water, he stepped into your space, too close to be friendly, 

“What if I was still hungry for you as well, hen? What would you say to that?”

The water dripped from the head of the shower in a soft tinkling pattern. You breathed each other’s breaths, inching closer and closer until your lips touched his wide chest, the hair smeared flat from the warm water, rivulets rushing down his belly to his crotch, dripping off of him and of you. 

You kissed his chest again, feeling him shudder under you as if he hadn’t just come inside of you minutes ago, packed with anxious excitement. 

Smiling up at him, you took a chance, 

“Your couch or mine?”

Chapter 02

[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.

.

.

.

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.

[girls-alias]

Tease - Robert Chase

Title: Tease - Robert Chase

Words: 1,567

Relations: Robert chase X Reader

TW: Sexual hinting. Sexualising hands. Sub reader.

Masterlist

I pushed the office door open with my butt, careful not to spill the coffees I had just collected. I spun around as I stepped into the office, My eyes instantly landing on Chase as he approached the door. I looked up at him startled by his presence. From his body language, it was clear he was going to open the door for me, I blushed slightly, knowing he had a clear view of my ass pushing the glass door open. I gulped, admiring his freshly trimmed hair, subtle green eyes and furrowed brows. I could read from his expression he was confused and had a hint of another emotion. In others, I would say it was an attraction but the sexy, blonde, handsome, angelic, Australian, smart, did I mention sexy, doctor... wouldn't think that of me. I'm me. Just average me.

I smiled innocently at Chase as he continued to stare at me. His expression showed less of his confusion and more of the other emotion I couldn't place but (somewhere deep inside, I knew it was attraction) (Or maybe wishful thinking) he displayed this emotion more until the confusion had fizzled from his expression.

"Are you going to stand there all day or give me my coffee," House barked grumpily. I shook myself out of it and walked around Chase to reach the table. I placed the drinks down, serving them out to each of the team to make sure everyone had the right drink. I walked around the table, placing Chase's drink in front of him before occupying the seat beside him. He smiled at me, I swooned a little but smiled back. An attempt to play it cool when he makes my spine jelly without trying.

House began the differential by writing on the board the patient's symptoms. I placed my drink on the table as I picked up the file, sitting back to read it. I added comments briefly to dismiss someone's idea if the current test results didn't align with their diagnosis. Finally, I looked up to gather who House's snarky comment was aimed at. Not me, good. As Chase was leaning forward, his elbows on the table, his hands in front of his face, playing with them slightly. I, of course, was now only able to focus on them.

I gulped, my mouth seeming wrong. My breath quickening. The butterflies in my stomach twirling. I crossed my legs, my wetness growing as I watched my crush's hands, the way they moved, the things I had dreams about them doing. I couldn't peel my eyes away even when he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and then smirked when he looked away. His hands didn't stop moving and if anything, they seemed to do more, slow and precise movements. There could be an earthquake in the room and I still wouldn't be able to look away. He has hypnotised me. I watched almost breathlessly as he sat back in the seat and his hand slowly travelled to his thigh. Oh, God his thighs! I took a deep breath, gulping as I watched his hands.

His hands gripped his thigh tightly, and a soft whimper left my lips subconsciously. I tighten my lips into a thin line, the rest of the world coming into focus as I looked around, recognising that everyone had heard me and was confused. I almost lost all of my ability to function as Chase turned to smirk at me. He did it on purpose, he was messing with me. I was annoyed for half a second it took till I realised that he caught me checking him out, sexualising him and he not only knew but teased me. My eyes widened, avoiding Chase's gaze. My brain instantly went into hyperdrive to dismiss this realisation with the most likely factor being that he didn't know and was simply smirking to not laugh at your whimper.

"You must really want to run the labs," Foreman commented sarcastically. I almost applauded Foreman and shook his hand for giving me an easy excuse.

"Yeah, I just don't want to deal with parents right now," I chuckled, realising quickly I was unsure of the files I had read only minutes ago. They all looked a little more confused.

"Our patient is a 32-year-old, male," Cameron clarified but confusion clear in her tone.

"His parents brought him in, it's in his file," I lied. I don't know who brought him in, they could tell me he flew in on a UFO I would agree, I don't know what happened during the differential when Chase's hands were more appealing than the conversation. Foreman looked confused but understood as Cameron flicked through the file. I smiled, my poker face clearing me of questions.

"Foreman and Cameron, you're with the patient," House instructed and everyone stood. Oh, okay we're done. I stood from my seat, and collected my things, realising quickly I would be alone in the lab with Chase. My eyes widened as I grabbed my drink and headed out of the office, Chase held the door open for me, his smirk still gracing his lips. I nodded softly to be polite and began approaching the lab. I gulped as Chase walked beside me.

"I didn't know you whimpered," He teased, his smirk still present. I blushed but rolled my eyes forcing a convincing chuckle.

"I just really want lab work today," I shrugged trying to play it off. A part of me believes the delusion of him possibly not noticing me sexualising his hands. He smirked rushing to stop in front of me looking a little confused but smug.

"I can think of five reasons that's a lie," He smirked, raising his left hand for effect and flaunting the knowledge that he knew what he was doing. My expression faltered at the shocking revelation and realisation he truly was teasing me with his hands, and did for a fact know I was affected. He grinned, turning back to continue his way to the lab. I took a second to compose myself before following. I stopped just before the lab entrance to prepare myself before I was in a room alone with Chase for presumably hours.

I walked in to see Chase already using the computer to get started. He smiled as I walked in, not looking up from the screen. I cleared my throat before taking a seat at the opposite station. I got to work on running labs, reading the file closely to figure out what labs we needed, and Chase offering tests I should take while he did others, basically letting me know what to do. I'm glad one of us was paying attention.

We were working somewhat quietly as we focused on the tests. I was just looking through the microscope when he spoke abruptly.

"Have you always been attracted to hands or just mine?" He asked, I was so startled by his question. I felt called out, seen. I staggered over my thoughts slightly.

"What?" I asked finally, the only thing I could manage to say. Though my tone should have been confused it was more panicked. I looked up at him, watching as he smirked. I gulped, watching as he slowly walked around the station, edging closer to me, my crossed legs subconsciously squeezing tighter.

"What is it about my hands that flusters you?" He asked rhetorically. His tone was mischievous and menacing. His smirk returned. I watched with shallow breaths as his hand trailed along the marble tops. I gulp again to try and maintain some control of my body. My breath quickened the closer he got to me. My breath fluttered as he stood right in front of me. "Is it that they're attached to me or that you can imagine what I'd like to do with them?" He asked, his hand coming under my chin to raise it so I was looking up at him. I breathed in as he raised my chin but suddenly my breathing stopped as I made eye contact with him. My mind cleared. My only thought was that he was going to kiss me. Please, kiss me.

I watched as his eyes trailed to my lips before he smiled. His eyes were deep and dark, full of want. I gulped. "I'm taking you to dinner," He instructed, not a question but an explanation. I watched intently as he searched my expression, it was clear, he could read nothing. He seemed to wait for my response. I nodded softly, his fingers still present under my chin. He smiled with half his mouth. "Good," He added, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. I waited, his eyes once again travelling to his lips as he held my gaze on him. "Your results are in," He commented. My eyebrows furrowed before the timer went off. I jumped at the sudden beeping. Chase chuckled as he walked away to his station. I sighed slightly, hitting the timer off and composing myself. "We'll go straight from work, that shirt needs to be shown off," He added, watching me between the stations. I smiled nervously as I slowly processed the fact I wasn't imagining it like usual.

I looked at the results to distract myself. I groaned as I showed Chase the results. Positive. We quickly headed to the others to inform them.

Masterlist

[twst-drabbles]

Dire 9

Summary: Dire like to make little mental bets with himself about which pixie will be tailing around the dear, dear Janitor.

Originally, Dire wanted the rest of the staff to play this game of his. He wanted to have fun, make some bets and see which faerie follows the Janitor around and potentially bond with everyone. And also get some pocket money on the side but that’s besides the point. Do you know what they said to him when he proposed the idea?

“Why would we bother when we know you’re going to lose?”

The gall of it all! They have absolutely no faith in his ability to gamble! Sure he almost ran himself into debt before but he had the self-control to stop himself before things got worse. Besides, it’s not that much money, only a few thaumarks and perhaps a nice antique item. And maybe a few dishes and some vacation days…

Anyways, point being, Dire had no one to bet with, so he had no choice but to bet with himself. Play his own private little games, since seeing he has no choice.

There is practically no end to the amount of pixies that love and adore you. Dire did make sure to recruit as many as possible in order to ensure the stability of this college, after all. And, while his memory is a little but foggy, Dire is more than sure he can take a daily guess as to what faerie or faeries will be following you around.

Today was a moist day, as yesterday there was a storm that nearly flooded the campus had it not been for the water pixies that were there. As such, the water pixies won’t be around, as they will be resting somewhere, or playing in a lake. The winds haven’t been all that active so Dire can cross out wind faeries following you around. Those of fire will be hiding away until the moisture calms down, oh but it is an incredibly cloudy day, so the pixies of light might be around.

Yes yes, let’s place his bets on those of light. You do go around and clean in the darkest of places no problem and pixies do so love to help you out. The rewards you grant are generous after all.

“Now then, where did I put the tag,” murmured Dire as he sifted through a drawer in his desk, filled to the brim with a number of fancy black name tags. “There it is!”

With the gold-trimmed tag in hand, Dire walked over to the calendar and pinned it.

“Now I just have to wait and see.” Because you always come by his office to do a general checkup and also report any interesting findings–and there are no shortages of it–to him.

And, as one would expect, you came in not even twenty minutes later. And sitting on your shoulder was–

“Dire, there’s a leak in my dorm and I’m gonna need you to order some materials for me,” you sighed, work outfit covered in muck and dust. A little pixie with a veiled mushroom hat swung their little feet, limbs colored black from their work. “A bunch of mushrooms and mold started growing right in the corner of my bedroom.”

Another little faerie, laid on your head, wearing a jacket of dark green, puffy mold. They grinned and sunk deeper into it’s… ‘luxury’ items.

Dire took in air, then let his face slam on his desk.

“Uh, you doing okay?”

“It’s nothing. Just wading through the ocean of my loses. Please, pay me no mind. I’ll order new floor boards and other such things soon enough.”

[darkdemeter]

SOLDAT'S REPRISE PHASE I-B

◤✘BUCKY BARNES SERIES/AU'S | CATALOGUE Winter Soldier x Female Reader ISSUE NO.#2

WARNINGS❕ ↳ 18+ Psychological and sexual thriller — mention of previous supposed "dub-con" encounters, stalking, minor medication usage and trauma — paranoid reader — small SMUT scene, depicted as non/con sleep sex — unprotected sex — dark Winter Soldier — possible grammar/punctuation errors — I think that's it? SUMMARY ↳ Things are getting out of hand. You feel like you're a ship slowly sinking into the dark depths below. You're being hunted, you just know it, but perhaps there is hope in the form of the friendly local deputy. Little do you know what the Winter Soldier is always watching your every move.

✎ 3.4k

@kandis-mom @wintrsoldrluvr @mrsnikstan

↳ BUCKY BARNES TAGLISTS

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Nobody believes ghost stories. That’s the advantage he carries, you have found. He’s a ghost and thus, any mention of his haunting presence is absolved to the grave of a dismissed and silenced voice. A cry for help. 

You feel so alone here. This home that you founded for yourself, made an attempt to lead a life of normalcy and peace. A life where you weren’t spending your tired hours looking over your shoulder and praying that rounding the next corner wouldn’t be your last. 

He had invaded the sanctity of the very place you were meant to feel safe in. He robbed you of the only comfort you had to cling to after everything else went so wrong. 

Every shadow that creeps and waves past the drawn curtains sends you into a frenzy, feet shifting and muscles locking up with the flight or fight response kicking in as electrical surges through your skin, your gut churning and your heart rapping tight against your chest. Every inkling of something dark moving in the hallway has tears prickling the corner of your vision, imagining those cold blue eyes locked on you. Every closet, every corner — every room is now under siege of being a possible hiding place for him. 

You’re forced to undertake that terrible fucking feeling that your soul has jumped out and is latched like tar to your spine. 

Your doctor didn’t believe you. Nobody ever did. It made you feel alone in this town, this heavily pitched, “We’re a tight-knit community that cares for all its residents!”. Putting the product to the board really begins to measure up this so-called community and their nosey personality to happily peek into your life. Did they all know and were too scared for their own lives to help?

You couldn’t blame them, though you probably should. You just can’t. 

He can be anywhere. Even now…

In the broadness of daylight you still suffer the tiresome weight of fear that steeps over you, drawing you out into a state of exhaustion that leaves you further vulnerable. You just… sense him. He’s around though you can’t pinpoint his exact location, you just know deep down in your gut that he’s watching you right now while you walk through the streets.

The leathery scuffle of your boots are trimmed by the cause of a car horn blurting out. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the driver yells, face red and scrunched up like a swollen balloon ready to pop. 

He slams his fist down on the horn again in a frightful warning. A loud, treacherous horn that signals the arrival of something dangerous, someone that can kill you – but he doesn’t. He moves like he intends to, but he never commits to the final strike. It’s like he gets aroused by the painful implication that he inflicts upon you. 

It’s sunny but the air is smothered by a strange aura of fog, cloudy but not entirely that you can still see several blocks up ahead. You can see the local diner. 

Just a little more. 

You hear the clobber of footsteps behind you, by your guess without arousing suspicion and looking, you’d estimate… 5 feet in distance, give or take?

He really did turn you into a little paranoid freak. They’re heavy, keeping a steady pace that thins out a constant line of anxiety, each step you take he mimics it with one that echoes in the bounds of your mind. Your heart rate thumps with a bruising beat, it’s beginning to put a straining ache on your ribs. 

It’s someone else.

It’s… it’s someone else…

It’s— it’s him, it’s him!

The footsteps pick up to heave a faster pace, the sickening pound of heavy combat boots floods your train of thought. You remember a time of running through the dingy lit halls in Hydra’s underground base. Their brain-fried dog easily keeping track of you no matter what corner you turned, what darkened environment you broke into in your haste to escape. 

“It’s a training montage. It will ensure that he can keep track of his target.” That was what Rumlow had said to you. 

You’re caught in a half spin, almost stumbling over on the sidewalk to meet him face to face, only to falter back when he looks at you with a furrowed decline to his features, confused by your reaction. 

“U-uh, sorry,” you mumble and lower your gaze down. It’s someone else. Dark brown eyes, sandy brown hair cut short and tousled.

He passes you easily to meet with a girl. She’s quite pretty, you don’t believe you’ve seen her around before but maybe you have. It gets hard to finalise and familiarise faces, names and their personalities when you holster yourself up in the town’s wooded outskirts. 

You like the privacy it gives you, however much it’s now put you at risk. 

The joined couple talk with a cheerful ambiance of their romance, happily flourishing and unawares of the troubles you face and they turn into a nearby shop to browse its contents. 

Meanwhile, you continue on towards the diner. 

It’s hard to enjoy a moment of fresh air when you know you’re being hunted, being stalked by a lowly predator that hides in plain sight. 

But by some divine intervention, you finally reach the parking lot of the diner. Weaving through the parked cars and across the wetted tarmac from the morning’s earlier spittle of rain, you hurry along like the obedient rabbit of his chase, hopping quickly to the false security of a burrow. 

You stop just mere feet away from the inviting pavement to see the car at your side. A smile almost spreads on your lips and a sigh escapes you, your shoulders unbunched from the tension they held. You enter the diner far more eagerly, still tinged by the bleeding trail of your fear but you now hold to hope. 

You avoid the eyes of the other customers that stare at you, feeling like you’re committing a walk of shame as you move with quickly paced rumbles steps, the thickened hide of your heels much louder in the soft bustle of the diner. 

You see him sitting in one of the center booths that line the window panes. A fresh refill of coffee steaming from his mug, a finished palette of breakfast and now munching in a rewarding muffin as he reads over what you assume to be his latest report. 

His shining deputy badge being your saving grace in this nightmare. 

He only looks up to meet your eyes that smile equally as his lips do, beautiful dark honey orbs glistening with a vibrancy that’s warm and inviting. 

“Hey, Y/N,” he says smoothly over the rim of his next sip of coffee. 

You shoot back quickly and out of breath. “Hi, Riley.”

His detective instincts kick in immediately, sensing something amiss by the dishevelled state of yourself. Eyes sunken in by dark circles yet sorely irritated and puffy from crying. Your breath is practically rabid as you breathe in and out with attacking panic. 

“What’s up, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not,” you answer shortly. His hand gestures for you to take the booth seat before him and you do, sliding down into it. “Riley, I need your help. I’m in trouble and I have nobody to turn to.”

He nods, tousled lengths of his sandy blonde hair move over his temples and forehead. His large arms cross over themselves and rest on the table. 

“Of course. What’s going on?” 

Your eyes fog over with that familiar heat of tears. You want to cry, to let it all out, finally finding an anchor at port in the safety Riley made you feel. Honestly he was the only good thing about this town. He was everything you needed. Maybe everything you wanted. If only you weren’t so terrified after the repercussions of your prior intimacy with the very man who now won’t leave you in peace. 

Your throat starts to choke, tightening until it hurts as you try to suppress the tears and theatrics. Riley’s brows furrow and he reaches a hand forward, a strong hand that guides and protects, and he takes hold of your quivering arm. His thumb absently strokes the slivered reveal of your wrist between your sleeve and glove. 

“Hey,” he whispers, “It’s alright. Deep breaths for me, that’s it, nice and slow. Talk to me, what’s going on?”

How his eyes solemnly swear that everything will be alright and that he will protect you. So why is it so hard to tell him? Is it shame that you’ll scare him away, that he’ll think you’re batshit crazy if you tell him—

“I’m being stalked.”

Something in the corner of his brow twitches, arching. A shiny spark emits in the pools of his dark eyes, catching the light from outside and revealing a vulnerable trigger that you think you misconstrued as something more than a concerned friend or an officer taking his job seriously. 

“Do you know by who?” he questions with a firm press of his voice. 

Shakily, you nod. “Yes.”

His eyes shift, the dark onyx pivoting left and right with a contemplative gate. Then, Riley looks back to you, almost silently pressing for you to answer. And it’s then that you hesitate. You stutter over your response, the words too heavy to speak and he understands. 

“How long has this been going on? Does anyone else know?”

You want to laugh and you half-heartedly do, the sound dry and cynical in your throat. Your back presses straight into the booth seat. “I-saw saw him a few nights ago in my home!” your voice is a sharp whisper, “and I told my doctor and— and she told me that I was hallucinating, that it was just a mental relapse and I—” 

Your body jerks forward as your hands cup your face, tears sting the line of your vision. You just want to live life normally. All you want is to be left in peace. Why couldn't the past just let you go?

“I— I don’t know what to do, Riley… I really don’t.”

The muscles beneath your skin contract and pull tightly, almost painfully so, your body begins to tremble with vibrating distress. “I feel like nobody believes me, I thought I could ask for your help or the Sheriff’s— Riley, I— can’t do this. I can’t…”

Your breathing becomes terribly shaken, sniffling as you attempt to calm yourself. Your body falls forward more and the instinct to crawl into a ball is powerfully overwhelming. You can feel the condensating judgment of the other diner dwellers, eyes shifting uncomfortably between you and their own business. The way that someone clears their throat loudly, stool squeaking under their weight and the ruffle of a newspaper obscuring one of the lonely patrons in the back booth, your blurry vision unable to comprehend the printed bold title or the gloved hands that hold it. 

You press your head against your folded arms that lay on the table, barely making out the quickened hush of Riley’s voice coaxing you. 

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His hand reaches out for you and it touches you, you feel the warmth of his hand against you. 

“I believe you.”

Your tear ridden eyes raise up to meet Riley’s eyes, a gasp hitched in your throat. You choke out softly. “Y-you do?”

“Yes.” He leans forward that bit closer. “And I will protect you.”

His words are a relief, a form of assurance to cling to like a lifeline. That’s all you wanted to hear. You try to mirror his smile before the waitress comes over, coffee pot held in her grip. 

“Need anything else, Deputy?” she asks and Riley motions to you with a nod of his stubbled chin. Cheeks flushed with a rosy tinge and eyes puffy, you wipe away the stray rivers of drying tears and lower your eyes away from the waitress.

“Just a coffee to go, her usual. Put it on my tab and uh…” Your heart almost skips a beat the way he looks to you, dimpled cheeks as he smiles a bit wider and his dark eyes seemingly aglow with a honeyed tint. “Some apple pie or that new chocolate chip muffin cake they got?”

“Thanks again, Riley,” you say, hand rumbling the paper back in your palm a distant tune as you take a small sip from your coffee. Already, you were beginning to feel better as you walked with Riley out to his car. 

“No problem. Told you I’d look out for ya when you first moved here, didn’t I?”

The memory of your first meeting brings a small smile to your lips, eyes once sunken and gloomy lighting up through the thin stream from the coffee cup. “Yeah. Still, I’m grateful for all you’re doing. I had hope but… I didn’t want to count on anything, you know, just in case you didn’t believe me.”

“Just know that you’re not alone. Anything, and I mean it, anything else happens or you don’t wanna be alone up there,” he says and pulls out his notepad and pen. He scribbles something down and hands the torn out page to you, his touch mingling against yours as you take it from between his fingers. “Just call me and I’ll be right over. Don’t worry about the hour or anything, on duty or off, I’ll find a way to you.”

The coffee and muffin cake, the caring personality, giving his private phone number to you; what could it all mean? For a split second you forget that you’re in the midst of a stalker case, that you are being haunted by the very manifestation of your past. Something in your brain offers you a second’s respite that this is just an ordinary meeting between two people, a regular occurrence that feels like a date. It’s nice to feel this sense of normalcy. 

But in staring at the digits of his number a little longer, that facade falls away, leaving you to remember why he was helping you; giving you so much attention. 

“Again, thank you.”

“I’ll also pass it on to the Sheriff and get his say on it. Find out what we can do to catch this guy.” 

You nod as though to agree, that there is a chance that they will catch him. You wish it were possible but with what you’ve seen, what you have come to know about the Winter Soldier… all capture of him is impossible. Even if they somehow manage to track him down, he’ll be gone before they can dream of getting him. 

He’s a ghost among men. 

“Do you think the Sheriff will believe it?” you ask Riley, watching carefully as he clicks his tongue and the skin under his eye wrinkles. 

“He’s dealt with a few cases like this before when he worked in the city. There haven't been many stalker cases here.” He shrugs then, looking around. “But even if he doesn’t, then just know you have me. I’ll make sure that you never have to worry about him again. You’re going to be okay. I’m here for you.”

That’s all he needed to hear. So, this Riley would now be an obstacle of justice in his way. Newspaper hiding the device sat on the table, the wired bud linked to his ear to listen to the bug he’d placed in your bag. 

He had to listen to the way Riley was sweet talking you, how he made you feel safe. Protected. Something burns a hole in his chest and makes his blood run hot at the sight of another man making you smile. He had to sit back as he offered to drive you back home and further insist when you at first refused, only to then give in. He had to watch from the cover of his position as you dare get into another man’s car after he opens his door for you. 

Of course, how could he blame him? You were a pretty little doll. But you were his pretty little doll. His little rabbit that he took great delight in chasing after, watching you whimper and fall apart under him, around him during those late and intimate hours. 

His bright, icy blue eyes grow darker, colder with hate and seething possessiveness. He won’t let a badge stand in his way. Six long years it’s taken him. He lost you once and he will make sure that you never leave him again. 

After Riley had dropped you off, you had made the rounds of alternating the security system and changed the digital pins. You did it every day to ensure that nothing was left to chance. 

When nightfall broke over the valley and you were left in a dark, snowy solitude by yourself, you drew all curtains to close, gritting your teeth at the chattering of the rings on the pole. 

You ignored the rattling tap of the tree branch you still haven’t managed to deal with. You did what work you could, tried to relax after making yourself some dinner and a warm beverage, all the while caught in a silent and haunting conflict.

You knew that Riley was just a call away. Anytime, anything you needed and he was there. But you still can’t shake the feeling of being watched by a predator. 

Now you lay in bed, fast asleep around the 12:15am after you took some of that medication to help you sleep. It did wonders for nights that felt restless. They just still seem to not impact the side effect of waking up with a scream in your throat at the cost of your nightmares. 

But tonight, it seems you’re granted respite. Your hips roll against something that in turn mimics the action against you. A soft, crackly whimper parts your lips and you feel a jolt of pleasure shoot through your abdomen, twisting blissfully and you moan aloud.

He loves the sounds you make for him in your sleep. They way that even when your conscious mind isn’t awake, your body complies to the pleasure he gives you. He doesn’t want to think about Riley having you like this. It only speeds up the ruthlessness of his thrusts that ring your cunt walls around his length, your slick coating him as he sheathes in and out, in and out fast and unfashionably quick. 

A mix of flesh and metal hold you down on the bed by your hips, fingers leaving a painful reminder on the supple there; a small puzzle piece for you to discover in the grand scheme of plan for you. 

You moan again but it’s cut up, jostled with a bubbly whine as you struggle to breathe air into your lungs. Your thighs tremble and squeeze tight around whatever force that pistons between them. Your voice chokes on a whimpered sound of a name.

His heart sinks…

Your walls clench around him when he hits that spot and you cry out, stirred from your dreams and the creaking of your bed is heard in the otherwise deafening silence. That and muffled, masculine pants.

Your vision is blurred by the cover of sleep but your reaction doesn't take long to take place. 

Your eyes are shot wide open and your mouth falls agape with a scream, “Solda— mmm! Mmfmm!”

His gloved hand shoots out to cover your mouth and nose, muffling the sound of your terrified screams and he forces his thrusts to quicken. He doesn’t pay any sort of worried attention to the reflective glisten of tears in your eyes, highlighting the colour of them beautifully. You cried so much from the pleasure he brought you to in those late hours that he can no longer tell the difference. He grunts at the way your slick and hot walls surround him. How he’s missed this. 

Your stomach churns and twists, but your body visibly shakes and your skin goes between cold flushed and heated surges as your cunt swallows every single inch he gives you. His pace has only increased, the bevel between his dark brows shows and nothing else you can see — want to see — is hidden by that mask. With a final groan he cums, pulling out just as the first spurts paint over your outer folds and clit, smearing across your lower belly. You feel like your body has become numb with fear. 

“He stays away from what’s mine… or he dies.”

[skepwith]

Yet More Parts of the Revenge for OFMD Fans

Part 3 of a series: Revenge Master Post.

Sail Names

The Revenge is a square-rigged ship with three masts: the foremast, the mainmast, and the mizzenmast. (The masts are further subdivided into three sections, each with its own name, but this shit is complicated enough already so we’re not going there.) The sails on each mast, from bottom to top, are:

Foremast: foresail, fore topsail, fore topgallant sail Mainmast: mainsail, main topsail, main topgallant sail Mizzenmast: spanker (yes, really), mizzen topsail Before the foremast: fore topmast staysail, jib

The spanker doesn’t follow the naming formula because rather than being square rigged, it’s fore-and-aft rigged, meaning it moves differently and is a different shape.

Sail Anatomy

Each square sail hangs from a horizontal spar (pole) called a yard. (This is what Roach jumps off during Jack’s game of “yardies.”) The ends of the yard are called the yardarms, as in “the sun’s over the yardarm” (time for a drink). The foot of the sail is secured with lines called sheets, as in “three sheets to the wind” (drunk).

Each yard has a specific name based on its location and function. So a sailor wouldn’t just say yard, they’d say main yard or fore topsail yard. This is true of every sail, line, and doohickey on a ship.

Unlike the square sails, the spanker doesn’t hang from a yard but from a gaff (specifically, the spanker gaff). Its foot is secured to another spar called a boom (the spanker boom).

The triangular sails at the bow of the vessel don’t have yards; they’re attached to lines called stays at the top (thus staysail) and to the bowsprit (or its extensions) at the front.

Fun With Sails

So now that we know what they’re called, what kinds of things can the crew do with them? Bearing in mind that the show’s canonical nautical orders are gibberish, here are some suggestions.

Setting Setting the sails means putting them into position to catch the wind and get the ship moving—that is, get it underway. Sailors climb up (go aloft) to the yards and spread out by standing on the footropes (though these ropes probably weren’t in use in the Revenge’s day). If the sail has been stowed (bundled up and tied to the yard), the crew needs to release the clewlines and buntlines to let the sail unfurl, after which they attach its bottom corners to the yard below by the sheets.

Furling The sails are usually furled (rolled or folded up) and stowed (tied to the yard) while the ship is moored, that is, tied to a wharf, quay, dock, or pier—in other words, not going anywhere.

Reefing Like furling, but only partway: to reef a sail is to fold up part of it to reduce the area exposed to the wind. This is done in strong winds to keep the ship stable. To shake out a reef is to release the sail to its full extent again.

Trimming When sailors trim a sail, they’re adjusting its angle to the wind for maximum efficiency. Yards can also be trimmed, by being moved horizontally around the mast or by tilting the yardarm up or down.

Heaving To To heave to is to stop the ship where it is, usually by backing some sails to counteract the rest. The past tense is hove to, as in “Upon seeing Blackbeard’s flag, the merchantman hove to and allowed itself to be boarded.”

Rigging

Ropes in storage are ropes; ropes in use are lines. Lines are tied into different knots for different uses—for example, a hitch is the knot used to tie a line to a fixed object, like a bollard (post).

The order to make [something] fast means to lash (tie) it securely. You can also lash something to something, as in “The hostages were lashed to the foremast.” The order to lash up and stow was a British Navy command to tie up the hammocks and stow them out of the way, usually in netting on the inside of the hull.

Each line has a specific name, like main sheet, fore shrouds, or mizzen topsail halyard. The number of different lines is truly staggering, so I’m only going to cover a few of them here. I’ve already mentioned the sails’ clewlines, buntlines, and sheets. To secure one of the lines after adjusting a sail is to belay the line. (Belay also means to disregard, as in “Belay that order!”)

A line that hoists (raises) something, like, say, a flag, is called a halyard. Cables are the thickest, heaviest lines—e.g., what the anchor is attached to—and may need to be moved using the capstan. (Though the anchor is never said to be hoisted; it’s weighed, despite what Frenchie says.)

Here, Jim is sanding in the shrouds. The shrouds are rows of vertical lines on either side of a mast. They serve to stabilize the mast, so they don’t move, which makes them standing rigging, as opposed to running rigging. Between the shrouds run horizontal lines called ratlines. Sailors use the ratlines as rungs to climb aloft.

Beyond the Revenge

When a ship’s not underway, it’s “parked” at an anchorage, which is any place a ship can anchor—usually a port or harbour, but it could be at sea or off an island.

When there’s a wharf, the ship can be moored, which usually means it’s tied to a short post (bollard) on the platform. Unmoored means untied, adrift—literally or metaphorically. Once the ship is moored, the gangplank is placed to allow the crew to walk ashore. If the ship needs major repairs, it is taken to the dockyard.

If the harbour’s too shallow for a ship to dock, its crew will make their way ashore in a smaller boat called a dinghy (or skiff or dory). These boats are kept on board the ship as lifeboats and to ferry supplies and people back and forth.

The dinghy’s rowers sit facing backwards (astern) to row their oars (not paddles), the flat part of which is called the blade. The benches they sit on are called thwarts, because they’re athwart (perpendicular to) the dinghy’s keel. When in use, the oars sit in notches in the gunwales called rowlocks (or oarlocks in Canada and the US).

If, let’s say, Fang decided to row out in a dinghy, he might take a break from rowing for a bit by resting on his oars. When he found a good fishing spot, he’d ship his oars—that is, take them out of the rowlocks and lay them inside the boat.

Zheng Yi Sao’s Red Flag is a type of ship called a junk. The junk is distinguished by its fully battened sails. Battens are strips of wood, usually bamboo, that were inserted into the sails as supports. These sails, whether fan-shaped or rectangular, were easier to handle in many ways, so a junk needed fewer crewpeople than a square-rigged ship like the Revenge.

Miscellaneous Sailing Lingo

Avast: Stede seems to use this to mean “Hey, I’m a pirate!,” but it’s actually an order to stop whatever you’re doing. I imagine Avast, ye! came to be associated with pirates because it’s what you’d say when boarding a ship: “Drop your weapons, everyone!” But that’s just my speculation.

Ahoy: word used to hail another vessel, as in “Boat ahoy!” or “Ahoy the Revenge!”

Fathom: how water depth was measured. A fathom is six feet down, or six feet of line. League: three nautical miles. A nautical mile was 6,080 feet. (For comparison, a regular mile is 5,280 feet.) Knot: a measure of speed equalling one nautical mile per hour. According to reddit, a ship that’s 150 feet long would have a top speed of about 16 knots.

Flotsam: debris or cargo left afloat after a shipwreck. Jetsam used to mean parts of a ship or its cargo that had been thrown overboard to lighten the load. The distinction was important for legal reasons to do with salvage rights; today they mean the same thing.

Lee: the side that is sheltered from the wind, whether speaking of a ship, land mass, or rock. Leeward and alee mean on or towards this side, away from the wind.

List: when a ship leans to one side, it’s listing Capsize: what a boat or ship does when it overturns in water Founder: to fill with water and sink (not to be confused with flounder, to flail around uselessly)

Pitch, Roll, and Yaw: these describe the motions of a ship. To pitch is to rock between bow and stern. To roll is to rock from side to side (starboard and port). To yaw is for the bow and stern to swivel back and forth.

That’s all, folks! Thanks to everyone who’s contributed to my knowledge by adding notes and comments to my posts. If you see any mistakes, please let me know!

Sources: Wikipedia, historicnavalfiction [dot] com, the OED

[shibaraki]

MAYBE IT’S A SIGN ┊ YAMADA HIZASHI

tags: GN reader, no quirk au, meet-cute, strangers to lovers, people watching, mic is fluent in JSL, pining, mutual attraction, flirting, fluff as promised !!!

wc: 1.7K

You aren’t afraid to admit that your life is a little mundane.

Rather than resent it you get by with the little wonders. The path is much the same but never the people, and your favourite part of the day is the train journey home. A precious twenty minutes when you can sit and watch the lives unfold around you. It’s during this time that you notice him.

You’re familiar with the regular passengers—not personally, rather, they’ve taken up space in your memory, each dedicated an intricate and fabricated backstory to pass the time. This new regular is definitely somebody you’d remember. Because he’s, well.

He’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

Tall and lean, decently thick arms and a trim waist often hidden beneath a signature leather jacket. Bulky headphones around his neck. A trimmed moustache and vivid green eyes peering over red rimmed glasses. Waist length blond hair, like spun gold in the train cars cheap fluorescence, never worn in the same style. You’ve seen it draped around his shoulders, a sleek updo, half down, and pulled back into a braided ponytail that mimics a mohawk.

Today it has been haphazardly shoved into a messy bun, wisps falling to frame his face as he smiles at his phone. Your heart beats a little faster at the soft sight. He’s sitting closer than usual, driven deeper into the carriage by the lack of seating; close enough to catch a glimpse at the music note sticker on his phone case and the chipped red paint on his nails. Before he can look up and catch your inquisitive stare you turn it toward the window, watching the rivulets of rainwater race in the wind as the cityscape passes by.

Thoughts wander, veering toward the faint shadows under his eyes. You’ve theorised plenty and settled on him being a musician of sorts. Piano or a guitar judging by his fingers. Guitarist would suit his aesthetic, but you find the image of him as a pianist strangely romantic.

As the train rushes through a dark tunnel you’re faced with your reflection, and his own in the background. For a split second you’re certain that your eyes meet. Then the darkness vanishes, and you squint against the pale eventide light.

Your close friends have heard a lot about Train Guy. They’ve teased you to no end, finding amusement in your lack of action. Writing a plotline for a beautiful stranger might be slightly piteous but it’s all you’re going to get. It’s not like you were ever going to do anything about your attraction.

You slump against the back of your chair and fiddle with the zip on your jacket, soaking up the heated murmurings between a couple from across the carriage. Train Guy seemed the chatty type, though he always hung up whoever he was on call to as he boarded you’d caught an english word or two. They sounded natural in his mouth—a fluent accent that inferred plenty of practice. You wanted to hear him speak more, but after the doors are closed silence is sternly expected.

As your thoughts drift, so does your attention. Your heart leaps to your throat. Train Guy is reclined comfortably, baring the pale column of his throat as he keeps an ear tucked against his left headphone speaker, bouncing his leg to a tune you’re not privy to. What grips you is the suggestion of a smile hanging on his lips as he looks back at you. It’s more hesitant than it is coy. Almost as though he might be just as unsure about his footing as you.

Pointedly, he nods in the direction of the bickering couple. His mouth downturns into an exaggerated grimace, tugging at the collar of his shirt. You laugh and quickly smother the sound with your hand, heat crawling up your neck as a nearby elderly man peers up.

Train Guy’s eyes are softer now. There’s a shallow dimple by the right corner of his mouth that deepens with his grin. He sits up straighter when you smile back and butterflies hatch in your stomach. You feel their paper thin wings beat behind your ribs. Holding his hands out to draw your attention you watch his pointer fingers stop a few inches apart and bend toward one another.

At your confused frown he down it again, this time mouthing the word ‘hello’. Then he points at his chest. He silently sounds out the name ‘Ya-ma-da’ in time with his movements. His name. Your lips part in soft surprise. Mirroring the initial position of his hands, you cautiously repeat the motion, fingers bending inward. It’s JSL—and the sign quite literally mimics the image of two people bowed in greeting.

The train creaks as it slows in preparation to approach the next stop. Disappointment hangs in the air. He shuffles in his seat, getting ready to stand. He flashes you an encouraging thumbs up, eyes smiling over those yellow tinted glasses. Then his forefinger uncurls once more, forming an upside down ‘L’ shape. He draws his hand in an arc across his face and lies the opposite palm flat, swiping flat across it.

You pout after him as he gets to his feet, this time without clarifying what he’d said. He simply shucks his leather jacket closer to his chest, pulls his headphones over his head—concealing the pink blush staining his ears—and waves as the doors open.

A gust of wind plumes into the enclosed space, petrichor briefly filling your senses. Your neck turns at an awkward angle just to catch a final glimpse in the crowd as the train pulls away.

The first thing you do upon arriving home is search up basic signs. It pulls up a website with dedicated categories; signs for greetings, for navigating daily life, for family and friends. Then, as you scroll further, your mouse hovers over the embedded images for flirtatious signs. Your living room takes on a hazy, mauve rose glow, perhaps from all the blood rushing to your brain.

Unless you are misremembering, Train Guy—Yamada, had called you beautiful.

The knowledge sits restlessly with you. An amalgam of giddiness and impatience bursts through your body like a babbling brook. This sort of thing never happens to you.

You wanted to see him again. To somehow reciprocate his efforts to connect with you in the pervading silence of that train car. Clicking back on the screen, you open up the menu bar and find fingerspelling. You repeat the motions, signing out your name until fatigue from the work day wears on your bones.

The next morning starts with vigor. Your excitement only seems to make the hours drag longer, each slower than the last. Coworkers remark on your eagerness to leave—making playful comments about a new secret lover, only to be spurred on by the sheepish expression on your face.

There is no lover to speak of, not yet. Just a pretty stranger who may or may not be a musician with which you share part of your journey home.

Yamada is there when you board, already perked up and waiting. His hair is braided today, draped effortlessly over his shoulder. You immediately duck your chin to hide a smile, teeth gnawing your inner cheek as you take the spot across from him.

A hush falls over the passengers when you hear the doors click shut. You glimpse up through your lashes. Yamada leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cheek resting in his palm. Anticipation swoops through your belly. You can’t help a nervous glance at the people around you as you sign hello to him.

Before he can respond, your finger points to your chest. Something flashes in Yamada’s eyes, now raptly watching while you sign out your name. Brighter still the instant you point at him, arc your forefinger and thumb across your face, and wipe across the opposite palm.

Beautiful.

Pink looks good on him, you think. Oscillating between flustered and frustrated, Yamada’s hands clench and unclench in his lap, seemingly agitated that he can’t use his words. You exhale a long held breath as he pats down his jacket pockets, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth while he types.

Once he finishes he leans across the gap to offer you the phone. You grip the seat handle and stretch to take it, static zipping down your spine when your fingers brush. Written up on the open notes app is:

Do you want to get off at my stop so I can take you out for coffee? YEAH! or no :-(

You huff a laugh through your nose, bringing the screen close to your front and typing your reply with a furtive glance as if it were a big secret just between the two of you.

YEAH! ✔️ I’d love to.

Yamada peeks at the response and dramatically holds the phone to his heart. This time when the train slows at the familiar stop you stand with him. Close enough to smell his warm scented cologne and leather. Shoulder to shoulder as you wait for the doors to open you feel those lithe fingers extend to brush your own. He doesn’t take your hand but it’s a close thing.

The arm resting a hair's breadth from your lower back guides you onto the platform and through the oncoming influx of passengers to a quieter spot. Alone together you drink each other in. Nervously tugging your sleeve to your wrist, you wet your lips and say, “…Hi”.

Yamada’s eyes squinted under the magnitude of his grin, nose wrinkled enough that his glasses slipped just a fraction. “Hey,” he returns. The low baritone of his voice settles over you like silk and you get the inkling that your life is about to become a little less mundane.

Even then, you’re certain that your favourite part of the day would always be the train journey home.

[chocolatechubby]

undefined

Bernie's Big & Tall

By Fatbrwncub

(posted with the permission of the Author)

The biggest problem--excuse me while I finish this last bite of cruller--is where to begin. It all seems to have happened so fast. One minute I'm standing in the unemployment line, trying to figure out where my next meal is coming from; the next thing you know, I'm getting the doors in my apartment widened so that I can get through. Oops! There goes another button.

Let me go back to the beginning--back to that unemployment line. My lover and I had been having problems making ends meet. There wasn't a great deal of a demand for my particular line of work in the winter---I was a lifeguard. At 6' 2" and 180 pounds, I cut a muscular frame, but everyone looks pretty much the same bundled up in parkas. My old job at the "Y" would probably have hired me back, but the pay stunk. And with a new lover, Sean, I had another mouth to consider. Sean suggested that I try modeling --his chosen profession, but as gorgeous as he was, he wasn't getting much work either. Why should we both be jobless cover boys? So, I headed to the unemployment office. Maybe something there would turn things around. Little did I know how right I was.

The place was depressing. Fluorescent light and peeling yellow walls covered everything like a moldy blanket. Cheap plastic chairs were set up for clients to wait for their turn to be humiliated by the next available counselor: "You'll have to take forms 2 thru 26 to windows 5 thru 14. Fill out lines A thru F on forms 30, 31, & 45; have them notarized and come back to me.... THEN I can tell you where the rest rooms are." As much as I needed the money, I wasn't up for that kind of run around. The YMCA was looking really good at that moment. As I got up to leave, I noticed the chair next to me quiver ever so slightly--as if a tremor were going through the building. The little table next to it was moving too. Now being hundreds of miles away from California, I knew it couldn't possibly be an earthquake. I was wrong. It was indeed an earthquake in human form. From around one of the peeling yellow corners, came the largest guys I had ever seen. His stomach seemed to go on forever, riding over his belt and spilling onto his massive underbelly like a tidal wave. Each of his labored steps made it quiver and roll. His arms, chest, and shoulders were so large that he had to twist his body slightly to maneuver the corner, yet each movement had an elephantine grace that was something to see. He was dressed impeccably in a suit that must have been tailor-made for him: it hung gracefully on his gargantuan figure. He was quite handsome, dusty blonde hair and neatly trimmed beard, and the bluest eyes. Growing up, the party queens I hung with always made fun of fat guys. Somehow, I always found something vaguely attractive about men with extra meat on their bones. I absent-mindedly rubbed my stomach as I watched him make his way to a Job Resource bulletin board on the other side of the room. He scanned the whole area carefully--deep in concentration, he seemed to be looking for someone. When his eyes met mine, his mood abruptly changed. His full round mouth had a slight smile on it as he zeroed in on me. I got the feeling he was studying me-not in that "cruisey" way, but as if he were trying to figure me out. He, raised a sausage-like finger, and motioned me over to him. For some reason, I wasn't taken aback at all. Something about him seemed so familiar. "Looking for a job?", he said. "Kinda", I replied. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a candy bar and a folded piece of green paper. "Wanna bite?", He asked. "No thanks…", I replied "…but I could use work." He unfolded the piece of paper and tacked it on the bulletin board, smudging it slightly with the chocolate from his fingers. "Well then, you might wanna check this out." With that, he took a large bite of candy bar, turned around, and began lumbering back down the hallway. I was about to say something when he stopped and turned around again (no easy feat for a man his size). "How old are you?", he asked. Slightly startled by his abrupt departure, I blurted out "29." Before I could ask him why it mattered, he patted his mountain of a stomach and smiled a knowing smile: "Same age as I was when I started at BB&T. See ya' around Danny!" And with that, he and his tremors were gone.

BB&T? I looked at the piece of paper for a moment. I took it down from the board and began studying it--trying to make it tell me more about the big, mysterious stranger. But all it did was sit in my hand and smell of Hershey's. The only writing was a quickly scribbled address and telephone number: "Bernie's Big and Tall-525-BIGG. The chocolate had formed a ring around the writing so that it looked like a halo. I laughed at the idea of working in a big men's shop, but hell, I needed work badly. Besides, something inside me started recalling the times when I'd been oddly aroused by the large men who were the butt of my friends' jokes. Maybe by working there, I could discover what the attraction was all about. I walked over towards the pay phone in the corner chuckling to myself. That's when it struck me that he'd called me by my name-Danny. Did I know him? He really did look familiar....

The phone rang ten times before someone answered at Bernie's. When someone did pick up, they were so out of breath I had to wait a couple seconds for a "hello". Then I remembered what type of establishment this was---all the employees probably looked like the guy I'd just met. Well, if for no other reason, they could hire me to answer the telephone. I smiled. It turned out to be Bernie himself on the line. Before I had a chance to say "Hello", or introduce myself, Bernie cheerfully announced: "Danny! Joe said you'd be calling! When can you start?" I was stunned. I stammered out, "B-but you don't even know me!" "I don't have to!" was his amiable reply. "Anybody that Joe picks will work out fine!" I didn't have the guts to tell him that I had no idea who the hell "Joe" was, but then maybe he was an old friend of my family's. Who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? Especially from such a large horse!

Bernie's Big and Tall was in a little strip mall just outside of the city. It took me two maps and three detours to find it. I almost gave up, but something told me to keep looking. A small card shop on one side and a bakery on the other flanked the store, and were the only other establishments in the complex. I was sure the employees at the Big and Tall kept the bakery in business because it was too far away from anything else to have a regular clientele. The store itself was rather unimpressive: a sign painted on the window proclaimed "Bernie's" with a silhouette of a rotund man underneath. A couple of half dummies sat dejectedly in the window--the clothing which covered them obviously too large for their frames. The one rather curious and slightly impressive item was the door to the front of the shop. It was huge. Much larger than the doors in most retail establishments, it must have been custom made for Bernie's king-size clientele. What did it feel like to need extra room for everything? When I put my hand on the handle to push the door open, I got the strangest feeling that if I stepped across the threshold of this place, my life would change forever. "This is ridiculous!" I remember thinking to myself "It's just a job for goodness sakes!" I pushed the door open and went in.

Lone Star's "I'm Already There" was playing on a far off country music station as the bell over the door gave a little tinkle. The place had that slightly musky perfume of your grandfather's closet-that subtle scent of fine pipe tobacco and Old Spice. The shop was much bigger than it seemed from the outside, and had a second level with a balcony and offices that overlooked the showroom floor. For a moment, I felt as if I was on a sound stage for "Land Of The Giants"-everything seemed oversized. From the racks that were set up for the tallest of the tall, to the suits that looked like they were made for Guinness Book Fattest Man nominees. All were neatly hung on rotating racks or show room displays. I'd never worked retail, but somehow I felt right at home. From above boomed a lusty voice: "Danny!". I looked up to find a large man leaning on the steel railings of the balcony. It didn't seem possible, but he was even bigger than Joe from the unemployment office. Every part of him was fat-from his puffy hairstyle, to his big feet. He looked like a balloon character from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. I half expected to see wires attached to him with people below maneuvering him. "Bernie?" I queried and his hearty laugh confirmed it. "None other my boy! Come on up!"

Bernie's office was at the top of the stairs. As I bounded up, two at a time, Bernie let out a chuckle "That's something you don't see many of our salesmen do!" He ushered me ahead of him and I walked through another enormous door to find myself in a small room, made smaller by its furnishings. It consisted of a small oak desk, and a computer-standard office fare. However, the large refrigerator, stand-alone pantry, coffee maker and microwave were not. "Before we begin, may I offer you something to eat?" Bernie asked, already carefully maneuvering his way around the desk to the refrigerator. It was somewhat surreal watching this super-sized man practically squeeze his way through the cramped quarters. He opened the refrigerator to reveal a small deli: meats of all kinds, exotic breads and cheeses, beverages ranging from soft-drinks to fine wines, all carefully stocked within its quarters. Bernie rummaged through, and pulled out an overstuffed submarine sandwich and began munching. His grunts of pleasure permeated the office, and instead of revulsion, I actually enjoyed watching this man eat with such gusto. For so many years, I had deprived myself of some of my favorite foods in exchange for the washboard stomach that I possessed. Maybe, if I worked here, I could live vicariously through these guys. My internal reverie ended with Bernie's voice. "Well at least share a cup of coffee with me. I hate nourishing myself alone." I smiled my assent and Bernie squeezed his way to the coffeepot. I was not a big coffee drinker, but I figure a little kiss up wouldn't hurt my job prospects any. Besides, for some reason the coffee smelled particularly delicious.

Bernie produced two mugs-each with the Big and Tall logo I had seen on the front door of the shop. "How do you take yours?" he cooed. "Black" I answered. "Well you must indulge me one small addition to your mug…I make my own blend of spices that seem to really liven up the coffee-nothing much, just some cinnamon and vanilla. Stuff like that. You're not allergic to anything are you? I told him no, and he took a small packet from the standing pantry, tapped it lightly on the desk, tore the corner and emptied the contents into my cup. The granules looked like Folgers Crystals-little flecks of something shiny danced and fell gracefully into the mug. Bernie took a small silver spoon and began stirring the coffee. The aroma was like nothing I had smelled before. Memories of big Sunday breakfasts and hearty Thanksgiving dinners suddenly became as vivid as if they'd happened yesterday. Nights spent eating cotton candy and funnel cake at the local carnival-laughing with my friends and gorging on hotdogs-all seemed palpable. Bernie brought the mug close to my nostrils and placed my hands around it. "Drink, my boy. And then we can talk about your joining us at BB&T."

Almost mesmerized, I brought the cup to my lips and took a sip. It was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. The beans of the coffee blended with the spices and my taste buds seemed to spring to new life. The thoughts of all of the goodies I had denied myself over the years began to turn into a craving, then a hunger. I could feel my stomach began to growl for food. I had grabbed a McMuffin when I'd left the unemployment office, but that had been several hours ago. It was natural for me to feel starved. But in the middle of a job interview? I had to eat something. As if on cue, Bernie produced an enormous plate of chocolate chip cookies. "Have one?" Bernie again cajoled. "I--I--…" I stuttered, but no other words would come out. The cookies looked like manna from heaven. I could feel the drool forming on my tongue. I grabbed one and placed it in my mouth. It melted like butter, blending with the coffee and exploding my senses like an orgasm. My crotch leapt, writhing with the rise and fall of my breath. I came up for air, took another cookie and a sip of the coffee. Again, the exact same sensation-yet more intense. I thought I was going to erupt right then and there. I gulped more of the drink and began inhaling the pastries with lightening speed. In less then ten minutes the entire plate was empty. The wildest thing of all…I was still hungry!

I looked up at Bernie, who was standing over me with a knowing smile. "It's always better to talk on a full stomach." He went to the refrigerator and pulled out another overstuffed submarine sandwich-twice the size of the one he'd just eaten. "Are you sure I can't tempt you with one of these?" My mouth opened automatically, and Bernie floated over and placed the monstrous hoagie in my hands. I tore into it as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. In between bites, Bernie suggested that we carry our meeting to The Blue Whale, a restaurant frequented by he and his staff. As I rose to go, onions and lettuce falling everywhere, Bernie touched the intercom on his desk. "All right boys…" the echo of his voice could be heard in the showroom below "…time for our foray to The Blue Whale! Close up shop!" In between munching, I could hear, and feel great activity from the floor below. The floor vibrated much like it had done in the unemployment office. We moved out of the office and onto the balcony to a sight that would have sent my old faggy friends into a tizzy. Below were five of Bernie's staff-each one plumper than the next. They stood at attention as we came down the stairs. Bernie introduced me to each, ending with their newest salesman, Dominic. He had to weigh at least 350 pounds. "This is our baby!" Bernie gushed, pinching Dominic's flushed cheek. "Been with us about a year" he poked Dominic's round middle. "He's starting to fit in quite nicely." Bernie lumbered towards the door, pulling me along with him. "Daniel here will be joining us for lunch-and hopefully more. Make him feel at home." And still in a spin from all that had happened since walking through the doors of Bernie's Big & Tall, I was off to The Blue Whale.

The Blue Whale was quite nice--muted tones of aqua and gray gave it warmth and style. A Bach concerto whispered softly as Bernie and the other salesmen took their seats. We had been ushered to a table in a private area of the restaurant--one large enough for the substantial girth of our party. It was obvious that Bernie and the gang were regulars, because all of the wait-staff knew everyone by name. It was also pretty obvious that time that the entire staff of Bernie's was gay. Underneath a curtained archway, a cadre of handsome waiters looked ready to break into a chorus of "Hello Dolly". They giggled and whispered as if they were dance hall girls anxious to see which gentleman would pick them out of the crowd. The headwaiter, who looked to be about Bernie's size, clapped the others to attention. "Don't just stand there like a bunch of schoolgirls! Take these gentlemen's orders!" he barked. "Oh Jacques," Bernie cooed "...just bring us our usual!"

I was returning to normal, my appetite assuaged and my pants screaming to be unzipped-my distended belly playing hide and seek with the buttons on my shirt. It was time to ask about hours and pay, and all the standard stuff. As I opened my mouth to get down to business, the first of the waiters arrived with the appetizers. There was enough food to feed a small city. Plate upon plate of mouth watering delicacies passed before the table: shrimp wrapped in bacon, small puff pastries stuffed with creams and cheeses and meats-anything that I had ever seen at fancy buffets was now being placed under my nose. I thought of the spectacle I must have made in Bernie's office, and my stomach began to turn. The thought of more food was making me nauseous. And then the coffee arrived. Jacques himself brought out the ornate samovar and ushered it towards Bernie. "Monsieur Bernie" he chimed. "Ze coffee wis your special mix eez ready". As Jacques opened the spigot and poured the first cup, the table went silent. Unbelievably I could feel my stomach loosen. I could feel the insatiable hunger I had felt in Bernie's office return. It was as if I had never eaten the mound of cookies. Just the aroma of the incredible liquid wafting into my nostrils was enough to make me want to stuff something in my mouth. All around me, the other men were having a similar reaction. I remember seeing episodes of "Wild Kingdom" with sharks or packs of wolves in a feeding frenzy. There was a primitive ritual about to happen, and everyone knew it. As the coffee was passed around, Dominic, began to sweat. When a cup made it to him, he grabbed it, and chugged down the hot liquid as if it were the first drink of a dehydrated man. He then grabbed the nearest tray of hors d'oeuvres and began shoveling them into his mouth. Sweat glistened on his brow as he tipped the tray up and up until he was literally swallowing and chewing almost simultaneously. A waiter quickly scurried over and began wiping his brow and massaging his hardening belly. I sat in awe as I watched each of the sales guys fall into the same kind of trance-that is until my cup reached me.

I recall one of the adventures of Homer's "Odyssey", in which Odysseus and his men encounter the witch Circe. Once on her island, she turns most of the men into animals. Bernie had led his men into the modern day version of that adventure. I don't remember much about the rest of that meal. As my haze parted from time to time, I was aware of grunts and moans of pleasure coming from around the table. Slurping and guzzling and licking were followed by burps and the occasional button pop or zipper pull being loosened. Halfway through the fourth course, everyone abandoned silverware and began eating off of plates and trays with their hands and mouths. I found myself caressing and licking the gravy off of plates as if it were a lover. No mouthful seemed enough-I couldn't get the food in fast enough, and the sounds and sights around me seemed to urge me on. By dessert, each man was no longer able to feed himself. The waiters took over and began shoveling whipped cream, cakes and pies into our dazed faces. I can't tell you how much I ate, but I literally couldn't move. My belly was as hard as a ripe cantaloupe and I closed my eyes and slept.

When I awoke, the entire table had been cleared off. Any trace of the feeding frenzy had been wiped away, and all of the men had been cleaned up and were groggily coming to themselves. If it weren't for the screaming pain coming from my stomach, I would have thought it all a dream. Standing above me was a beaming Bernie. "I hope you got enough to eat." The boys and I do this at least three or four times a week. Don't worry about the bill…I take care of that." I sat up and blinked. I couldn't believe this was happening. Bernie handed me a packet of papers-the standard Human Resources forms to fill out along with information about my salary and benefits. My eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw how much I'd be making. It was at least five times what I would have made at the "Y". How could he afford to pay for all of this? Bernie saw my reaction. He said "Don't worry, this salary is only temporary. With raises and incentives you'll quadruple it in no time. So do we have a deal?" Was he crazy? I propped myself up on my swollen stomach and shook his hand. "On one condition" I said. He cocked his fat head and his chins wobbled. "What's that, my dear boy?" "That you give me some of that coffee to take home"

In the beginning, everything went along pretty normally. The store practically ran itself. And I was more than content--I was happy. The first time I noticed something different was after my initial lunch with the guys. The next few days, I was ravenous. I ate from morning till night. And I craved the coffee with the secret ingredient introduced to my by Bernie. One morning, about a week after I had started working, I rolled out of bed and began getting ready for work. Sleepily I showered, shaved, and stumbled into my clothing. I stepped into my dress slacks and pulled them to my waist. They wouldn't close. With my swimmer's lifestyle, I had been a perfect size 32 for years. I never had to worry about putting on weight. I went to the scale in the bathroom and stepped on. Since I had begun working at the store, I had put on ten pounds! "Not acceptable." I thought to myself. I sucked in my stomach, fastened my pants and made a mental note to go to the gym more often and most importantly--to cut out lunching with the guys. But somehow neither thing seemed to happen--I was constantly working until after the gym closed. And not going to lunch with the Bernie and the gang became as unthinkable as not having cup after cup of the delicious mysterious coffee. I began to have strange dreams: I would dream I was in the middle of Africa in the bush country, taking pictures of wildlife, when the earth would begin to shake. Suddenly an enormous Bull Elephant the size of a building would come crashing through the tall grasses and block the sun. I was terrified until it would dawn on me that I was the Elephant! Then, understanding my power, I began breaking down trees, even mountains--growing more enormous with each new conquest. After one of these dreams, I would always wake in a sweat, run to the kitchen, and raid the refrigerator--absent-mindedly eating until I was sleepy.

After about three months of this, I could no longer hide the results. I tried to wear my size 32 pants until they had all systematically exploded off of my frame. My suit jackets had begun cutting off the circulation in my arms, and my old shirts were laughable on my new frame. Between the daily lunches, midnight binges, and very little gym time, I had gone from 180lbs, to 230. My pants size had gone from the perpetual 32 to a 42.

One night, about a week before my 30th birthday, I tiptoed into the bathroom when I thought Sean was sleeping. I took off my clothes and stepped in front of the full-length mirror. My face was so round! I was beginning to develop a pronounced double chin. My thighs and ass were full and big, and my stomach was beginning to grow into this ball of soft flesh. And my tits! I remembered my high school gym teacher teasing Jeffrey Lowell and Scott Taylor: two fat kids in my class. He used to call their soft round mammaries "man-tits", kidding them about having bigger ones than most of the girls, (which was true). I used to find those two guys fascinating: the way they lumbered onto the field for class, the way they looked in the showers. I knew I was gay back then, but it was something more than that. And here I was with my own set of "man-tits". I touched the right nipple, and then the left--crossing my arms and inadvertently giving myself cleavage. Electricity shot through my entire body. My nipples had become so sensitive! Caught in my exploration, it took me a moment to realize that my lover Sean was standing behind me. He had come in to use the toilet and noticed me in the mirror. "You're fat," he said as he sleepily relieved himself, kissed me on my chubby cheek and padded back to bed. He was right. I WAS fat. But looking in the mirror, I wasn't sure that was a bad thing. I touched my nipples again and headed for the kitchen.

The next day at work, Bernie and the guys threw me a birthday party and presented me with two gifts. The first was a container of the special ingredient for my coffee, and the next was a new suit from the store. It was the first size that we carried for big men. I was still a size or two away from needing to shop at Bernie's and had decided to keep it that way. "No offense guys...", I said, "...but I plan on never wearing clothes from our store!" "Well we can always get it taken in." Bernie quickly replied. "We just wanted to show you how glad we are that you're here. Now cut the cake and have some coffee!" I declined the cake, but I had 3 cups of coffee. That evening determined to change my eating habits for my 30th year on this planet, I took off early and headed for the gym. On the way, I passed restaurant after restaurant, fast food joint after fast food joint. I kept thinking to myself, "You've got to lose weight." Yet every time I would ask myself "Why?" I couldn't come up with a good enough answer. Until I thought of Sean's comment in the bathroom: "You're fat!" "You could lose him", I thought. I steadied myself and pointed the car in the direction of the gym. When suddenly, a little voice spoke to me: "But if you go to the gym right now, you could lose YOU." Suddenly I was starving. I turned into a Kentucky Fried Chicken, ordered a 20-piece bucket, and ate the whole thing in the car.

When I got home, Sean had prepared a huge meal of pasta, fresh bread and salad. Even after my trek to the Colonel's, I wolfed down plate after plate. Sean announced that he had news--good and bad. The good news was that he had landed a choice modeling assignment with a top agency. The bad news was that the agency was out of the country and he would be gone for at least 5 months! I felt like I was going to die. I wanted to scream, "It's me isn't it? I'll lose the weight! Don't go!" But instead, I stuffed some more food in my mouth and hugged him tightly. I loved him too much to stand in his way. And if he found someone else with a swimmer's build who made him happy...so be it. Sean had to leave the day before my birthday. As he hugged me before he boarded the plane, he whispered, "See you later fat boy", in my ear and walked away. And I knew I'd never see him again. When I got home, I pulled out the suit Bernie and the guys had given me and put it on. I looked like a kid playing dress up. Even though I was working on a size 44 waist, the pants had to be at least a 46. I thought of Sean and suddenly felt free. I sat down with a mixing bowl of Captain Crunch and heavy cream and imagined myself filling out the pants.

What happened next is all a blur. Knowing that I had lost Sean, I poured myself into my work and my food. Both satisfied me intensely. The store was doing great business. It seemed that the more I ate, the more productive I became. I was growing daily. Every time I turned around, a button would pop or a zipper would break. I began to carry around safety pins to keep my clothes up--it became a running joke around the store. The guys who used to seem enormous to me suddenly began to look average. I became the star at the Blue Whale. The waiters would line up to be my encourager and with Sean gone, I used their attention to help me forget about Sean. Bernie, who was no slouch at the dinner table, would watch me in amazement as I polished off plate after plate of entrée after entrée with all the trimmings, the servers massaging my distended belly and cooing at my appetite. Then go to work on the dessert cart. I stood in the mirror more often now. I was officially fat by anyone's standards. My face was so round that sometimes I wouldn't recognize myself. Because I was constantly lifting heavy boxes, my arms were huge and firm, as was my chest. But my stomach became my favorite area. I would hang out at the bar around the corner from my apartment and drink beer after beer to the amazement of all the guys. I started wearing suspenders because no pants it seemed would hold my ever growing gut.

In the first month after Sean left, I put on 35 lbs. I tipped the scales at around 265. From then on, not a waking (or sleeping) moment went by that I didn't eat something. I even took food breaks in the store. Bernie was right about the suit I was given for my birthday--I DID have to have it altered...eventually it had to be let out--twice! Sean would call and we would have stilted conversations. He would ask me if I was still gaining weight, and I would avoid talking about it. He would tell me he loved me, but I knew it was just talk. The company had extended his contract--he didn't know when he'd be back. Every now and then, I would get a postcard from some exotic place saying, "Having a Wonderful Time, Wish You Were Here". But I was too busy to notice. I was becoming the Elephant of my dream. I could feel my power.

In the next few months, I surpassed all store sales records, and there was big talk of a promotion to store manager. Except for the prospect of leaving this location, I couldn't have been happier. At least, when I wasn't thinking about Sean. The 5 months had quickly become 8 and then 10. In that time, my physical gain had become as impressive as my professional one. In the year since I had begun working at Bernie's, I had gone from 180 to 380 lbs. My waist had gone from a 32 to a 62. I was beginning to make earthquakes of my own.

One night I awakened from a dream (in which my stomach broke through the walls of the Empire State Building) by a voice in the darkness. "My God! You're huge!" it was Sean's voice. He was standing over the bed. He sounded different somehow. My first instinct was to grab him with my big arms and engulf him in my newfound mountain of flesh and warmth. But anger quickly welled up inside of me and I sat up in bed--the third empty large pizza box falling off of my stomach. "Yes I am." I said proudly, "You got something to say about it?" "Yes..." he said-I could hear the smile in his voice as he moved closer. "We are going to need a bigger bed." And with that, he turned on the light. My mouth dropped. When Sean left, he had been a 6 foot 1 inch, 170 lb. cover boy: now standing before me was a 6 foot 1 inch, 285 lb. (he told me later) gorgeous Buddha. His round face now covered with a lush beard. It was obvious that he was gaining weight faster than he could buy clothes to fit him: the T-shirt he was wearing wouldn't fit over the big round belly protruding over his tight size 48 jeans. "How?!...Why?" I stammered. "By eating dummy!" he laughed. "And I have a feeling that the delicious stuff I borrowed from you to put in my coffee helped". "But I thought you didn't like me fat!" I was almost crying now. Sean sat on the edge of the bed--which groaned under the over 600 pounds of us. I could see how horny he was as his great stomach heaved. "You never asked. You just assumed I wouldn't want a fat lover. I loved watching you pig out. I'd come in the bedroom after you'd gorge and jack off. Didn't you notice how intense our love-making got after you started putting on weight?" "I thought you were over-compensating because you loved me." I said. "Of course I love you Danny, but not in spite of how much you weigh-your size turns me on! I want you as big as a house!", was his breathless reply as he kissed me full on the lips. "And I hope you're ready for me to join you." He took off his shirt to reveal burgeoning man-tits and the most beautiful belly I had ever seen. He straddled me, opened my robe and began exploring my under-belly, kissing it and licking lower and lower. I felt hungry and horny at the same time as I pulled him to my crotch. We broke the bed that night.

T hat was three years ago. When I waddled into work the next day, I was beaming. Sean and I made love all night, and then spent the entire morning eating the breakfast to end all breakfasts. During which, he told me of his adventures in Europe. He spent the first few months pining over me-not eating, not sleeping. Once he began drinking the coffee, his appetite returned and he immediately found solace in food and proceeded to eat himself out of his misery. Of course this began to show on his waistline, and after a month, he was let go from his modeling contract. As luck would have it, a photographer on the shoot also worked with a new European catalogue designed for big men. He introduced Sean to the head of the company and the rest was history. Sean spent the remainder of the tour eating and posing in the finest cities of the Old World. He really had a wonderful time and wished desperately that I had been there. We decided to get married and spend our honeymoon eating our way through all of the spots he had discovered in his travels.

When Bernie saw me, he sensed the change immediately. "My boy, either you had sex last evening, or discovered that Little Debbie delivers-which was it?" We were in his office, munching on crullers. We had positioned ourselves so as to be able to reach the refrigerator and standing pantry without moving: we had become so large that it was impossible for the two of us to move around. "Both" I laughed. I told him of Sean's return, and of his amazing transformation. I told him that my life was complete: I had a job I loved, and a partner whom I adored. Bernie smiled, and in it, I thought I caught a hint of bittersweet sadness. "Well then," he said. "…my job is done." And he immediately began opening drawers, removing papers and stuffing them in a nearby briefcase. Stunned, I spattered out "What are you doing?"- crumbs spewing across my white shirt. Bernie smiled, and calmly explained. "I am a business man my dear. I have many other BB&T locations to check on. Joe, the man you met at the unemployment office, is my lover. He's already gone off to our store in Portland, and now I can join him. We needed to find a manager for this store that we could depend on and trust to carry on my traditions. We found him." He reached over and patted my stomach, which was wedged against his desk. "But…but…" I searched for words. How could I tell this man that he had become my mentor, my father-my friend! I blurted out the first thing that came into my mind. "But where will I get more of Bernie's Secret Mix for my coffee?" Bernie laughed "make it yourself darling-I told you, it's just cinnamon and vanilla." I stared at him blankly. "But what about the secret ingredient? The stuff that makes us so ravenous?" Bernie chortled "The secret ingredient my boy, is you."

I looked down at myself. At 400 lbs., my 4X dress shirt was already gapping in the front around my stomach. People moved out of my way when they saw me coming because of my size. My whole world had become food-I expressed myself in how much I indulged. Was Bernie saying that this had been my destiny all along. I thought back to High School-to Jeffrey Lowell and Scott Taylor-to the big men who would intrigue me when I was with my friends. I realized, not only did I want to HAVE them, I wanted to BE them. And now I was. I guess he was right: it was in me all the time.

So now I run Bernie's Big & Tall Store #836. We consistently bring in the highest revenues of any in the chain. We also have the fattest staff. I've had my offices expanded to include a full kitchen, and have hired my favorite chef and waiters from the Blue Whale to prepare in house meals for my staff. I surpassed Bernie's weight about a year ago, and am so fat that I had to install a freight elevator to get to the second floor, because the steps are impossible for me to maneuver. I am fast approaching Guinness Book proportions. As for Sean-he now models for Bernie's catalogue. He quickly outgrew the standard sizes, and a new super-size line was developed. Sean also recruits new employees for the store. He now tips the scale at over 500lbs., and is the most beautiful roly-poly thing I've ever seen. So you see, dreams come true in the strangest places. Who would have ever thought that I would find my life's calling in an unemployment line? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm about to interview a potential salesman that Sean found, and I have to brew some coffee.

By the way…are YOU looking for work?

The End.

copyright 1998 by Fatbrwncub

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. Eventual nsfw, not this chapter. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. chapter map.

The Gate to Hell

You’re not sure what it is about airports, that somehow makes them feel like a special little extension of the circles of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, is more the like. All you do there is wait, and wait and wait, praying that soon it will be time to move on.

It probably doesn’t help that you’re absolutely fucking dreading your destination ahead.

Frankly, it will be a miracle if you survive this weekend with your sanity intact.

And then, there’s this dude behind you. You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye. He just keeps pacing back and forth, rolling his stupid bag with him, and you just want to whirl and tell him to be still or sit the fuck down.

Instead, he comes to stand next to you.

You give him a glance. And then, you’ll admit, a double take, because he is stupidly handsome, even while frowning, staring churlishly at the flight monitor as though it had personally insulted him. And, to add insult to injury, he is tall. And well dressed in jeans and a button down and a nice sports jacket. And you inwardly sigh for some indefinable reason that has to do with longing and your acceptance that the universe does not bestow such gifts upon you for free.

“Nice dress.”

You blink, not having expected him to speak to you.

“Thanks.” It’s a 50’s style robin’s egg blue halter swing dress, your favorite color. You needed some bright color therapy, to face the hell you’re about to be stepping into.

“Is there a sock hop in San Luis Obispo I’m missing?”

You guess with your cat-eye Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, you do look rather on brand.

From his sardonic tone you’re not sure if he’s making fun of you. “All the cool kids are going.”

You kind of deliver it like a dig, and you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “Ah. That explains everything.”

You look him over. He…really is ridiculously handsome, if you’re being honest. High cheekbones. Trimmed beard. Piercing eyes. Casually well dressed. A bit older than you, not that that’s ever stopped you.

“I hope our flight’s on time.”

You check your phone app for the airline. “Supposed to be.”

“Let me guess. You’ve got an app for that?” The way he says it, just this side of snide, like you fucking millennials—it kind of pisses you off. And maybe you’re overly sensitive to patronizing comments from older men, but with your history you have a right to be.

“Do you have a problem with me?”

He stands up a little straighter. “What?”

“Like what’s your deal? I was just standing here minding my own business, while you’re creeping around behind me—”

“I was not creeping. I was trying to see the board.” He gestures at the display screen by the gate.

You look him up and down. That’s a tall drink of water, if you’re being honest. “Because Mr. six foot six over here can’t see over my head—”

“I’m only 6’1”—”

“Okay, 6’2” in your shoes, and then you come up here, give me a backhanded compliment, and make fun of me for having the means to keep track of what’s going on with our plane?” You glare at him. “Holy shit, are you trying to neg me?”

“I don’t…even know what that means.”

“Ok, boomer.”

“I am not a boomer.”

“Whatever.”

Then he has the gall to step away—in front of you.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re going to butt ahead in line too?”

“On a flight that holds eight people?”

“Wow. Ok, be my guest.” You wave him on, and he rolls his eyes. Then you have to stand there, and look at his stupidly broad shoulders in that nice sports jacket, and his dark softy waving hair that just brushes his collar…you’re not going to look at his butt.

You’re not.

Your eyes slide down.

Fuck, but that’s a nice caboose.

The Fight Or Flight Response

As you sit in your backseat of the plane, there is one seat left beside you, and when you see who boards last you want to throw yourself down the stairs before they close the door.

“Anyone want to trade seats?” he asks, bent over practically in half, he’s so tall and the plane is so small.

Crickets.

With a resigned grumble he settles into the seat next to you, as though the world might end if he has to spend a handful of minutes in your general proximity.

Then, of course, the universe further conspires to embarrass you by sending you a defective peanuts bag, which you cannot for love or money get to tear open.

“Dear god, tear it at the notch,” grouses the rude man beside you, driven insane by you fighting with it.

“There is no notch.”

He’s there with his big hand extended, making an annoyed give it here gesture. It’s distracting, truly, how long and elegant his fingers are.

“Give it here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Give. It. Here.”

You’re so disgusted with this whole day, you hand it over. Then watch with smug delight as he can’t get it open either. Finally, he uses his teeth in his frustration, undoubtedly spitting all over it. When he tries to hand it back to you, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

With a sigh, he offers you his less molested bag.

You take it like accepting his sword on the battlefield.

You both make faces as you quickly find that the seasoning on the nuts tastes like hot trash, and you reckon it’s probably a metaphor for how the next few days are going to go.

This is going to be the weekend from hell.

“So what brings you to San Luis Obispo?” the man asks resignedly, almost like he can’t quite stop himself from talking to you. There is an exhaustion in his tone that would have pulled at your heartstrings, if you weren’t so generally pissed off.

“You don’t have to try to talk to me.”

He shrugs, throwing up those big, beautiful hands in a gesture of annoyance. You can’t help but stare at them—they really are a menace.

“Just trying to be pleasant.”

You can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes you at hearing that. He frowns over at you, and you cover your mouth, hiding your smile. You know you must look like a crazy person—but it’s just too ridiculous.

“Was it that funny?”

You sigh, and for some reason you feel better after the involuntary outburst. Okay. Maybe you can make an effort. No one is ever in a good mood at the airport, after all. “I’m actually going to Paso Robles.”

“Row-bulls.”

“It’s pronounces ro-blays.”

“Everyone says Row-bulls.” 

“Well, not the fucking Spanish who named it.”

He looks away again with that thunderhead of a frown. Why does he have to look extra handsome, when he’s pissed off?

You sigh again. “Look, I’m sorry. I swear, I’m not always such a bitch. It’s just…this fucking wedding I’m going to.”

This catches his attention; he turns to look at you like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse. “Not…Keith and Anne’s wedding?”

“How do you fucking know Keith and Anne?”

“Keith and I share a mother.”

“Holy shit, you’re Frank?”

“Who are you?”

“I was engaged to Keith, years ago.”

“Oh my god, you’re y/n.”

You can sense by the way he says it that you’re infamous in the family’s lore. It’s been a long time, but still, it fills your heart with a familiar leaden despair.

You close your eyes, and look away.

“You’re just as horrible as Keith always said,” you say to the window.

“I find you equally disagreeable, I assure you.”

waiting for death the car

“There was supposed to be a car,” Frank grouses the second you exit the airport. Patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“The flight was early.”

“But it seemed so long.”

It’s a good dig, truth be told, and the corners of your mouth twitch despite yourself. You sit down on a bench, and to your surprise he sits on the other, though on the side closest to you. “So what the hell are you doing here?” he asks. “Didn’t Keith break your heart?”

“Shattered it into bits.”

“Well?”

“I was invited.”

“And…you’re a masochist?”

“Look, I’m not…whatever Keith must have said I am. I was practically a fucking child when he started dating me. It was not…” It was perfectly legal, of course, but the imbalance of worldly experience, looking back, had not been kosher.

You feel the tide of all the pain and insecurity that man caused you raise up in your heart. Usually you’re pretty good at shoving that shit down down in the deepest dungeon you can, like a healthy person, but the wound is feeling a little fucking raw at the moment, considering.

“Keith is an asshole who only cares about himself. I am aware.”

You sigh, and the tide miraculously recedes. Goddamn. It almost feels like he’s on your side.  “Okay, yeah. There you go.”

“Why do this to yourself?”

“You know, before he broke it off, we had a fight the night before because I told him I would never get breast implants, of all fucking things, and Keith told me I would never amount to anything without him.”

“Sounds like something asinine he would say.”

“I wanted to go back to school, and he didn’t like it. He wanted a Stepford wife, and I was becoming alarmingly aware of the world outside his own making of it, the way children do when they grow up. If you’re wondering why he dumped me.”

“That tracks perfectly.”

“He invited me to be a shit and rub my nose in it, so…I’m here as a fuck you. I wanted to show him I’m doing fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You do seem rather well adjusted.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

This, surprisingly, makes him smile a little.

A few moments of slightly less awkward silence pass before he asks, “So what did Keith tell you about me?”

“Oh, he told me plenty.”

“Such as?”

“What does it matter?”

“Don’t do that,” he snipes. “Don’t dangle the tidbit then refuse to deliver it.”

“Fine. He said you’re a grouch who hates everyone.”

“Oh. I was afraid he might have said something untrue.”

You glance over at his ridiculously well-sculpted profile. He glares ahead, his brows furrowed, and you strangely get the sense that maybe…he’s a little sad for it.

At fucking last, the shuttle car from the hotel arrives.

Tbc...

[hms-tardimpala]

Ficbinding: The Inexhaustible Silence of Houses by Askance

The fic: SPN, Castiel/Dean Winchester, T, 31.8k I've been trying to read more longfics* this year in order to get my brain used to reading again, and I've followed rec lists to do so. That means I'm only now discovering the big classics and popular authors of the fandom, and I'm having a great time. This fic is a beautifully crafted horror story that gripped me and that I didn't want to let go. I rarely read Cas POVs but this worked great on me. This story has everything that makes horror great: an unreliable narration, an oppressing atmosphere, and hints you catch too late.

*With my attention span, "longfic" starts at 25k words.

The bind: After several books that were a little complex or eccentric, I wanted to do something simple. I used my beautiful dark green cloth (my camera murdered the true color of it) because the story is set in a forested area. Dean and Cas settle in an old house, so it seemed fitting to use that magnificent magnolia endpaper that could be a wallpaper in a house like that. I used pale pink headbands and ribbon because 1) I've never used pink in a bind and 2) it's charming and I really wanted to represent that atmosphere of coziness the start of the fic has. Dean and Cas try to settle down and make a home of their own in the fic, and I thought that these colors would call to mind an old house fairly well.

I didn't use a lot of decorations this time, I kept the typesetting plain, like I imagine the books that Cas collects in the fic are. I put a house on the title page and a house in flames at the end of the book, iykyk. The only notable thing is that I used a serif font, which I wouldn't normally do for Supernatural. That's because most fics I read are in Dean's POV, and he's a sans serif guy, unlike Cas. Obviously. Anyway, I looked for the fonts that would be the easiest to read in a small book (A6 format, final size 12,6cm x 9,5cm).

Craft specifics to add?

Everything went very well this time except for the trimming of course. I think I played it too tight, I wanted to trim too little and the signatures twisted in the guillotine, so I ended up with an uneven textblock. I reprinted it all, trimmed by hand, sanded the edges (I'm still perfecting that technique) and I was good to go. There are little imperfections because I sanded before I sewed, but I like them.

I'm really proud of the spine, it ended up nice and round. I didn't let the glue dry for as long as usual before I took a hammer to the spine. Should do it again.

The corners are good and this cloth with paper backing took to the grey board like they were making love. It feels so tight and clean.

I used new tools I'm incredibly happy with: a rotary cutter and a quilting ruler.

Fonts: Optimus Princeps (title and author name), Garamond (chapter titles), Gentium Book Basic (text). All free on Dafont.

Materials: Green cloth from Schmedt, 2mm grey board, 80g/m² ivory-colored paper, synthetic bookmark and headbands. Endpaper from Schmedt.

Feel free to ask me more about materials and fonts (or whatever), it won’t bother me at all to tell you what I used, I just can't think of anything else right now.

[snek-panini]

Happy Halloween! Have a book:

This is Siren's Song by @kedreeva (Hi! I asked to bind your fic months ago, sorry it took so long XD). It's an incredible Good Omens siren AU, which needs no introduction from me but it gets one anyway. It's one of the most in-character fics I've ever read, tackles a lot of the most resonant themes of the original (love in the context of aromanticism and asexuality, human labels in the context of non-human perspective), and has incredible world-building. Later parts of the fic always make me cry but they're good tears. You'll see. When I first learned that fanbinding was a thing and started looking into how to do it, this was one of the first fics I thought of. It just took me a while to learn the skills I needed before I could do it.

More pics and process talk under the cut!

So the cover up there is black faux leather and momi paper that I bought...about two years ago? And just kept on hand till I was ready to do this project. This is the first time I've worked with it and it was fairly nice, though harder to get a nice crease into than lokta or chiyogami. It felt very fragile when I was handling it but I didn't have any issues with tearing or glue bleed-through like I thought I might. It did bleed some color when I got it damp with the glue, and it took way longer to dry than normal, but once that was done it's been fine. Which is nice because I have a lot left over, so it'll probably be making many future appearances in my binds.

Look! It's rounded! I got a backing setup recently and this is my first time using it. It was Very Hard and I am not very good at it yet. But I think it looks pretty good for a first attempt, and there was really no other way to mitigate the spine swell on this one. I used a thick paper so I've got a thick book. I also tried something new with the case, though it isn't visible. Usually I make the text block and the case separately and then attach them as the last step, but for this one I actually built the case around the text. Like, boards attached to mull/tapes (sandwiched between thinner boards, with grooves cut for them so there are no bulges), then covered with momi, then leather corners and spine, then paste down the endpaper. It's got an oxford hollow, too! The tapes and mull actually wrap around the outside of the boards instead of the inside like I've done before. Endpapers are my favorite feather chiyogami. Combined with the marbled momi they make for a very opulent look, and I had just barely enough to do this. Like, down to the millimeter. I had to trim the edges and then glue the endpapers after to be sure they were right. I'm glad they were, because I didn't have a backup plan. Handmade endbands, colors picked to match the cover. Also, last note, I got the corner bits right for the first time. Measured properly, with no weird pointy bits that come out at funny angles. Very proud.

Title page and bookmark/interior shot. Did you know that some basic fonts in MS Word look different when you use a huge font size? Because I didn't until I made this title page. That's Parchment for the title, and it only gets those swirly bits around the capital letters if you take it to 26pt or higher (I used 72 here). Now I wonder if any of the other fonts have easter eggs in them like that. The ribbon is very fancy, to go along with the rich endpaper/cover combo. I think it's pretty appropriate for a mythological golden age of piracy story, as are the text ornaments:

Chapter header image, chapter end image, and section break image. It was a very image-heavy typeset. I was originally planning to only have a header and a section break, but I couldn't decide whether I liked the ships or the book/shell/feather better, and they both suited the story so well that I just went with both. Again, opulent, but I think it fits. All the images came from rawpixel, all I did was resize them.

There was a small error in the trimming process. Comes of having to calculate so closely the exact amount you can trim off, that you have to trim off so your slightly-too-small endpapers fit. I think something got misaligned when I poked the sewing holes because only the first signature is like this. The rest of the book has a more appropriately-sized margin between the page number and the edge. I got very lucky here, and I know it, and I'm never cutting it this close (lol) again. Next time we just order another sheet of chiyogami.

And that's it! I have one author's copy and one new bind in progress right now (that's taking a while because I'm learning more new stuff for it), and then I have two Christmas gift books to do, so it might be a bit before I have another book to share.

[yutagfr]

Paring: Gender natural x Ranpo

Content: angst, characters aged up, mention of death,.

Summary: You ride a train every day and notices a mysterious man sitting in the same spot, always with his eyes closed and headphones on, for some reason you feel a connection towards him.

As you step onto the train, the familiar rush of commuters swarms around you like a living entity. You scan the crowded car for an empty seat, your eyes scanning the sea of faces. You spot a lone figure sitting in the corner, headphones plugged in, eyes closed. It's a face you've grown accustomed to seeing on your daily commute – the quiet, reserved commuter known only as Ranpo.

"The Man on the train"

For weeks, Ranpo has been a constant presence on your morning train ride to work. At first, you find his silence disconcerting, but as time passes, you grow used to his gentle hum in the background. His hair is always neatly trimmed, his features soft and unremarkable. He never seems to notice you or anyone else around him, lost in his own little world.

But then, something changes. One day, as you board the train, you notice a small piece of paper slipping out from under his seat. It flutters to the ground, and you pick it up expecting it to be a discarded receipt or advertisement. Instead, it's a handwritten note: "You're doing great today." Your heart skips a beat as you feel a shiver run down your spine. why does he think you need encouragement?

Over the next few days, more notes appear. Each one is a gentle reminder to "keep going" or "Smile" They're anonymous, but somehow, they feel like they're meant just for you.

You start looking forward to seeing Ranpo on the train each day. Not just because he's a constant in your daily routine, but because you're curious about who he is. What does he do? What's his story? And why does he care about you?

As the days go by, Ranpo begins to change. He'll sit with his eyes open, watching you as you board the train. Not staring at you aggressively or anything – just... noticing you. It makes you feel uneasy at first, but also... not bad. Sometimes you would even flash him a small smile.

There's something comforting about knowing that someone is aware of your presence on that crowded train car. It's like having a secret friend who understands you without needing to say a word.

But just when you think things can't get any stranger, Ranpo starts leaving you little gifts. A book will appear on your seat one day, with a note saying "You're reading this" scribbled inside the cover. A coffee will be waiting for you on your seat another day, with a note saying "You deserve this".

It's all so... peculiar. But also kind of wonderful.

You've been thinking about Ranpo for weeks. You can't help but wonder about the notes he leaves for you, the way he seems to be watching you on the train. You felt like the you were getting to know him, even though you've never spoken a word, until today

As you board the train, you make up your mind. You're going to talk to him.

You take a deep breath and approach his usual seat. He's sitting there, headphones still plugged in, eyes closed. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you're being crazy. But then you sit down beside him.

"Hi," You say, trying to sound casual.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even open his eyes.

"Hi," he repeats, his voice low and gravelly.

You sit there in silence for a moment, and you start to feel like an idiot. What am I doing? This is too much, too soon.

But then, something makes you take another chance. "Thanks for the notes," You say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He opens his eyes, and your gazes meet for the first time. His kind eyes, warm and gentle.

"You're welcome," he says, his voice softer now.

You both talk for a few minutes, exchanging small talk about the weather and our jobs. It's awkward at first, but somehow it feels... Natural.

And then, just as you're getting into the conversation, he stands up and grabs his bag.

"I'm sorry," he says, not meeting your eyes. "I have to go."

Your left sitting there, feeling stunned and confused. Where did he go? And why did he vanish like that?

You look around frantically, hoping to catch a glimpse of him again. But he's gone.

And then it hits you – he's not coming back.

The rest of the day is a blur as you go through the motions of work and routine. But when you get home that night, you check your phone and see that Ranpo hasn't left any notes for you that day. No messages, no gifts. Just... nothing.

It's like he's vanished from your life.

You get off the train at your usual stop, expecting to see him sitting in his usual spot. But he's gone. And when you don't see him the next day or the day after that, you start to feel... lost.

It's not just that he's gone; it's like he's vanished into thin air.

Weeks turn into months, and you start to forget about him. But one day, as you're walking down the street, you see a news headline that makes your heart skip a beat: "Local Man Dies in Tragic Accident."

You stop in your tracks, your mind racing as you read the article. It was Ranpo, and he was a commuter on your very same train line.

You feel like you've been punched in the gut. All those notes... all those quiet moments of connection... it had all been him. And now he's gone.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you think about all those times you shared on that train. The notes had been more than just words on paper; they had been a connection between two strangers. And even though you only spoke a word to each other, you feel like you've lost something precious.

You take a deep breath and let the grief wash over you. For Ranpo, and for the chance you really never had to really talk

You been thinking about Ranpo for weeks. You can't help but wonder about the notes he leaves for you, the way he seems to be watching you on the train. You feel like you were just getting to know him. But then, without warning, he vanished. No explanation, no goodbye. Just... gone.

The days blended together in a blur of tears and sorrow. You spent hours locked away in your room, replaying memories of Ranpo's quiet encouragement, reliving the moments you shared on that train. You felt like a part of you had been ripped away, leaving a gaping hole that could never be filled.

But amidst the grief, one thought kept nagging at you: the song. The song Ranpo had listened to every day on the train. You remembered it was always playing softly through his headphones, a constant hum in the background. But you couldn't quite recall what it was.

You spent hours scouring the internet, searching for any clue that might lead you to the elusive tune. You asked friends and family if they recognized it, but no one did. It was as if Ranpo had taken the song with him.

And then, one day, it hit you. A glimmer of inspiration struck as you stumbled upon an old music blog. You scrolled through the archives, searching for anything that might match the melody you remembered. And then, it appeared: "First Day of My Life" by Bright Eyes.

You pressed play, and the soft melody washed over you like a wave. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you remembered his quiet humming along with the music.

From that day on, "First day of My Life" became your daily companion. Every morning on your way to work, every evening on your way home, you'd listen to the song on repeat. It was like having a piece of him with you still.

As you settled into this new routine, something strange started to happen. On your daily commute, when you got on the train and found your usual seat, something felt... different. A stranger sat down in Ranpo's old seat – the exact same spot where he used to sit every day.

Your heart skipped a beat as you felt a shiver run down your spine. For a moment, you wondered if it was really him – if somehow, someway, Ranpo had come back to life.

But as you looked into the stranger's eyes, you saw nothing but kindness and curiosity staring back at you. He didn't know anything about Ranpo; he was just another commuter on his way to work.

And yet... and yet... as you looked at him sitting in that familiar seat, something warm spread through your chest. It was like his presence still lingered there, a reminder that even though he was gone, his memory lived on.

You smiled slightly as the stranger caught your eye and smiled back. Maybe it was just your imagination playing tricks on you – or maybe it was something more profound. But in that moment, surrounded by the familiar hum of the train and the gentle melody of "First day of My life", you felt a sense of peace wash over you.

Ranpo might be gone, but his still lived on – not just in memories and notes, but in the quiet connections we make with strangers on crowded trains every day.

And as the days turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into months... You start to forget about him. But sometimes, in your dreams, you'll still see his face – kind eyes and warm smile – and wake up feeling like something is missing.

You we're left with only the memories and those notes, which seemed to hold a deeper meaning now that he was gone. You'd reread them over and over, searching for clues about who he was and where he'd gone.

You started to forget about him. Life went on, and you threw yourself into your work and routine. But sometimes, late at night, you'd find yourself thinking about him again. Wondering what had become of him, where he'd gone.

[ugh-yoongi]

Can I put in a drabble request for yoongixreader where neither of them are big on Valentine’s Day but yoongi still is romantic on the day bc he’s like the person at the store sold me on the idea for the day? (Idk if that made sense but thank you!!)

hello, you absolutely can put in this request! thank you for sending it. this was fun. <3

pairing: yoongi x reader (no pronouns used)

genre: established relationship au, fluff

warnings: swearing. mentions of alcohol. yoongi being cute in his weird little yoongi ways.

wc: 1k

taking valentine's day drabble requests here ♡

You have a standing nine a.m. meeting on Tuesdays.

Like clockwork, Namjoon appears on camera and talks your ear off for thirty minutes about something or other, and that’s exactly what he does this morning, too. Some distributor in Europe is experiencing shipping delays, so there’s not much to catch up on because nothing’s moving, even though that’s paperwork too, so he just rocks back in his chair and says, “Doing anything fun for Valentine’s Day?”

And you pull a face, just like you always do. “No, we don’t really celebrate it,” you answer, because it’s more socially acceptable than going through your well-rehearsed Valentine’s Day is a capitalist scam bullet points.

Namjoon just hums, says something about chocolate and roses for his partner, maybe wine over a candlelit dinner, and it all sounds dreadfully uninspired.

So that’s how the rest of the day goes. You have another afternoon meeting with Jimin, who pops up on your screen wearing a headband trimmed with feathers and sequined hearts on tiny springs, and Jimin is animated, so they bobble in every direction the more excited he gets. Which—he works in human resources, so what is there to even get excited about?

By five-thirty you’re ready to log off and spend the rest of the evening on the couch. Maybe order some takeaway you’ll have to wait three times as long for and soak in a warm bath until all your skin turns pruney. You pick up your phone, halfway to texting Yoongi to see what he wants to do for dinner, when the lock turns in the front door.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, because there’s Yoongi, cheeks pink as he curses the cold, holding a suspiciously large gift wrapped in metallic red paper. “Hello,” you intone.

He gets caught up trying to toe off his sneakers and nearly brains himself on the console table. “Motherfuck,” comes his response. Then, like he’s just realizing you’d spoken, he says, “Hi, baby,” and sends you a gummy smile.

“What’s that?” you ask, gesturing to the package in his hands. “Looks an awful lot like it might be a Valentine’s Day gift.”

“It is,” he answers simply. “Do you want to open it?”

This is… not how this is supposed to go. Yoongi is arguably more of an anti-capitalist than you are. Your Yoongi would never buy you a Valentine’s Day gift. “Um.”

He takes one look at your expression—half confusion, half exasperation—and laughs. “It’s not gonna bite you.”

“Yeah, but—”

He sighs. Finally gets his sneakers sorted in the rack and waddles over, still wrapped tight in his winter coat. “But nothing. Here, open it.”

With one more questioning glance (that Yoongi promptly ignores), you take the gift from his hands. It’s heavy; feels solid, whatever it is. You pop the seams of the wrapping paper one at a time, still not convinced it’s not going to bite you, until the paper falls away to reveal a matte black box. A foot or so long, not as wide. You hear yourself gasp when you lift the lid.

Inside, there’s a gorgeous cutting board. Oiled maple, with the date of your and Yoongi’s anniversary etched into the corner. Resting on tissue paper with little hearts printed on it, for fuck’s sake. It’s almost sickening, how perfect it is. How thoughtful. How Yoongi it is, because this is his version of romance: something practical, something you’ve grumbled about needing a million times but haven’t gotten around to buying, because every time you mention getting a new cutting board Yoongi always scoffs and says, Why would I spend all that money on a cutting board when I could just make one for cheaper, and you reply, each time without fail, Have you seen the price of wood lately?

And, now, here it is. A cutting board with your anniversary etched into it, Yoongi still in his puffy jacket, looking bashful and a little embarrassed, fidgety as he awaits your reaction. “Do you hate it?” he asks. “I know we don’t really do gifts, but—”

“Min Yoongi, I am going to kick your ass.” You try to sound intimidating and Very Serious, but it comes out all waterlogged.

“Uh,” he responds, “I’m not really sure if that’s a yes or a no. Baby?”

“Of course I don’t hate it. Are you insane? Where did you even do this? When did you do this?”

He laughs, deep deep deep. Scratches at the back of his neck. “Funny story, actually. You know that weird store in the mall? The one with the ceramics and the painting and shit?” You nod; Jimin keeps trying to drag you there to get shitfaced and paint watercolors. “Yeah, well. I stopped by the mall today to buy Slam Dunk on DVD—”

“On DVD? Jesus, Yoongi, what are you, eighty years old?”

“—and some guy was standing outside trying to get people to buy shit, and I wasn’t gonna make you a fuckin’ lumpy mug, was I? So I said no, and he said come on, you look like a romantic guy, and I know he was lying and trying to get a reaction out of me, so I was like, yeah okay, but only if you have cutting boards, because you’ve been talking about getting one and I wasn’t expecting that weird fuckin’ store to have cutting boards, and then he said they did and it… just kind of spiraled.”

You’re a little stunned.

“Oh my god,” you reply. “You’re ridiculous. You’re the best. I love you. I didn’t get you anything, though.”

Yoongi shakes his head, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Don’t worry about it. I got the DVD set so just pay me back for it and we’ll call it even.”

“I can’t do that,” you argue. “You got me this nice, thoughtful gift—”

“Technically, I got you more, but I wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna murder me first.”

“What—” you begin to say, but then the doorbell rings.

There’s the delivery person, bag of takeout in hand from your favorite restaurant. Behind him, another delivery person from the bougie florist across town, holding what looks like a hundred roses.

“Min Yoongi!” you yell, and Yoongi quickly thanks the people at the door and shuts it. “I will sue you!”