#idk how to warn this so. if you have issues with body horror

[b1rds3ye]

hi!! this is my first time doing a request so idk if I'm doing this right haha but uh, I was wondering if you could do like. yknow the masked one you made for the 141 (I can't remember the name rn💔)? I thought of like, a sequel idea. like, what if during combat an enemy manages to take reader's mask, and so reader panics and like, rips the enemies throat out with their teeth (or if that's too violent, just goes basically rabid on them lmao) and how they would react?? if this is too violent or specific dw you don't have to!! anyways, I love your content it's totally awesome ur writing is amazing! have a good day!!

YES I LOVE THE BADASSERY AND THE UNHINGEDNESS!! If I'm your first request I'm so flattered anon pls do feel free to drop by again <333 Also just going to do general rabidness because ngl the throat thing sounds like an infection speedrun and we want our masked reader to stay nice and healthy <333

Word Count: 1.2 (it got a little long WHOOPS)

Warning: Canon typical violence, reader does get a lil sadistic and unhinged <333

Beyond Task Force 141 and Laswell, many - if not all - allied soldiers wondered about what lay under your mask. Obscuring even the eyes, your visage was more unreadable than Ghost's. Larger than life, a soldier among men.

There was a running joke that there was just nothing under your mask, perhaps an eldritch horror of sorts. You let the new recruits entertain the thought, it kept morale up as they conjured more myths of you. They said that no one has seen you without your mask. They were partially right.

It simply was that no one lived to tell the tale.

You were never one for close combat, but fighting terrorists was never smooth sailing. The chaos of battle had all of the 141 separated against the tight streets of Las Almas. How uncanny that you could not see your allies but hear their gunfire. Running out of ammo, you couldn't lament at your misfortune as a shoulder pummeling into your chest, sending you to the ground and the air out of your lungs. Head bashing against the floor you groaned as you furiously clawed up to whatever heavy weight was crushing your body. You were starting to make up the figure of a man hovering over you through the blurry haze of a concussion that filled your sight. The distant static of Price's voice through the radio, probably asking where the hell were you but you had more pressing issues at hand.

Through your struggle and flailing limbs you managed to wring the enemy's pistol off of them with a painful twist of their wrist. And they retaliated tenfold, a large sweaty hand reaching down and pressing your head back against the ground. Your adrenaline makes you writhe further, he was going to suffocate you, or worse, poison you with how fucking awful his hand smelt as the stink of burning gunpowder replaced any of your oxygen. But no, he committed a far worse crime.

A singular pull and the grating tear of fabric as your mask is pulled off of your face.

A heavy moment where your enemy looks down at you and his gaze is not like before. It's clear, it's deep. It is not looking at your facade but at you and you are no longer a soldier. You are merely a human, so fragile, so weak. One that is on the verge of death in a foreign land surrounded by bodies of fallen comrades and enemies alike. One whose mythos is all but lost at the victorious and leering smirk of an enemy as they take in your face.

That simply won't do.

Pulling your knee up to create space between you and the man, you pull out your tactical knife from your waist and drive it into his torso. His smile falls only to land at settle on yours below him, just like his blood that trickles as forbidden crimson down your hands and seeps into your uniform. It's disgustingly warm. He grows heavier as he loses all control over his body and you heave to throw his figure off to the side. You stab him once again for good measure. And then again. And again. Quick, short jabs down with a sharpened blade that cuts through uniform, flesh and bone alike. You did not count how many times you drove your blade down, numbers were too complex when your mind was running faster than any comprehensible speed. There was only one goal. To make sure no one knows what happened.

A harsh grip on the shoulder yanks you back up and you swipe with your armed limb to cut your new assailant's neck but they were onto you. Catching your arm, they pull it up as they hold onto your shoulder once again with a tightening grip that digs into your uniform. But they do nothing more, no matter how much you thrash and kick.

"Wake up, Sergeant," your opponent seethes and that voice makes you still, a buoy that floats across through your rage. Deep and grounding and your captain's.

You nearly stumble back but Price catches you before you crumple to the ground in exhaustion. The adrenaline was escaping your body leaving you with barely the energy to stay upright. Your head lolls back for a second before you bring it to the side to look at your direct superior, the remnants of a concussion making your vision blurry.

"You broken?" he asks.

"Negative, sir,” you respond immediately but he looks a little doubtful, a singular eyebrow raised as he inspects you. Not your body, but your face. The dilated pupils and the taut muscles told more than any wound.

"Can't say the same about your wee friend over there," Soap whistles as he tilts his head to behind you. “Christ, you did a number on him.”

You dare turn to look over your shoulder but Ghost already situated himself in front of the body. But between his feet you could already make out the indistinguishable mass of tattered fabric and discoloured flesh. Fresh blood filled the rivets between the cobblestones, the remnants of the body inching its way closer to you-

"Was it the mask?" Simon brings your attention back to him. You nod dumbly. He only dips his head in what you can only describe as understanding as he folds his arms, fortifying his stance in front of the mess you made. You weren’t going to see your handiwork, he was too kind to ever let you.

John drops his hands down to his sides as Gaz approaches you with your mask.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side," Kyle offers you a sympathetic smile.

"Learnt that the first day I saw 'em on duty," Johnny retorts and you instinctively smile as you take your mask from Kyle. The hardened plaster of your mask had cracked, the fabric that hugged your neck had become torn but it'll do for the remainder of the mission. Slipping the mask back on, Simon offers a nod of approval while Johnny tugged at the fabric for a few finishing touches.

Ultimately the mission was successful. The task force returns to base and although none of the boys mentioned the carnage you left, there are still whispers of it on base. You had hurried to debrief and get your mask fixed but it seemed some privates caught sight of you and that was enough to spark rumours. Your mask had gotten so fractured that a shard was left back in the streets of Las Almas and revealed one of your eyes to the rest of the world. Such a small organ but so vivid. The privates saw, and more was added to the myth that was you. There was now no question about what was under the mask. No lovecraftian horror or empty space, no monster beyond comprehension. No, what was under your mask was terrifyingly human.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

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

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

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

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

read on ao3

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

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you sleep.

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look back up to the doll. 

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

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

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

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

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

The doll does not move. 

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

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

A second passes, and then another. You wait. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, Jason.” 

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

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

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

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

“Crying..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all leads to Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

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

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

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

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

[writingsofwesteros]

https://www.tumblr.com/lovelifechangesus/735685818508820480

Vaemond's daughter who took more after her mother in the hair color department. Idk what to use this for, but the woman is absolutely beautiful. There's so many ways this could go bc we have: (👑💀 btw)

King Aegon forcibly taking her as a second wife bc he's always wanted her and doesn't care if she tries to fight back Helaena joining in and gaining her trust first while secretly being VERY manipulative and obsessive when it comes to her wife. They force her to take Aegon’s cum in her pussy everytime, making it obvious that they're trying to breed her to force her to stay with them and ruin her for others.

Aemond crushing on the girl who never seemed to like her bastard "cousins" and bonding with her over their parent's mutual dislike of Rhaenyra’s endless rule breaking being swept under the rug they're both their mommy/daddy's favorite and have "repressed" anger issues, so they're both insufferable and occasionally explosive. The couple to make you cry within seconds. If they aren't already married and he needs to still choose a Baratheon, she would ride with him on her own dragon and go down the line instead of him. She'd make it seem like she was just helping him choose the best girl, but she was ultimately the one making the decision since the girl would be hers. She picks the shy girl and wastes no time breaking her new toy in, reducing the girl to a faithful puppy instead of competition for what's hers.

Daemon choosing her over Laena and forgetting all about his niece, telling her on their wedding night that he'd breed her and show her father how to properly carry on Valyrian features she yells at him a bit for being an ass, but alas, most of their children have silver hair and violet eyes. He definitely only got with her to piss off her father, but grows to love her and becomes extremely possessive the first time he catches her getting her pussy ate by two maids. Daemon puts her "in her place" when he walks by a room in his favorite pleasure house and stops to observe the lewd sight in front of him. A woman was roughly riding a man while hungrily making out with the girl sitting on his face, their tits brushing together beautifully. His cock rises even more as a beefy man brushes past him and quickly shoves his cock in her ass without preparation or warning, pounding into her with no self control. Daemon storms in angrily when the woman disconnects from her female lover and looks back at the man with a dopey smile, recognizing her as his new wife... needless to say, he never left her to her own devices again and knew if he cheated she'd surely out do him again.

Jacaerys lusting after her and begging his mommy to let him have her once he sees her at the Driftmark hearing and watches Vaemond be beheaded by his step-father, knowing the biggest obstacle was out of his way besides Baela ofc, but they could always share her cousin if push comes to shove. The first time he gets to her, he cums within seconds of being inside her, much to both of their horror. She's horrified to risk giving birth to a bastard's bastard, especially knowing how much Vaemond detested Rhaenyra’s family, and he is embarrassed he didn't get to take his time with her and is afraid his chances of her taking him seriously have lessened. Baela is furious to learn of his plans with her cousin, but only because she's had a crush on her since they were children, finding the older girl to be the epitome of beauty and remembering following her every lead. Baela would never forget how her cousin was the first person she ever had a wet dream about, it being induced by bathing with her and helping scrub her back, giving the younger girl a great chance to peak her body. They sleep next to each other, her cousin holding her in her arms with her tits in the girl's face as Baela's head becomes foggy before she ends up dreaming of sucking those pretty tits and exploring that pussy with her fingers.

Vaemond sending her to seduce Viserys so that he chooses her instead of Laena or any other girl, telling her it's for the good of their family and that she can be in control just like she's always wanted. She manipulates the older man severely and gets everything she wants from him, not needing much to convince him to give in to her every whim. It's obvious to everyone but him that she's the one that has complete control of the relationship, people gossiping about their new queen and how she's the person with the most power as he stupidly believes him topping her at night makes him the dominant. Rhaenyra hates seeing her dad being taken advantage of and being so mushy for some girl that's closer in age to herself while simultaneously admiring the woman for taking charge in a world that favors men. She'll never admit it, but she has a crush on the woman and practically leers at her everytime they're in the same room, her stepmother not nearly as conservative with her gowns as they'd expect a queen to be. Rhaenyra knows she can no longer resist her urges when she watches her new baby brother nurse from his mom's perky tit, waiting and following the woman to the baths later as if it were a coincidence they met up at the same time. Rhaenyra waits for the Velaryon to slip into the water and get comfortable before entering and sliding up behind her, groping her stepmother and pushing her up against the side of the hotspring, making her bend over it for easier access. Rhaenyra eagerly slides her tongue through her puffy folds and gives her the best head she's had in a long time, outdoing her father easily and making the queen squirt in her mouth. Viserys denies that their relationship is odd and gaslights himself into believing it's normal even though he's caught his daughter rutting her pussy against the woman that's supposed to be strictly her stepmom. He's much too happy they're getting along and Rhaenyra spices up their sex life because he actually starts putting in more work knowing he has competition Rhaenyra teaches her dad how to properly go down on their queen before getting permissionto ride the girl's face as she gives pointers to Viserys.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CHOSE FROM ANY OF THIS!!

Second Wife: I love how Helaena is also in on the game. Nobody ever suspects her and this time is no difference as Vaemond's daughter even forgets she is dealing with two dragons. NSFW GIF

Second son's lust: They would so be a couple that would make anyone cry thank you very much. Of course, they need a sweet little doe to break and oh how they do it. They seal the Baratheon ally and their relationship only thrives.

His chosen lust: Of course Daemon has alternative motives; such a dick and we love him for it. Teasing her about her genetics not being strong enough should not be so hot. NSFW GIF

Strong lust: He has mommy issues !! Of course he gets Rhaenyra to get him everything he wants. Jace not lasting long is delicious as well as Baela pouting in the background. This is not what Vaemond's daughter wanted and now she is stuck.

The King's lust: ALL OF THIS! Of course Viserys thinks taking her beneath him means something. Bless him. Rhaenyra just drooling over her .

[just-a-carrot]

What is Our Wonderland? a.k.a. the dumpster fire that is my ace-themed queer horror game or something

Our Wonderland is a visual novel / horror game / horrific dating sim??? / mangled mess of Fucked Up chars reaching their 30s but not? understanding who they are?? and twisted grisly things happen???

It stars five childhood friends with a sEcReT—they opened a Magical Wish-Granting Wonderland in their youth (as one does). Twenty years later, however, they've all turned into barely functioning adults just trying to Get By™, each with their own Traumas exacerbated by their struggles to fit in to a cis- hetero- allonormative world (as well as Pining,,, lots and lots of unrequited Pining). Cue a Return to Wonderland. What could happen now that they're all Verifiable Messes with the power to wish for anything they want??? omg,,, maybe they'll eat each other or something wouldn't that be wild omg,,,

The Woobies

Iggy: Resident Ace Bean that has no idea what he wants and spends most of his time Confused and Overwhelmed and avoiding social situations like the plague; just wants to fit in and for everyone to be Happy™

Genzou: The loud-mouthed snarky Best Friend who loves his favorite pal so much dear god do not touch a hair on his god damn head or he will fucking murder you (definitely Not Gay why would you even think that shm,,,)

Orlam: Nobody likes him he's just kinda there accumulating more and more Debilitating Trauma dear fucking lord is this guy sad and lonely somebody please l-l-love him; forlorn bisexual who longs to be the Life of the Party (may or may not be a cannibal, who can say really,,,)

Gidget: Just your average girl who wants to be Perfect™; did not ever wear boys' clothes or have issues with her body and definitely was never made fun of when trying to use the restroom; likes Iggy perhaps a little bit Too Much

Bucks: Homecoming queen and softball star; has everything she ever wanted in life—a loving husband, a beautiful baby, and a lovely house with a white picket fence; skilled with an Axe

What You Can Expect From This Atrocity:

Around 288k words of Pure Unadulterated Pain (20 to 25 hours or something idk)

A ridiculous 520 CGs because I apparently Can't Stop Drawing

Some pretty sweet cinematic ending sequences I guess

A cool soundtrack??? I did not create it but I've been told it's Good so we'll just go with that

Gore mixed with feels mixed with moments that will make you want to RIP YOUR HEART OUT

A Strange and Deplorable art style that apparently grows on you or so I've been told

Gay people kissing or something

COMPLICATED LOVE SQUARES???

Horrible ace nightmares—BUT ALSO CATHARTIC ACE JOY???

Cannibalism

P.S. in case it wasn't obvious this game is rather Dark and contains many a horrible thing such as Murder, Torture, and the Eating of People (some of the arcs also tread somewhat heavily into Sexual Themes Territory, too, given all the overarching ace stuff), so please please please check the content warnings on the itch page before playing! It's def for mature audiences only.

Where You Can Download This Horrific Abomination From Hell:

Our Wonderland on itch.io (it's free omg!!111!!!!!1)

There's also some free side games ig:

Our Cinderella on itch.io

Our <<Fantastic>> Wonderland on itch.io

Texting the Awkward Ace Guy You've Had a Crush on Since High School on itch.io

Save the Last Dance on itch.io

if you have any questions i guess i can answer them that's how it works maybe.

ok I think that's it bye.

[geodetojoy]

Just finished watching The Sea Beast on Netflix and WOW

Im not gonna do a whole movie-review (future geode here.... i kinda did. a short-ish version, but still. oops) type thing but i wanna share some of my thoughts because that was incredible!!! Im also gonna try to not spoil too much, but spoiler warnings just in case!

It did kinda remind me of a few movies thrown together, namely Moana, How To Train Your Dragon, and Nimona, but at the same time it was completely unique from all three of those. The art style was beautiful, the lighting in some scenes was absolutely stunning, but for some reason I really didnt like the design of Red lmao. Idk something about it was just too.... plain? I guess? It just looked like your average fish with a more mammal-like head. And I wasnt a huge fan of the single color either. Idk it just felt kinda lacking in comparison to the other creatures shown. But thats about the only thing I didnt like about it

I guess the plot was a bit predictable, but it felt so real and it was built in such a way that the viewer was discovering major plot points along with the characters and even if I could guess what was going to happen next there was always an additional detail that had me in awe. And the overall moral was such an important thing to address and Im so glad it went the way it did. Truly an incredible example of the immorality of humanity and the greed and desire for control of those in power, and it was not at all what I was expecting going into it. I fully thought it was gonna be a thalassophobia horror movie, and while some scenes portrayed that incredibly well, I was pleasantly surprised by the actual path it followed.

AND I HAVENT EVEN TALKED ABOUT THE CHARACTERS YET AUGH. First of all, FOUND FAMILY MY BELOVED <3333333 we love the Ballister-type character development that Jacob went through, and his and Maisie's relationship really reminded me of Bal and Nimona. They are just so so precious. That scene at the end almost had me in tears bro i cant.

I also just loved the overall diversity in characters??? Like??? I couldn't find a single majority group out of everyone aside from the ruling family which were all white, able-bodied people (which is another major social issue to address, ily writers) and no two people looked the same, even the civilians that showed up for two frames. We love to see it.

And some of the details they wrote in! So many aspects that you wouldn't think twice about that just made it all the more realistic! Like the scene with Jacob with the medic where he starts walking around mid-getting stitches and the medic just has to follow him around? Incredible. Hilarious. So immersive. There were so many more examples, but thats just the main one that came to mind.

Anyway! Go give it a watch if you have Netflix! (or pirate it- pun intended-, Netflix fucking sucks)

[inverse-problem]

hiii you posted something about having read most of the like, recommended books with robots in them and i was just curious if you would be cool with listing some that youd rec? trying to read more books with robots in them and curious for ideas :]

sure! was gonna do a whole organized post but I may as well just get some down for now. not gonna be an exhaustive list (there's a bunch on my to-read list I don't want to rec before I read it myself), my summaries may be dubious, my taste may also be dubious, but here's a few I liked. I definitely recommend seeking stuff out outside of my list bc honestly it's quite limited now that I'm looking at it lol. be warned also that a lot of these deal with heavy themes of stuff including identity, bodily autonomy, etc. (idk which specific topics may be an issue so be sure to consult a trigger list if necessary). also I have yet to find anything with a robot romance that I find particularly compelling but ah well

the murderbot diaries series by martha wells: pretty much everyone's gonna recommend these to you, and for good reason imo, they're quite solid. main character is basically a security guard cyborg (humanoid but not human) who hacked its programming and is trying to figure out what it actually wants to do with itself now that it has free will. all it wants to do is watch tv shows in its head and avoid interacting with people, but life-or-death situations and its penchant for wanting to rescue people keep getting in its way

the imperial radch series by ann leckie: sentient spaceship ai that once had hundreds of human bodies all networked to a central ai, on a revenge quest. lots of themes of identity, lots of space geopolitics, a big horrendous empire that people are grappling with being complicit in, and an interesting take on a single-gendered society inspired by ursula leguin's the left hand of darkness (also a solid book, no robots there though). gets quite intense at times because of the sorts of horrors that evil empires get up to

17776 by jon bois: (note the link is to a website that turns into the story when you scroll through, watch out if flickering/eyestrain/etc is an issue) technically not a book but a multimedia webnovel of sorts (with short animations and videos, but mostly written as dialogue between characters). it's the year 17776, a lot of places are underwater, humanity has found itself immortal, and several space probes have gained sentience. now, the space probes busy themselves with watching and discussing what the humans are doing to entertain themselves, which mostly involves really absurd games of football. a bit absurdist and existential but very fun, even if you don't know much about football

the monk and robot series, by becky chambers: this one is very chill; a monk in a cozy post-industrial future setting doesn't know what they want from life so they go on adventure on impulse and meet a robot. robots have been out of contact with humanity for a long time, so both of them learn a lot from each other

the wayfarers series, also by becky chambers: haven't read all of them yet but the first book is a chill character-driven space road trip story with a friendly ship ai. lots of found family themes, and great if you like seeing a story where people are working together and are really in their element. the sequels tell other stories set in the same universe, most of which also feature robot characters, and there's interesting alien characters there too

activation degradation, by marina j lostetter: a robot gets activated on a space mining platform during an alien attack, and has to deal with a bunch of ensuing chaos and misinformation. I mostly found the plot twists interesting here, the characters themselves were so-so to me

obligatory asimov recommendations, caveat that his work is old and has historical biases etc, but also that's where you get the three laws of robotics so welp. I, robot is an interesting collection of short stories, mostly focusing on how the three laws of robotics actually can break down in various situations. there's also the robot trilogy which is basically a buddy cop detective story with a human from earth and a robot from space and they solve murders. lots of caveats with this rec (for one, I'm not big on cop shit to put it mildly) but asimov does do some interesting worldbuilding and society building with how the earth and space societies differ. there's the foundation series that follows from these books but I haven't read that haha

the hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy series by douglas adams: only one prominent robot here who sporadically shows up, but also this series is just a fun time. the premise is that earth gets destroyed by aliens to make way for an unnecessary space highway, and one very tired human survives and bounces around the galaxy encountering all sorts of weird situations. lots of humourous satire, some a bit dated at this point but much still holds up. also douglas adams just has a way with words

individual short stories:

fandom for robots by vina jie-min prasad: a robot learns what fandom is! a very fun read imo

a guide for working breeds, also by vina jie-min prasad, whose writing I really like in general tbh: robots dealing with a contract job economy

68:hazard:cold by janelle c. shane: robot stranded on an ice planet. I really like the description of how a robot's view of the world and communication protocols might look

cat pictures please by naomi kritzer: an ai wants to be helpful to humanity but doesn't quite know how; a nice benevolent ai story

there were other short stories I also liked but I can't find where I put them now, welp. let me know if you read and enjoy any of these, though!

[winter-angst]

How would the hydra husbands react to figuring out they love/are attracted to each other?<3

Idk what kind of relationship you see them having 😭

(Warning, a bit lengthy)

I can see Brock being instantly attracted to Jack bc as much as he tries to cram down his same sex attraction it rears its head constantly. Of course he denies this to himself, saying he just appreciates a healthy, fit body. (But, oh, his eyes are pretty…) He keep it to himself, forcefully tells himself “he’s just on the boys”. Brock tries to keep a distance but Jack is everything that Brock could ever want as a partner. He’s confident, works in the same field with an unpredictable schedule that would leave others feeling neglected but Jack actually gets and respects it, he always has Brock’s back in and out of the field, shows Brock respect but is also not afraid of contradiction when he feels like Brock is making a bad decision. So they start to hang out more, and Brock finds himself falling in love which is as exciting as it is distressing.

And Jack has finally met someone who can handle himself in high stress positions, has similar stances on life, and is highly competent. Of course he also notices that Brock is attractive. He’s content to let things remain as Brock wants them to be because he enjoys spending time with him (and he loves his job and doesn’t want to risk demotions; and, of course, he enjoys spending time with Brock even if it is only platonic).

But, after Jack saves Brock’s life, Brock feels indebted and decides to push the boundary of comradely relationships and asks if Jack wants to get drinks together after an op. And Jack is startled but quick to agree. They both go home, get cleaned up, and meet up. And it’s during that night that they both realize they each have a magnetic force pulling them together. Jack realizes that not only does he find Brock attractive but that he wants to know him more personally; to see what the man is like behind the scenes.

So they end up making plans to meet up together at the end, something that becomes a trend. They move from team mates to friends. And, the more time they spend together, more. Brock decides to playfully flirt in a pointedly “no homo” way but it quickly proves to be a poor mask to his actual feelings. And Jack quickly picks up on this but goes with it, unwilling to push Brock beyond what he’s comfortable with.

Eventually Brock confesses his feelings, probs after having way too much to drink, and Jack calmly says he feels the same way which stuns Brock. Jack takes him home and they don’t talk for a few days, Brock having a mini meltdown of disbelief because he knows it’s dangerous for job not to mention he’s being more open that he ever has been.

But on like the third day of Brock hiding in his apartment Jack shows up a the door with takeout from their favorite Chinese place and Brock just silently lets him in, waiting for Jack to tell him that what they’re doing is dangerous but Jack firmly tells him he doesn’t care. And by the time Brock is packing the leftovers into his fridge they’ve agreed to try the whole “relationship” thing, with the understanding that it’s very lowkey because neither wants to risk higher ups finding out.

And, as for their relationship Jack becomes Brock’s conscience and ultimate force when it comes to personal conflicts. And Jack loves to take care of Brock, happy to come over and help him clean because he’s chronically messy and yet gets overwhelmed by it. They grocery shop together and Jack helps Brock comes to terms with his food issues (personal hc, sorry lol) and Brock embraces this new way of life with Jack. He soon can’t imagine life without him.

Who else will tuck him into bed after drinking too much? Who else would he call after a nightmare about the horrors he’s seen in the field or trauma of his chaotic childhood? How can anyone else make him feel as important and loved as Jack does?

Brock absolutely becomes co-dependent but Jack embraces that responsibility, focused solely on ensuring that Brock is well cared for and always feels loved and supported regardless of what he’s going through and what mood funks he finds himself in. Even when Brock gets in his head about their relationship, feeling like he’s taking more than he’s giving, Jack is quick kiss him on the forehead and tell him just how much he loves and cares about him and how he doesn’t want to be anyone else ❤️

[whoopsiedoodlez]

INTRO POST THINGY

hello!!1!! and welcome to my blog : ]

my name is Whoopsie Doodlez and this is my blog! where I post art, fandom gunk, and other stupid stuff!

general

pronouns:

she/him/they/it idrc what you use LOLZ

sexuality: angled aroace

gender: idk and idc

current hyperfixations

Eddsworld

The Batman [ 2022 ]

other interests

Gorillaz, commentary YouTube, body horror, Caddicarus, smiling friends, OneyPlays, writing, art, Tomska, Outlast, Alternate reality games, and, Spilling the Milk.

BYF ,DNI and other things...

please read this before interacting with my content.

BYF

some of my content may contain gore, eyestrain, heavy swearing, and other things that might be disturbing to some viewers. if you are uncomfortable with the previously mentioned subjects. please be wary while viewing my blog < 3

thin ice

Eddtord shippers

riddlebat shippers

Hazbin Hotel and or helluva boss fans [ that DON’T support Vivziepop ]

genshin fans

DNI

basic DNI criteria [ as seen here: https://basic-dni.crd.co/ ]

fetish/kink artist/NSFW artist/has an NSFW account

AI “artists”

PROSHIP/COMSHIP/DARKSHIP/LOLICON/SHOTACON/WHATEVER CODENAMES YOU GROSS MFS USE

[this also goes for people who are neutral on the matter]

anti-furry

anti-otherkin

anti-age regression/pet regression

propara/radqueer

pro-ed/pro-sh/or romanticizes serious issues

people under 13

support Jimmy Urine/James Euringer and other members of MSI

DSMP FAN/ Associates with the dream SMP

Tomtord shippers

Tordmatt shippers

Hazbin Hotel and or helluva boss fans [ that DO support Vivziepop ]

blocking is not something that I am not hesitant to do!

if you are making me feel uncomfortable I will block you

with very little warning.

please interact if you...

are a fan of any of my interests

are queer/or support queer people

are neurodivergent

have the same F/O as me [ a self-shipper being more than fine with sharing? how shocking! /s ]

are a selfshipper/ yumeshipper

navigation

tags to better navigate my blog

#OC art or #OCs = art of my OCs

#fanart = general fan work tag

#not mine = content that I did not make

#self shipping or # self-ship = unfiltered self-ship. a general tag

#❤️cherrylemonade💛 = Tord x Cyrus tag

[ please know that there will probably be more tags added in the future < 3 ]

my social medias

want to see my more of my art? go to my deviantart !

want to see my shitty pixel art? go to my pixilart!

want to see me get a little silly ? a little goofy ? drink la croix ? BOOM Tumblr MF [that's where you are right now...]

[ I do have a TikTok and a Pinterest under the name whoopsiedoodlez HOWEVER, I am not active on those sites ]

miscellaneous info

I AM NOT OK WITH PORN/FETISH CONTENT BEING MADE OF MY OCS AND SELF INSERTS!

[especially porn/fetish content of my self-inserts.]

I have dysgraphia, so misspellings and poor grammar will be common in my posts. : [

please do not reupload my art. If you find my art reposted/reuploaded on another site,

[ especially without credit... ] Please contact me.

I am not good at reading sarcasm in text. use of the s/ tone indicter is much appreciated!!!!1!

I use bro, dude, and guy [s] as gender-neutral terms. if you are not comfortable with this

PLEASE TELL ME.

if I am talking to you and I make you feel uncomfortable AT ALL.

please tell me. [ because I won't be able to tell otherwise ]

I can get very excited when talking about my interests : 3

well, that is all for now : D

пока! пока!

[timogsilangan]

what are your scp recs? =o i've read some but not all that many overall

SORRY LATE REPLY COZ i had 2 get 2my pc HELP BUT !! Youhave unlocked the floodgates.

087 - the stairwell

an oldie but a goodie! absolute fucking classic, as evidenced by the whopping 3000 updoots. its really like. one of the Hallmarks of the strengths of early scp, aka a simple concept executed VERY EFFECTIVELY. its a staircase! its infinite! you can hear the sound of a crying child in it that always seems to be out of reach! its dark as shit! there is a disembodied floating humanoid face in it. the fourth expedition is fucking Gone despite being the one that ceased all entrance to the stairwell! i love the shit out of this stupid fucking staircase theres a reason it spawned so many games in Ye Olden Babys First Unity Project Days

3333 - tower

*thafnine voice* were time skipping now oh my! i feel this is like, an Inverse 087. instead of going down an infinite staircase u go up an infinite tower! fun! and remember that redacted expedition IV from 087? its not redacted here :) warning for body horror for this one

4975 - times up

despite being from series V this one has a very very old school vibe to it. simple concept executed effectively as opposed to the fucking novel length skips that litter the later series. fair warning for this one if u have issues with unreality MUTE THE TAB. TURN DOWN YOUR VOLUME. no jumpscares but its still a pretty mean trick 😭

lilys 001 proposal - the worlds gone beautiful

short, poignant, beautiful. ykno all those tumblr poetry posts talking abt how no matter how temporary our time is on this earth its still special? it means something? Yea . reading this as a 15 yr old made me understand that somehow

4182 - there is no site 5

whew. unlike a lot of earlier scps the blacked out data in this one Isnt overused in an annoying way. its a Puzzle. what happened to site 5? why are there so many revisions to the article? what is the foundation hiding under all those redactions? hehe.

5140 - EVEREST

another short n effective one ! im not phased by much unless it literally triggers my menthol ewwness but this ones . super fucking creepy to me honestly idk why LOL. hinges on making U ! da reader. quetion whether whats happening in those logs is real or if the explorers are just Losing Their Fucking Minds from oxygen deprivation. i do wonder !

2718 - what happens after

I. HATE. THIS . SCP. that means i love it LOL. i rank horror Goodness by how badly it makes me want to crawl out of my skin like a molting insect! forreal do not read this if u have unreality issues its so bad 😭😭😭😭😭 but i love it! its such a good concept. i hate it. its awful. its stuck in my mind forever. its so effective. If i liked this scp i dont because i did. No i didnt

5999 - this is where i died

YAAAY THIS ONES THE URL OF MY SCP SIDEBLOG!! i like it less now than i did when it first dropped (i was so up to date on this shit LOL i was there when nobody knew what it was abt and the forums was people trying to decode it) and the ending. is fuckin doodoo caca bullshit LOL its such a copout. dont even bother with the last chapter its literally nothing and it only serves to connect it to another scp when the preceeding stuff was already flavorful n interesting on its own 😭😭 warning for gore and body horror

4400 - this is not a place of honor

better enjoyed with the context of longterm nuclear waste warning messages! i actually have a unique experience with this post detailed Here due to my Shitfuck No Good Eyesight where i misread the title as "this is not a place of horror” which fundamentally changed my mindset going into it! i dont wanna spoil much but the last line of the last addendum is so fucking metal it rules LOL

[eldritch-nightmare]

Hi! Could I get a creepypasta match up please!

I am 5 foot...not very blessed in the height department unfortunately, I'm slim but well endowed in both upper and lower departments. I'm fairly light for being Hispanic (i don't go outside in the sun often) I have shoulder length hair, its currently red and has been red for a hot minute, but in the past it used to be shorter and a different color every other week. Like for two weeks I could have purple hair then BOOM it's yellow now. I have 21 piercings. I have two in the center of my eyebrows, two nostril piercings. One on each side, a septum. And snake bites. I used to have My bridge pierced but I took it out bc it was in the process of migrating:/m I have 26 tattoos. IT SOUNDS LIKE A LOT. But it's not..THAT many when you actually get a good look at my full body. Most of them are on my thighs, I have some on my back, I have chest tattoos and a wrist tattoo. All my tattoos are either witchy, satanic, or of pretty pin up women and fruit.

Personality wise. I'm not sure, I have adhd, autism and bpd. I can be loud and excitable but also REALLY quite, aloof and awkward. I am a very passionate person and I'm always doing something (or at least trying to) I love to learn new things, I love to talk, I love to listen but I also love to just sit in absolute silence sometimes. I hate the sound of people sneezing, idk why it just REALLY upsets me. I can be really nice and helpful but I don't like being taken advantage of. I don't like confrontation but I will stand up for myself and or my friends if it's truly necessary. I am very giving, if someone I care about was in need I wouldn't mind giving them the shirt off my back or the shoes I'm wearing...it's happened before too. I also love shopping. I may have a slight....shopping addiction. I also have a very strong sense of justice and respect, so you won't catch me doing anyone dirty, but I won't let anyone do me dirty and ill cut them off if they keep crossing the line. I'm very good at sniffing out snakes. And I try to warn people around me about fake people and they never believe me until shit hits the fan, and then they sit there like ":0 I didn't know" TF YOU MEAN YOU DIDNT KNOW I TOLD YOU!?

I have daddy issues and don't have a stable father figure in my life 🧍🏻‍♂️ I love my mom though, shes cool

Style wise. I'm a bit all over the place, I've been in the alternate community since I was born. My dad was a metal head soo it kind of passed. But not really. Mental only stuck for so long. I tried scene, not my personal style but I loved the music. I was in the emo scene for a good couple of years until i started to hang out with the punk kids in my highscool, they were a little to much for me, activity wise though so it didn't last to long. But I found my home in the goth subculture and then from that point on, I explored the subcultures within that subculture. I tried nu goth, pastel goth, gothic lolita, trad goth. And none of them felt right, until I found gothabilly. And I find myself most comfortable in thag vintage style and the pin up style. My favorite brand (just so you can get an idea) is vixen by micheline pitt. My closet is just PURE black. With hints of black and white stripes and red.

I have many hobbies. I used to do tattoos on myself and my friends. I tried to get into piercing....it was a little too scary for me. I know how to make jewelry, I know how to paint, and draw. I know how to write, I love reading. I get too far down weird and obscure rabbit holes. I'm learning how to sew and I love it. I have a huge passion for fashion. And I want to start My brand one day. Even if it's small and for a niche group. I love to game, I love horror games especially, Outast is one of my favorite game series. I love horror period. Horror stories, movies, books. I love collecting specimens, like pinned bugs or mice in Jars. I have a small jar of bones. I love the dead. My favorite horror movie is either Saw or Scream. I also love watching indie disturbing horror movies as well. I'm a practicing witch, and I often use pendulums to communicate with. There was an old ghost of a woman who used to live in my apartment. She was cool sometimes but she messed with the doors and lights to much. I also used to collect dolls, specifically monster high dolls, but I wanted to branch out to haunted dolls...but then I thought mayybe that wouldn't be a good idea. I also love to cook and bake, and i love trying new food. I am also learning how to roller skate.

I don't like spiders though, which is ironic because I love spider web design and embroidery on my clothing. They just...look...ugly in. And their faces freak me out. I can't stand bad smells. I have a very very strong sense of taste and smell so I can be pretty sensitive around food and with bad odors. I don't like being woken up when I'm sleeping and I don't like being around loud obnoxious people.

Just for reference, I am afab nonbinary but present feminine to androgynous. I like both dudes and women and other NB people. My favorite creepypastas used to be Eyeless Jack, Bloody Painter, Jason the Toy Maker, the doll maker and the Puppeteer. I mean I liked ALL the pastas but they were my particular favorites

this feels so short in comparison to all that you sent me and i'm deeply sorry for that.

your matchup is... clockwork!

natalie is a very simple person, believe it or not. she's fairly blunt and isn't the type to bullshit a person so you don't have to worry about her taking advantage of you and your kindness. she's also really good at spotting snakes, so honestly you two could be a snake-sniffing duo and point out all the people you should avoid and whatnot.

she's an incredibly honest person as well and the type to never beat around the bush so if she wants to say something, she will say it.

she's a fairly emotionally reserved person so she doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve but when it's just the two of you, she lets her walls down a bit and she allows herself to relax a little.

she's more of a listener than a talker so she'll sit there and listen to you talk for hours. she doesn't mind sitting in silence either, because with you it's rather comfortable. but on the very rare occasion that she's the one doing all the talking, she'll definitely appreciate the fact that you're listening. it makes her feel seen in ways she could never describe.

natalie thinks you look good with any hair color, to be honest. i think in the beginning she was definitely a bit caught off guard by your spontaneous hair color changes but she gets used to it rather easily because it's just another part of you that she's fond of. she is just a bit concerned about your hair potentially getting damaged if you dye it too often but... she's not a hair expert, so. and honestly, she's thought about dying her hair as well, so. maybe you can recommend a color for her!

she also thinks you look wicked cool with your piercings and tattoos by the way. and she would absolutely love to hear about the meanings of your tattoos if any of them have one that you're willing to share with her.

she may not look like it, but natalie is pretty interested in fashion! she doesn't dabble in many styles herself because of various reasons but she is very interested in all of your own styles ranging from any goth and punk clothing you may own to the vintage and pin-up style you currently have going on.

if you asked natalie what her hobbies were she would probably just shrug and say, 'don't have any.' but trust me when i tell you that she does. she is so very much interested in deep diving into obscure topics and going down rabbit holes that she probably shouldn't go down because she loves learning about all the weird things buried underneath, hidden away from the average person.

honestly, you guys could probably make a date night out of deep diving into two separate topics and telling each other about it as you go. seems like it would be a pretty fun thing to do.

natalie doesn't particularly pay much attention to video games but she isn't against playing one or two if you recommend it to her! she's pretty invested in the things that you like, so she'll definitely play anything you recommend.

as for horror movies, natalie also probably doesn't give them much thought but trust me when i say she is a big fan of the saw franchise. i can see it now, you sitting her down to watch the saw movies and her just getting absolutely hooked and totally developing a crush on amanda young because honestly who doesn't. after the saw franchise, she's definitely more interested in horror than she was before and she'll probably sit down in her own time to watch some other movies just to talk about them to you.

always down to have her hair and nails done by you if you want to do them. she'll pay you as well, don't worry, just like... don't ask where she got the money because that would lead to a really awkward conversation probably. and she's also rooting for you to get into college to study fashion design!

so yeah anyways you guys would be a cute couple together and you'd have two cats and a rabbit named pumpkin or something and yeah.

[bambiraptorx]

I love the understimulation issues you've given Donnie in Body Horror Baby, especially when combined with his apparent increase in ability to take in and process stimuli at an advanced rate. That's a nasty combination and I applaud you for it <3.

Donnie gets pretty messed up by the Technodrome's effects, that's for sure, and this latest chapter takes place over a year when the main symptoms have lessened or he's learned how to deal with them. I don't know that I'm going to put a timeline to it, but there was definitely a pattern/rhythm to the way his symptoms developed over time.

(warning for mentions of/references to self harm)

The symptoms were at their lowest during and immediately after the invasion, partly because even with the suddenly heightened/altered senses, he was nearly constantly running on adrenaline, stress, caffeine, etc for that period. Basically everyone in his family was injured including him and the lair was compromised on top of that, which is a lot to handle. Even with Draxum coming in at some point to help manage things on the physical and mental side (the guy's basically a war vet there's no way he hasn't seen shit like this before), there's still a lot that needs to be done.

So for a while, Donnie's more or less able to be preoccupied with his repairs and reinforcements to his security system, helping his brothers to recover, and recovering himself. There's constantly things to do, and even if people keep telling him to take it easy and slow down, they can't deny that the work is necessary and someone needs to do it. Besides, it's not necessarily a strange reaction to everything he's been through for Donnie to want to take control over his life wherever possible.

Everyone is tired and can't (or won't) look beyond the surface to see what's going on, and even if they did, they likely wouldn't have recognized the signs anyway. But a couple of weeks post invasion (maybe a month or so idk), once everything had wound down somewhat, Donnie had the first attack.

It was pretty similar to the one in the chapter, the big difference being that he had no idea what was going on. He didn't have a way to explain it at the time (it's not quite a panic attack or overstimulation, more so desperately wishing for a connection he can never get back with a side of severe understimulation and Noticing Everything and spiraling), so he didn't. Initially he just brushed it off as a one-off occurrence, and didn't bother telling anyone about it.

It was not, in fact, a one-off occurrence. The attacks started happening more and more often, with a general trend of being worse and longer. At some point, he recognized that boredom/ understimulation was a frequent trigger (so was thinking or talking about the technodrome, but that's less controllable) and started actively trying to avoid getting bored as much as possible.

This was about the time that he started self-harming. He knew it wasn't healthy, but it staved off the understimulation somewhat and served as a distraction from the technodrome. For a while, it even reduced the attacks, but nor for very long. He started getting creative with it in an attempt to bring back its former efficacy, but nothing really worked for long.

Now, at this point the family is aware that *something* is going on, as Donnie has been in an obsessive 'need to fix and repair and upgrade everything phase' for quite a while, neglecting sleep and food, and generally avoiding any of their attempts to help him. He's also started taking more unnecessary risks on missions (he's doing it to catch that sweet sweet adrenaline high, of course, but to an outside perspective it doesn't look like that).

At some point, they find out. Maybe someone finds out about the self-harm, maybe they witness him have an attack, but they find out. And hey, at least he doesn't have to hide it anymore, but it doesn't really start him on the road to recovery so much as it allows him to have more support.

Long story short, even though it's better than it was, this is kinda just part of Donnie's life now and probably always will be.

[dinsfire24]

ok this idea has been cooking in my head for a while, but i had an idea for a ksmp character :D

btw if any of these ideas are ableist please let me know. this character and their arc have themes of chronic illness and disability. im basing some of their stuff on my own experiences with adhd, especially their frustration at their own abilities, but that doesnt exempt me from being ableist (esp with their physical problems)

warning for vague descriptions of decay and implied body horror

so this character's temporary name is amanita! (they/them) i came up with em after listening to that "there i am, there i am again" song a few too many times. also somewhat inspired by rot from rainworld :3

moving on from that, amanita is around... 12 years old, maybe? they're extremely friendly and usually quite caring. they always try to be optimistic and cheer others up, although they're actually terrified of the future. they love animals, but most animals and certain people (especially those with sharp senses of smell) are scared of them :(

they have some pretty severe memory issues bc their brain is. well. infested with skulk and warped fungus and void. their whole body is, really—they're the result of an experiment to try and combine these things, to see if anything good could come from it. now their body is decaying. they don't really remember what happened, but they still hate, hate, hate being touched. and they know that something is wrong with their body; they just can't pin down what.

they have a halting manner of speech, often repeating words or trailing off in the middle of sentences. they also tend to forget to finish their thought. on especially bad days they're almost impossible to understand, and they usually choose to stay quiet on those days. altho sometimes they forget that their speech isn't working and get very frustrated

i also think clown would be at least a little unsettled by them. he might recognize the skulk or the warped mushrooms, or he might even have heard of the experiments that caused this to happen. he'd think of them as sort of like a walking corpse. (which they would resent if they knew he thought that—they're not dead yet!!!) also their friendliness and memory issues might make them easier to manipulate, sadly

maddie might just be curious. amanita doesn't seem to be from the nether or the end, but they don't fit with what she knows about the overworld, either. and even though their memory is foggy, they have experience with some things she's never even heard of. she might be wary of them after the adventure in the deep dark, though

kab would definitely think they were cool as hell. i think she would also appreciate how friendly they were, but she would be VERY worried about their interactions with clown. she'd try to keep them away from him as much as she could.

i've only watched a few streams of s1, so my characterizations are a bit shaky and idk what the rest of the characters would think. but ye :D

a lil snippet of how they talk and act:

"Who are you?"

The kid grinned up at Kab. "Amanita! That's my name."

"And where did you come from?"

Amanita's enthusiasm dimmed a bit. "Don't remember," they replied quietly. "Not... It's not, uh..." Their eyes flickered around the town. "Can I stay?"

"I'll have to talk to Kab, but-" Pyro glanced at Rae. "Can you stay with them?"

She nodded. "Sure."

The kid plopped down on the floor as Pyro stepped away. "Who'sat?"

Rae brightened. "Kab is my best friend," she told them with a grin. "She's amazing."

"Best friend," they repeated. "I had a... Well, or something else. Where are they?"

Before Rae could figure out what to say to that, Amanita stood up. "Let's go find them. Your- Your Kab," they decided cheerfully.

[theearnestonion]

had a dream last night. no one asked but I'm telling you all anyways. warnings in the tags.

I think someone had captured a coworker of mine and I was trying to save them? But for whatever reason I was in a city, a grey and vaguely apocalyptic city. I am in a deserted street or alley, and I take a seat on a grungy weather-worn wooden chair to read an article on my tablet. (Why I have wifi here, I do not know. Why I have my iPad at all, I do not know.) I look over and sitting on the edge of the seat across from me is a ghastly skeletal monster, the bones of its hands held together by tight grey papery skin stretched between them like webbing, and enormous darkly-shadowed holes for eyes. It sees me as I sit, and I avoid their eyes out of some combination of fear and politeness. There are creatures in this city, and while I have chanced to meet very few, I know there's no reason to believe it is malicious based on its appearance. So I I cross my legs in a triangle, lean back, and turn my attention to the article on my screen.

In my secondary vision, I see the skeletal creature move, and position itself in front of me, its face framed above my screen. It stands there, impossibly still. Watching. Waiting.

Seeing as this is both deeply rude and deeply unsettling, I shift in my seat, as casually as possible, so the tablet blocks my view of the creatures face. Perhaps it thinks I have sit nearby because I want to talk, which I very much do not. No offense to them, but I've got things to read and people to save.

The creature quietly shifts to the side with inhuman smoothness, so it stands in the left of my field of vision. It's still a few feet away, but it seems closer, somehow. More of a threat. Daring me to make eye-contact. Again, I quietly shift my position in my seat, as if merely trying to get comfortable, and turn myself to the creature, positioning my screen directly in front of it so I can no longer see it.

I blink.

The creature is closer.

I try to force my eyes to read the screen but I can't focus, my heart pounds and my breath quickens. I blink again. The creature, without having moved, is suddenly closer yet.

I blink again.

Bone-white skeletal claws come crashing around the edged of my screen, ready to fling it out of the way to meet my eyes and do whatever such creatures do with those who they chose to do things to.

There is a sudden t h u m p .

A tall, ill-kempt bald man in old, worn-out clothes stands before me. He appears to have slammed a large chunk of cement into the skeletal creature's head. The creature itself does not bear visible injury, but is certainly unconscious and crumpled to the ground in a dramatic manner. I can't begin to guess if it is dead, seeing as it appears to have been dead to begin with.

Those around me (there are now people around me, somehow, despite the street having been empty moments before) all praise the man for his valor in saving me, hailing him as a hero, the sort of hero-hailing that is forgotten by the next afternoon. The man tiredly raises a hand to those who approach them, not in humility, but in genuine to desire for them to stop. He wearily explains, somewhere between frustrated and pleading, that there are remedies and repellants for aggressive undead available at grocery stores. You can pick up a gum-like substance made from various herbs at your local Meijer for ten buck and carry it with you in a leather pouch to Avoid this Whole Debacle, so he wouldn't Need to play hero and save anyone. There's no Reason for any of this! It's all very simple! He explains in the way of a customers service worker who is just too tired to get angry. I can't express the defeated, desperate exhaustion of this man.

The man picks up his dusty duffel and leaves. I carry on my way. I hope I thanked him. I think I find my friend eventually, having escaped an unethical experimentation facility. And I presume we would have returned to work at the apocalyptic Tim Horton's meeting the next day, had I not woken up.

[hatakemrs]

Them when you're on your period:

Characters: Dazai Osamu, Kuroo Tetsuro, Nakaraha Chuuya, Oikawa Tooru.

Warnings: None.

Dazai Osamu:

Every time you get your period he goes like "Congratulations Belladonna you're not pregnant".

Jokes around more just to make you forget your pain.

This man's love language is physical touch. So if you like to cuddle during periods, Dazai is always ready for it.

Dazai makes hot baths for you when you're on your period and arranges a movie night for both of you to cuddle and watch it.

Says things like "Only if i could bleed like that and die from getting period" and you go like "bitch WTF-"

He gets an excuse to skip ADA meetings and work telling things like "My wifey needs me during this time of her month"

Reads you story books as you rest your body against his chest.

He brings you painkillers and doesn't leave your side even when you have mood swings and tell him to get out.

He knows you don't mean any wrong by the things you said so he just brush it offs and give you hugs.

Kuroo Tetsuro:

Kuroo might be a science nerd but was quite freaked out when you got your first period while living with him.

You just moved in with Kuroo and he wanted to take care of you in your painful days.

He wanted you to feel Comfortable and show you how much he loves you.

You had to assure him for more than 100 times that you'll be alright at home but he kept insisting on staying by your side rather than going to work.

If he goes to work he will text you every second.

"Hi love. How are you feeling? I have left some painkillers in your drawer so please take them if you are in pain.

Chessy nerd pickup line to make you laugh.

"I’d call our bond covalent—it’s pretty strong."

No he didn't search them on google

I feel like Kuroo is a decent chef so he will prepare food your favorite food for you.

Nakahara Chuuya:

THIS MAN ISTG-

I just know he was a bit dense about period. Like he knew what periods are but didn't knew how ti help you with it.

He asked Kouyou to help him with it.

After knowing how much pain you had to go through every month he was determined to be there for you from now on.

Chuuya is a man of money. So he would spoil you rotten during this time of month.

Just tell him what you need and he'd be there for you.

You need Chocolates? He would bring you swish ones.

You need a massage? He would arrange the most expensive massage session.

You need him? He would delay even his important missions.

Despite of having anger issues he would try his best to keep his calm around you during period.

Chuuya still struggles with the mood swings you have but he's trying his best :)<3

You pranked him once by telling him to get a "bloodsucker" period product from the store.

He literally went to the store and asked the shopkeeper to bring him a "bloodsucker" period product and the shopkeeper told him no such product exists.

Later Chuuya was angry with you but it was worth it.

Oikawa Tooru:

Tires to show he's the best boyfriend when it comes to handle your period problems but fails.

This mf is full of himself but goes to seek help from Iwaizumi as soon as he fails to take care of you.

"Iwa-chan! Y/n isn't talking to me.

Unfortunately Iwaizumi wasn't much help to him. So he went to his sister.

His sister told him how he should take care of you on your periods and later he went to your house .

He suggested watching alien movies but you wanted to watch horror movie so he had to give in.

And istg this man is so sacred of horror movies.

Let's just say he was clinging onto you like a lost puppy.

You later teased him for that and he only said "You're so mean Y/n-chan" while internally being happy that he was able to lift up your mood.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

A/n: Idk why this was in my drafts for so long. Anyways I hope you liked it ♡.

[sofipitch]

Vampire movies, tv shows, and books with BIPOC leads

Movies:

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014), A Vampire in Brooklyn (1995), Blacula (1972), Blade (1998), Cronos (1993), From Dusk Till Dawn (1996), Ganja and Hess (1973), Queen of the Damned (2002), Vampires vs the Bronx (2020), and What We Do in the Shadows (2014)

TV shows:

Vampires (2020), and What We Do in the Shadows (2018)

Books:

Certain Dark Things by Silvia Moreno Garcia, Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler, Minion by L. A. Banks, and Vlad by Carlos Fuentes

Descriptions and some of my opinions under the cut

Movies

Cronos (1993): This is Guillermo del Toro's first movie, but any movie that's both written and directed by him is bound to be good in my book. It's mostly in Spanish so you will need subtitles. Here an old device (powered by a strange insect) that can turn humans into vampires is discovered accidently by a man and his young granddaughter who runs an antique shop. He is then slowly transformed while being hunted by another man who seeks the device out of a desire for immortality. Definitely existential/sympathetic vampire in this one. It also is a horror movie and a lot of the horror is gross-out moments and body horror. Nothing gross having to do with digestive system functions, but I def had some moments were I was like 🤢

Ganja and Hess (1973): This movie is on the artsy side of things, there's not a definable "plot" it's just a man who is struggling with his existence as a vampire and he falls in love with a woman and brings her over too. Not a particularly scary movie, so I'm not sure it should count as horror. This movie is 90% vibes. Trigger warning for suicide.

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014): Another movie on the artsy side of things. The "girl" is a vampire living in an Iranian town called "bad city" and she kills men who she sees as disrespecting woman. She finds a guy who is actually okay and also disillusioned with life in "bad city". Only slight horror, associated with most vampire content. This movie is in Farsi. Trigger warning for drug addiction.

A Vampire in Brooklyn (1995): A woman from brooklyn is actually half-vampire and doesn't know it. A vampire comes to brooklyn and wants to convert her to vampiricism completly. This movie has low rating on rotten tomatos and idk why. My guess would be the genre is kind of inconsistent. The main vampire is played by Eddie Murphy and while other aspects of the movie as comedic, he isn't in this movie (he has the range). It's also not particularly scary, so it only let's horror through regular vampire themes. It definetly has that seductive vampire trope, and plays with the idea of giving into being evil (through vampirism).

Blacula (1972): The movie is pretty cheesy, not really on purpose but more because it’s super old and not super well made. It has the plot line of Blacula waking up in modern day and finding a women who looked like his old wife and wanting to fall in love with her, which is up there in my least favorite vampire tropes. It’s still an interesting movie in how strikingly 70s it is, the people who find and buy Blacula’s coffin are a biracial gay couple who sell antiques, so that were pretty cool. The main issue with this movie is it’s hard to tell if you are supposed to be rooting for Blacula, because all he wants is to be with his girl, but he also kills A LOT of people, all innocent bystanders. The movie is too middle ground on taking a stance on vampirism that it doesn’t say much at all. Also the sound editor need to be fired, there are wind chimes playing during most blood sucking scenes and there’s no background audio for the finally fight scene, just like thuds, the audio is constantly unintentionally hilarious. 

What We do in the Shadows (2014): This is a mockumentary on these vampire housemates. It's an absolute classic, it has provided tons of memes. One of the co-directors and main characters is played by Taika Waititi, who is Polynesian and Jewish. I love his movie and his sense of humor. This movie isn't scary but does have some slight gore (large amounts of blood).

Blade (1998): This was a marvel movie before it became the franchise it is today. It's a dark action movie where the protagonist, Blade, is both a vampire hunter and a vampire himself. So, while he is fighting evil he is constantly tempted by his nature as a blood drinker. This movie has some very cool horror aspects that make it rated R, which marvel plans to remake this movie and make it PG-13 (boo 🙄). This movie goes hard on the themes of fighting vampiric nature, which is a theme I love in vampire films.

Vampires vs the Bronx (2020): This movie is about a group of kids who discover the real estate company gentrifying the Bronx is actually a group of vampires. Honestly, the connection between vampirism and gentrification is a really good one. This movie has strong Stranger Things, The Lost Boys vibes, in that it’s kids going up against supernatural forces. It’s pretty endearing and nice light watch. There’s lots of tributes to other vampire films, either directly (like, Blade, they reference this movie a lot) or more indirectly (The Lost Boys, and Fright Night). It’s not really scary, this is a more family-friendly movie.

Honorable mention: From Dusk Till Dawn (1996): The leads in this movie are white, however this movie has a pretty diverse cast, with most of the vampires played by POC. This is a super violent film, but in a fun over-the-top way. It's not until half-way through the movie the vampires are revealed. The story follows two bank robbers who make this vacationing family drive them across the border to Mexico, where they will rendezvous with partners after staying at a bar. Little did they know the place was owned by vampires who feed on travelers. Warning for Quentin Tarantino's very obvious foot fetish, there are 2 scenes in the film that are very obvious about this.

Honorable mention: Queen of the Damned (2002): While the lead for this movie is still a white vampire, it's the vampire Akasha played by Aaliyah who really steals the show. She's both the antagonist and the love interest and gets to play a fun and complex evil character. While most fans of the Vampire Chronicles don't like how unfaithful this adaptation is to the books, Aliyah's performance still tends to be a favorite. I haven't seen this movie so I can't attenst to anything else about it, but it is worth mentioning.

TV shows

What we do in the shadows (2018): This is a spinoff of the movie, made by the same ppl, with the same premise, it just has different characters. One of the main vampires, Nandor, is from what is modern-day Iran. His familiar turned bodyguard/vampire hunter, Guillermo, is Latinx. This show is great about representation overall and doesn't use any traits or identity of the characters as the butt of the joke. It's overall goofy and loveable and I can't recommend it more. Slight horror but mostly to remind you of the genre the main characters (especially Guillermo) find themselves in.

Vampires (2020): In this series the main character is half-vampire. Vampires are a genetically different race from humans. The main character has kept her v as impure traits at bay (she can go out in the sun) by taking pills given to her by her vampire mother, but when she stops taking them she begins slowly transforming. I've only watched the first episode so far, the only horror is typical blood-drinking associated with vamps. It's available on Netflix, and if you watch in English, I recommend turning the audio to the original French and watching with subs. At first I was watching in English (it automatically loaded this way) but the dub doesn't match the lip movements super well and it was driving me crazy. I wasn't sure if I could watch it before it occurred to me to change the settings.

Books

Vlad by Carlos Fuentes: This book was written by Fuentes when vampires were at the height of their popularity, but Fuentes didn't like how much vampire media had deviated from the horror genre (for example, Twilight). So he wanted to make an actual horror vampire story, and this one packs a punch for sure. I was gripping my chest in shock and disgust while reading this. The premise is very similar to Dracula, except this time Dracula is moving to modern day Mexico City. It is from the point of view of the real-estate agent finding Dracula a house.

Certain Dark Things by Silvia Moreno Garcia: This book also takes place in Mexico City, however this time humans have known about the existence of vampires for a while, and Mexico City is supposed to be a vampire free zone. However, a conflict between two rival vampire groups is taken to Mexico City, where the main character Atl, and her new human companion/blood source, Domingo, have to fight and run from corrupt Mexico city cops, rival vampires, and human gangs. This book has an extremely fresh take on vampires, solving the problem of conflicting lore in ever piece of media by having multiple species of vampires, with different traits and weaknesses. This book is full of cool vampire lore for it's universe, but at the same time it's not overwhelming. The mood and setting alters from neon-noir (think Blade Runner) and classic gothic. I adored this book and highly recommend it to everyone.

Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler: This book is a more science fiction leaning vampire take. It's not gothic or existential, vampires are simply another species that have been living on Earth besides humans. The vampires have a ritualistic relationship with those humans they feed from, called symbionts. The main character, Shori, is a new genetically engineered vampire, she is black, which makes her less sensitive to the sun and other vampires. However, a mysterious group has been killing and attacking vampire settlements, and she has to struggle to stay alive, while also seeking revenge. While this book is a fresh take on vampires, it has heavy Adult/Minor relationship content that I didn't enjoy and ultimately skewed my perception of the book (Shori looks like a 10 year old and has sex with adult humans, but is 53 years old, but that's out of a 500 year lifespans, and they repeatedly state that she is a child-vampire). There's an in-universe explanation that the vampire culture is different from humans, but still. Still, this book is highly acclaimed so some ppl can enjoy it despite it's glaring flaws.

Minion by L. A. Banks: This is the only book I haven't read yet, but I have looked into the reviews and summaries. This seems like a Buffy the Vampire Slayer style vampire book, it focuses on the main character, who is a vampire slayer. She is black and Caribbean and would prefer to be a DJ but she is the only one who can hunt vampires (again, very similar to Buffy). From the reviews these vampires are not sympathetic or romantic, they are cold-blooded killers. Since I haven't read it yet I can't tell you if this book (and subsequent series) is more action or horror focused or both.

[diavolosthots]

Can we get how the brothers would react to mc being on her or their (idk which you’d prefer) period and just being easily irritated all week?

*** REQUESTS ARE NOT OPEN THIS IS FROM LAST TIME*

I KNOW I've done this before but i cant find it so i guess I'm doing it again. Also note: I personally don't have any issues with my period, i dont get cramps, it lasts like 3 days tops, and my flow isnt heavy, so this is very generic and based on the majority of the population that is NOT like me.

Warning: mild arguments with some of the brothers, period

THE BROTHERS reacting to MC having their period 

Lucifer:

Get sassy with him, he dares you. He does not care that your hormones are out of balance or that you’re bleeding Satan’s waterfall out of your body; respect is a state of mind and can be shown at any cost. Discomfort can be tamed and if you think that he won’t use every spell known to demon kind of you to get you to stop complaining about cramps, you’re wrong. They will work too and all of a sudden you have a shocked look on your face and are feeling kind of embarrassed for snapping at him, but don’t worry, he’ll just make you apologize. Lets it slide. Come to him directly next time and he’ll use that spell on you to get rid of cramps and pain, as long as you don’t get sassy again. 

Mammon:

LMAO what even is the human body? One minute you were perfectly fine and then he apparently said something to piss you off? What the hell, man!? Will defend himself, of course, and get pissy with you, too, asking you why you’re onto him in the first place. If you yell “I’m on my period you twat!” Be prepared to explain, as simple as possible, what that is and how it affects you. Will most likely expect compensation for dealing with your emotional self and catering to your needs. Take him out for dinner afterward and you’re all good; dealing with hormonal people is exhausting, after all. 

Leviathan:

He, sadly, knows what it is, and in all honesty, would rather hide away from you in his room during the entirety of your period. He can’t handle you crying and then yelling at him with tears in your eyes and screaming for chocolate!!! He’ll leave blankets and cookies outside your room and talk from a safe distance, but he’s too scared to mess up and make you angry by saying something that’s not right. He’s heard horror stories of people on their periods and the last thing he wants is for you to cry to him about how one potato didn’t taste the same as the other when he cooked dinner that day… he can’t handle it. 

Satan:

Of course he knows what it is, and he could smell blood from miles away. At first, he tried to be understanding. He gave you what you wanted, got you what you needed, but you still ended up irritated with him, which had him irritated, and yes it did end up in a shouting match and you crying, him storming off. He’ll feel bad, after a couple of hours, and return with food and your favorite movie, but don’t think he won’t hold that grudge for the next argument you have with him. Hormones are a bitch, and he has anger issues. This is not a good mix. Don’t rely too much on him from here on out. 

Asmodeus:

He’s the KingTM. Heating pads, tampons, chocolate, and him naked are all ready. He heard an orgasm is the best way to relieve cramps and he’s ready to give you plenty of those ;) Has no fear and or shame toward period blood and will go down on you/fuck you into the mattress regardless of the circumstances… as long as both of you can take a nice, relaxing bath afterwards. He most likely won’t get too irritated if you are angry with him for whatever reason, but he might sass back. A soft, “just like you.” might leave his mouth sooner or later if you stab at him with anything truly mean.

Beelzebub:

Poor boy knows like the basics of what’s going on with you and that’s it. Chances are, you started getting sassy with him out of nowhere, without telling him what was going on, and he of course ignored you, not wanting to deal with an attitude. This would probably make you angry and or cry/feel down. In both cases he’ll ask what’s wrong and if you do tell him you’re on your period, he’ll make a little ‘O’ face, and ask what you need. He’s still doing his own thing, though, so don’t expect him to drop everything and tend to your every need. He’ll pick up food from his way home from the gym, or sit down with you to laze around a bit, holding you tight, but nothing too mind-blowing

Belphegor:

Why are you mad at him now?! He’s apologized for something he isn’t even sure he did for the tenth time today, because if he didn’t, you’d cry again, or ignore him, or feel down about yourself. Why are you so emotional? He’s already given you his pillow and his cardigan and now you’re practically one with him so what more could you need?! He’s just trying to take a nap, with or without you, not try and figure out astrophysics. A loud sigh would leave him, probably upsetting you, and now he has to pull out his secret weapon of chocolate, but at least that’s sure to make you happy for a little while.