#the raise is like double digits

[hyruviandoctor]

So far I've gotten a huge raise and got approved for my first solo apartment so yeah I guess 2024 might actually be my year

[petrichorium]

Truthfully I think falling down the one piece slope was inevitable for me bc I am nothing if not an absolute slut for surrogate fathers

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic idea: Wrong Number

Bruce prides himself in keeping all of his networks secured. If he didn't make it himself, he had the funds and connections to get him the best working on his systems.

He had backup plans in case the systems were ever hacked, of course, but he had yet to encounter a cyber attack that wasn't beaten away by his firewalls or his team.

Babs and Tim were far more feral when booting out unwanted guests. The level of protection was also transferred to his other systems that weren't Batman-related, just to make sure the connection between Bruce and Batman was never made.

That's why he never really checks his personal phone's caller ID, not the one he gave out as Brucie Wayne, but the one Bruce used for his real life without any masks- civilian or vigilante. The only ones who had the number- and the access- were his children and Alfred.

Not even the Justice League- those who were aware of his identity- knew of this number.

Bruce is in the middle of typing up a report for the next Wayne Board meeting when his personal phone rings. He figures it's Dick giving him a call to update him on his drive home or maybe Jason, as his son was planning on going to college.

"Go for Papa Bruce," He says, knowing his kids hate his phone greeting and doing it deliberately to spite them.

There is a long pause where he can't help but smirk thinking his child is either rolling their eyes or cringing too hard to properly speak. Eventually, a voice cracks over the speaker.

"Hello. I'm selling cookies to raise money for my own star. Would like to buy a box from me?" says a boy, not one he has taken in. The voice is young maybe not even double digits yet. Bruce is alarmed.

"Who are you?! How did you get this number?" He demands, yanking his phone to his face and seeing, with a chill, a phone number out of state.

His system had been compromised. By a child. By accident.

"My name is Danny!" The boy chirps. "I sell cookies. Like the Girl Scouts, but I'm a boy, and I don't scout."

"That's rather fantastic, lad. What kind of cookies are you selling?" Bruce asks to keep the boy on the line while sending an email blast to the others. It's a string of numbers that are code for compromise so they all know to close any communication channel until it's safe to get back on.

"Chocolate chip. Mint Slim. Oatmeal and peanut butter. I made them myself!"

Right. Bruce hooks up his phone, tracing the call. The signal bounces off the call, swinging up to a salute and falling back down to earth. In seconds he has the boy's location. It pings in a small town right outside of Star City.

He sends Barry a private message. His friend is already on the way to the location. He'll get the boy in a few seconds.

"How much for a box of chocolate chips? Those are my favorite." Bruce tells the boy, voice whimsical as his Brucie persona demands.

In an unsure tone, the boy pauses, then whispers, "I don't know. No one ever let me get this far."

"How about twenty for a box of dozen? I'll buy five boxes for each of my kids that live at him," Bruce tells him, and the boy gasps.

"That could buy me one whole night in a hotel!"

Bruce's insides freeze. What did he mean-

"Hey! No! Let go!" Danny suddenly screams. Bruce's heart launches- he hates it when kids get hurt, especially those that sound like Danny- until Barry's voice comes over the speaker.

"I got him, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for alerting the Justice League Hotline." That's code for This is not a threat to you Batman and Bruce allows himself to relax just a little.

"Narc!" The boy shouts, outraged, before the call drops. Barry is likely taking over the situation, which means Bruce can leave it in his capable hands.

After reassuring his kids that he is fine and that they are all safe, he suits up and meets the Flash in the Watch Tower. There, he learns that Danny is only seven years old and has been living on the streets for a while.

The boy had been surviving by baking some cookies to sell on the side of the street- where did he bake them? The boy would not say- until he got the bright idea to try to sell through phone calls like he had seen on TV.

He punched in random numbers at the community center phone and gave his pitch about a star, thinking people would be more willing to buy from him if he had an excellent reason.

Barry had left him with CPS, but he looked devastated about that. It turned out that Danny was a meta and had likely been kicked out of his home once it was found out based on what he said of his parents.

Bruce felt he should assure Barry that Danny was fine and look into his placement to help settle his more sensitive teammate's nerves.

He was unhappy that Danny was not in a good placement; there were far too many reports from a concerned neighbor to make him think it was a safe place. Given the fact that placement had a lot of meta kids that "fell through the cracks," Bruce worried he had just stumbled across a trafficking ring.

He would sick Barry and Jason on them. Just to ensure they wouldn't see the light of day again.

Still, that did not fix his mistake with Danny, the little cookie seller.

Bruce hacked into the system to move Danny. He thought about where he would move the young child but ultimately had him in Wayne Manor.

Just until he could confirm that he would be safe. He certainly didn't think about the adorable little boy who called him with his heart in his hand and got sent to a terrible place for three weeks because of Bruce.

Danny arrived at Wayne Manor with a happy little bounce and a chipper outlook on life than Bruce was expecting. "If it isn't Mr. Narc!"

God, he going to adopt the boy, isn't he?

(Danny has been thrown into a different universe, aged down to a child. He survived by overshadowing people into letting him spend the night baking cookies.

He was thrown into a somewhat typical home, but the nosy neighbor down the street took far too much notice of his overshadowing, and now he was being moved again.

Maybe he can terrorize Mr. Narc now instead? )

[januaryembrs]

MAGIC BROWNIE | Eddie Munson x Sunshine!Reader

Description: Sunshine girl accidentally eats one of Eddie’s “Magic Brownies” and he takes care of his baked girlfriend.

Word count: 3.3k

Trigger Warnings: weed obviously, accidental drug usage, quick mention of child neglect when talking about Eddie as a kid not eating enough. Reader gets undressed but no sex (eddie has a horny thought however)

main masterlist

This was not how he had expected their day to go. She loved baking for him and Wayne, loved making sure her scrawny, lanky boyfriend was fed, and boy could he eat. Wayne swore he had the stomach(s) of a cow. Any food left on his plate? Give it to Eds. Food ready to go out of date? Nope, Eds is already scarfing it down. Weekly food shop was just brought in? Munson is dining like a king before the fridge door is even open.

Maybe it was from when he lived with his dad and he would forget to feed the little, jet black haired boy for days on end and he would have to be given half his teacher’s lunch when they saw how gaunt he was through his mop of curls. Maybe he had yet to adjust to the idea that he would still have food without storing it for winter like a damn bear, either way she never dared to think about her sweet Eds and his kind uncle going hungry on weeks when money was tight.

But when dessert became an option, Eddie’s sweet tooth was in heaven.

They had the house to themselves on Sundays; Wayne was always pulling doubles on a weekend to make up the extra cash, the garage was always busiest then. They already had leftovers from last night to sort them for the evening, so what else better than to cook than a thick tray of rich brownies she’d practised not even a week earlier.

Unbeknownst to her, Eddie had done his own kind of baking.

“Okay, be there for seven,” He said into the corded phone, biting at his nail as he thought. Nodding to himself, before remembering they couldn’t see him, he hummed a goodbye and hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” She asked, emerging from the loo with freshly wet hands, wiping them on her jeans as she tied the pretty little pink apron around her waist again. Watching her lean down to open the oven door, he smiled to himself, handing her the matching oven mitts.

“No one,” He muttered, shamelessly watching her ass as she bent down to pick out the hot tray, “Just got a package to drop off later,”

“What, like to the post office?” She asked, her eyes flicking to him innocently, shoving the pan out for him to smell.

Smiling toothily at her, as if he knew a secret she didn’t, he kissed her forehead sweetly. “Where else would I take a package, sweet girl?” He murmured, before shoving his finger in the centre of the chocolatey goodness with a childish raspberry blown through his cherry lips.

Hissing when his finger met the hot sugar in the centre, he shoved the digit into his mouth with a groan of delight and pain.

“It’s still hot, honey,” She scolded, putting the tray onto the side to assist the frowning boy.

“You’re still hot, baby,” He said, his words distorted by his finger being in the way of his tongue. Pulling it from his mouth, she inspected the spit covered skin carefully, seeing where it raised red slightly.

Giggling at his words, she kissed the tip gently, unaware of the way his eyes seemed to follow the way her mouth pressed to his burn so carefully, feeling his tummy shiver at his girlfriend's pure actions.

“Feel better Eds?” She asked, looking up at him with hopeful eyes, his tongue going dry immediately. His chin bobbed for a second, scrambling for words, before he nodded wordlessly, turning away from her before she could see the way his cheeks blazed a rosy heat of their own.

“Um, I just gotta-” He stammered, heading for his room as she pulled out a sharp knife to cut the slab into segments. His mouth was dry as he dug out the brownies he’d made himself two days prior, though these weren’t as chocolatey as his sweet girlfriend’s and more rammed to high (ha) heavens full of weed.

Did he prefer the taste of hers? Yes, any day of the week she was an amazing cook. Had he burnt the top and left a thick crust whilst somehow managing to undercook the middle? Yes, though he was still at odds with himself just how he’d done so. But were his little gooey creations going to see him and Wayne through two weeks of rent? Absolutely.

Dashing back to the kitchen with the blue tupperware under his arm, he stopped long enough to see her transferring them into some kitchen paper inside her own container, her fingers gentle enough to carve ice let alone handle confectionery.

“I’ll be right back, just gotta take care of some things. How about I swing by Family Video on the way back and rent us The Shining?” He asked, a large, scuffed hand coming up to her face to cup her cheek, brushing away the flour that dusted her eyebrow.

She scrunched up her nose, but kept his doe gaze nevertheless, big, Bambi browns staring down at her, entranced.

“I dunno, Eds. I like those films but they always make me wanna puke afterwards,” She said, lips twisting in disgust, “Plus I get kinda scared when Wayne’s not home anyway, I don’t wanna be thinking of crazy axe wielders. Hawkins is crazy enough as it is,”

Putting the tupperware on the side, next to her pretty pink one, he took her warm cheeks in his grasp and tugged her face closer.

“Which is where I come and hold your hair back and protect you from the intruders, silly girl,” He asked, a kiss going to the tip of her nose, “What does my lady want instead then? Gremlins?” Another to her forehead, “The Lost Boys?” There goes another to her chin of all places, “Labyrinth? Come on, I know you have the hots for Bowie as a Goblin King ya’ little freak,” He blew a raspberry on the apple of her cheek, a big wet kiss following it.

Giggling some more and shoving him away, rubbing her face on her shoulder, “How about E.T?” She asked, her hands coming to rest on his wrists.

He stilled, eyes wide with his own grimace. “E.T? Now that’s a scary movie,” He said, watching his girlfriend roll her eyes and smirk, “I’m serious. That wrinkly mother fucker gave me nightmares, with his extendable neck and his weird eyes and shit-”

“Alright, alright, Labyrinth it is.” She conceded, leaning on her toes to kiss him sweetly on the mouth, “I’ll still need you to hold my hand all night, alright Goblin King?” She asked, watching his cheeks flush as she leaned in closer to him, “Movie night rules, unfortunately,”

He couldn’t remember if he’d said anything, just that his mouth had moved in some kind of agreeing motion, his eyes trained on the way she licked her pretty lips as she leaned in for another kiss. Two years together and she still had his heart hammering away behind his ribcage whenever she kissed him.

He barely remembered getting in his van with the package, its hot pink lip staring at him from the passenger seat, the thought of her shampoo smell invading his nose whenever she got so close he could see each individual pigment in her eye. He barely remembered dropping it off, other than taking the money and wishing his customer a good evening, “I know I will be,” He said under his breath, flooring it to Family Video.

“One Goblin King and empty hand at your request, fair maiden,” Eddie said, practically tumbling through the door, his van all but ditched in the driveway. Looking around for his sweet girlfriend, he furrowed his brow when he heard not even a peep in response. Usually she would be bouncing over to him with a kiss ready on her lips made just for him, maybe even a bowl of warm, buttery popcorn if he was really lucky.

But nothing.

Twitching the curtains, he made sure her car was in the drive, and just as he’d thought, she’d not left. So where in hell's gates was she?

“Baby?” He called through the small trailer, his panic starting to set in. Surely an intruder would have taken jewellery or money, not a whole woman for christ sakes. Maybe it was the past few years with the Lab being shut down for its dangerous radiation, or the talk of the Russian’s invading their little town, or even that Summer kids went missing from their friend’s pool party, he didn’t know. She was probably just waiting behind the door to jump out at him, or some dumb trick like that. She probably was just in his bedroom getting changed or something like that.

He had never moved through the little hallway so fast, hating how quiet it was.

His heart dropped when he saw his tiny room empty. His unmade bed that he had never seen looking smart sent him over the edge. Was there a struggle? Had his wardrobe door always open? Of course it was, he was a master of leaving things unfinished. He’d leave a sandwich without filling if he wasn’t always so damn hungry. No, he was being silly. There was nothing off about his room, nothing that screamed kidnap other than the god damn silence- why was it so damn quiet-

Then he heard a creak from the bathroom, and it was like his chest took a xanax. “You in there, honey?” He called, doubling back on himself to stand outside the white door, leaning in closer to hear inside. Hearing still no response, he practically melded with the wood, cheek squished against the cold wall, “Baby?”

Nothing, nothing but slight movement from the other side.

Huffing, he reached for the handle, “I’m gonna come in, alright? I’m just checking you’re okay, I’m not a peeping Tom or anything-“

Their bathroom was tiny, was only there for usage over luxury, but it was cosy. Yet, it couldn’t have prepared Eddie for the odd sight. His girlfriend, seemingly playing with something in her hands, fully clothed in a half filled bath, her denim jeans submerged, socks still on her feet, top floating riding up to her chest with the water pressure.

Staring at the back of her head for a moment, the confusion clear on his face, he looked around for anything that could help explain the odd situation, before his eyes fell back on her.

“You alright, honey?” He asked, approaching her carefully, though it took all of one step to make it to the small, PVC tub. Her head lolled to rest against the wall, and she seemed to have only just noticed him standing there.

“Edsy!” She said, smiling dopily up at him, “I was wondering where you got off to,”

Chuckling unsurely, he rested his hand on top of her head, giving her a gentle stroke. “You alright there, Little Mermaid?”

She snorted, reaching up to show him her hands, “I was just painting my nails, see?” Except all he saw was red marker pen drawn over her fingertips, the nails more akin to a toddler coming home from preschool. Thinking she was kidding, he smirked.

“Beautiful baby-” He stopped himself, the smile dropping in an instant when he finally met her eyes. She went to look away, her hand holding the red crayola pen tightly to continue her artwork, but his hand shot out to grab her chin. “Wait, wait, wait. Look at me,” He swore he had never sounded so serious.

She blinked up at him after a moment, again as if taking a second to compute his order, and looked up at him with droopy lids. Smiling at him sweetly, his gaze locked in on her red corneas, bloodshot and absolutely baked expression.

“Baby, are you high? Did you go under my bed?” He asked seriously, turning her head to the streetlight filtering through the window to get a better look.

“Why would I do that, Eds?” She asked, her words drawling, quieting as she ended her sentence as if she hadn’t the energy to finish. “I just had a couple of the brownies I made and started feeling warm and didn’t wanna be sweaty when you got home-”

Hand flying to stroke his temple, he gently caressed his girlfriend’s face, understanding her issue. He must have taken the wrong fucking box.

“Oh baby, oh my sweet girl. I am so sorry.” Taking her head into his chest, he pressed a kiss to her parting. “I’ve spiked my own girlfriend, new fucking low Munson,”

“-ddie,” Her voice was muffled from his Hellfire shirt, “We gonna watch Jared?”

“Jareth, honey,” He sighed, looking down at his stoned girlfriend with a concealed smile. He felt guiltier than a sinner in church but god was she cute high. “Come on, let’s get you dry,”

Hoisting her out of the tub with his hands under her arms, he got her to take off her jeans and top as he held up a large bath towel as a curtain between the two of them, wanting to give her some level of privacy. Hearing her clothes hit the floor with a heavy thud, he wrapped her body with the big towel, feeling her hands in his hair as he helped her into his room, her feet shuffling obediently.

“Now the movie?” She asked, plopping herself down on the bed, her eyes lazily scanning over his walls of posters as if she wasn’t here three times a week. Digging around in his bottom draw for spare clothes, he tried to hide his snort as she nudged at his butt with her foot. “Eddie, now the movie?”

“Nearly, baby,” He said, handing her a grey shirt and boxers big enough to fit comfily on her. “Gonna get you a bit comfier first, I’ll make you some mac and cheese,”

“But I’m not hungry,” She said, tugging the shirt over her head with a whine, before flopping back, feeling dizzy, “You do the legs for me,”

“Huh?” Eddie asked, blushing when she spread her legs and gestured to him with the boxers in her hand.

“You do the legs, my head feels funny,” She mumbled, spreading her arms out on the bed, fingers digging into the fluffy duvet. He knew it was probably soft under her dulled touch.

Eddie and her had been intimate many times before. Hell, they’d had sex before they’d even reached the one month mark, but having her ask him to take her underwear off, even so innocently, had his face red as a saint.

“Alright, honey. I’m gonna make you feel better, get you some water.” He said, hoping she couldn’t feel how his hands shook as he slipped her underwear down her legs, avoiding looking at her private parts for her dignity’s sake, “And trust me you’ll want something to eat in an hour or two,”

“If you say so, Eds,” She murmured as he gently held her ankle to put her foot through the leg hole, doing the same to the other and pulling them over the meat of her thighs that had his mouth watering. Giving her knee a little kiss (he tried to stop himself, he did) he asked her to sit up a little so he could bring the underwear all the way up.

He couldn’t help give the softness of her stomach a kiss too as he rose to see how she was doing, smiling softly when he saw her sleepy eyes regard him with a little smile of her own.

“Tired?” He near whispered, stroking her warm cheeky with his knuckle gently. She shook her head, blinking harshly when it made her vision blurry.

“No, just feel funny,” She said, grabbing onto his wrist to keep his cool hands on her face, “But good funny. I think. Just funny,”

“How many did you have, baby?” He asked, holding onto her hand as she sat up, watching her head tip slightly at the movement, as if he could tell how heavy every part of her felt. He knew the stages of edible high well; he and Keith had been hooked on them in tenth grade, but his sweet girlfriend knew nothing about any of his ‘Magic Brownies’ he sold, and he’d intended to keep it that way until now.

“Two, I think. I think I had a bite of a third and I started feeling weird so I stopped. I thought I just had a lot of chocolate.” She said, head pressed against his shoulder as he led her to the kitchen, “Eddie, my feet are cold,”

“Oh, shit, your socks,” He cursed, heading towards the sofa. “I’ll fix you up, don’t worry honey,” He said, gently helping her sit down, her body all but dead weight.

She murmured something as he pulled away, and he could only give her hand a peck before he was rushing around, grabbing her things that would make her feel better. Fluffy socks to calm her, make her comfy, water for when her mouth got dry, plain tortilla chips for when she started getting hungry while he’d cook her some real food. He all but scowled at the weed confectionary as he passed it, hating the fact he had unknowingly gotten his girlfriend into such a state.

He took barely five minutes before he gently rolled the socks onto her cold feet, throwing himself back down next to her, her head lolling to look up at him through heavy lids.

“We watch Jared now?�� She asked, burrowing her face into his shirt.

“We watch Jared now.” He confirmed, chuckling when he felt her try to press herself even further into him, her nose jabbing into his ribs, “What are you doing?”

“Wanna crawl inside your skin, I’m not close enough out here,” She murmured, and Eddie smiled widely down at her, pressing play on the remote.

“I’m gonna pretend that wasn’t mildly creepy, baby,” He said, his arm wrapping around her to keep her close, feeling her melt into his side, “I got you some water for when your mouth goes cottony,”

“Huh?” She said, though her eyes were zeroed in on the screen, his words a jumble in her ears. Nosing her hair line, he chuckled, kissing the tip of her ear and stroking her arm.

“Nothing, just watch your film, honey,” He said, his words a sugary glaze as he looked down at her zombie-like expression.

He had a lot of ass kissing to do in the morning.

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[woodland-gremlin]

Meeting the Kids

Today was the day that Dick’s boyfriend, Danny, would be introducing him to his three kids. He has heard so much about the gremlin trio that he could recite how Danny adopted them and what they are like forwards and backwards in his sleep at this point. And as he fidgeted outside of his boyfriend’s apartment in Fawcett that was exactly what he did.

Ellie is Danny’s biological daughter that was officially put under his guardianship when he was emancipated at 17, but unofficially he has been watching over her for much longer. She is the oldest of the three, being 11. Exploring and causing untold amounts of chaos, usually with her two younger brothers, is her bread and butter in life. Will not hesitate to turn that controlled chaos onto you if you hurt her family, if the stories of what she does to her sperm donor is an indication. Tales of all the places he has traveled when he was in the circus and stress he has caused Bruce at galas are his best bet to not getting pelted with glitter the moment he walks in the door.

Billy is the most recent addition to the family after living on the streets for the last few years. He is the middle child at 10 years old. Being forced into foster care, which is a death sentence according to Jason, and living on the streets, which is apparently better than foster care (again according to Jason), has made him vary of adults. The only reason he trusted Danny enough to be adopted, was through a long campaign of food, a safe place to sleep that he could leave at any time, the other kids, and a few private emotional moments. From the stories he is a sweet kid whose swearing could make a sailor blush. He brought some of Alfred’s homemade food and stories of Jason for him.

Damian was taken in 6 years ago when Danny was 19. His birth family was in a cult, raising him as its heir before trying to sacrifice him to some higher being, when Danny found him. Even with the ruff start he is very in touch with his home country’s culture, Danny even getting in touch with people from his culture to teach the whole family so they can better understand and respect it. He is the youngest of the trio at 9 and loves animals. He has also seemingly inherited Danny’s adoption tendencies when it comes to said animals. He is also the most likely to challenge him to a duel for Danny’s honor, he does it to every potential partner of Danny's, much less one actually dating him. Mentions of Batcow while accepting said duel should help Damian at least tolerate him.

All three of them are the stars of Danny’s life. Dick has heard all about the bullshit Danny gets for being a father of three, two which are in the double digits, at 25 and how protective the Nightingale family is of each other. And that isn’t even counting his older sister, who he has met over the phone, and all the others claimed extended family. How often Danny has broken up with his partners over the kids or said kids driving out those partners if they didn’t think that they were good enough for their dad. So, no Jason, he wasn’t being paranoid, considering that they ran the last one out in tears, covered in neon, biodegradable glitter and paint, he was being practical!

What Dick did not know was that as he was panicking and making plans the gremlin trio was making their own plans. Plans of his demise.

[queerliblib]

hello hello and HAPPY PRIDE! 🏳️‍🌈 This time last year, we asked you to help us raise $15k to launch a digital library of queer and trans ebooks and audiobooks. You came through and smashed that goal, making Queer Liberation Library a reality. Now comes the hard part… maintenance.🧑‍🔧📚

Our goal is doubled this year. That’s right: $30,000 real! actual! american! dollars! to continue to provide library services to our rapidly growing community. We recently reached 50,000 library members (!!!) since launching in October. For context: our dream goal was 10,000 members by the end of 2024. (time to dream new dreams!)

We’ve heard you that the hold times are just too long, and we agree. Your donations enable us to buy more licenses for more books and reduce those wait times. The average cost for one year of access for an ebook is about $40, while audiobook is about $80. For most of these items, the tech requires that only one person can use them at a time, just like a physical book. So! More funding = more copies of popular books = less waiting for you!

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And most of all, keep reading. We are so, so happy to have you with us while we all make access to queer information, literature, and resources more accessible together. Thank you for being a part of the QLL community — we love you! <3

[kyumisyumi]

HI!!! Love your work!!

Is it possible for you to write a fic where the monster is just too big for the reader but the monster is in rut or some sort of overbearing horniness so they coax the reader open to be able to take all of them

So sorry this took forever, life was life-ing. Job hunting and the works. Happy I could finally finish my first request here.

Warning: nsfw tags: heat, double penetration, fisting-ish, we're all just animals at the end of the day

Ship: Naga x Reader (F)

Word count: 800+ words

⊱⊶Taking requests⊷⊰

You were so good for him. Always so good; wet and soft and absolutely divine. He never mind that you couldn't take both of his cocks, just having one in you was enough to drive him damn near feral. His mind threatening to slip into an animalistic haze begging him to fuck you until every last drop of energy -and cum-  in him was gone. Now, however, things were different. The season's arrival brought with it the an aphrodisiac than burned inside his veins. The overwhelming need to breed you - and breed you proper- was pushing him beyond reason. Beyond thought even. His ears filled with the ringing of need and the only thing that could pierce it was the sweet sounds of your moans.

"Please." You didn't even know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For him to start? He'd been fucking you with his fingers for what felt like eons. His long, firm digits sliding in you effortlessly as their tips pressed against the spongy little spot that seemed to disconnect your brain. Your thighs and the plush sheets beneath were absolutely drenched in slick leaking out of your swollen cunt. You didn't even know how you got here; one moment you were tending to the houseplants that sat by the living room window, the next moment you were being pulled into a tight reptilian coil. One blink later; your clothes were gone and a long, forked tongue was tasting you.

You cursed as his fingers pulled wider and wider, finally letting in the fifth digit. Your back arched as he slowly pushed forward with his whole arm. You could feel your insides mold to the shape of his muscles. Did you just come? Your senses were absolutely fried from overstimulation. But the pulsing of your walls eventually caught up to you, bringing with it the jolts of pleasure that wracked your whole body. Pretty little tears began to spill from your eyes again as you searched for him through blurry vision. So weak and overwhelmed that you needed the visage of him for comfort. Your brain didn't care that he was the one causing it.

His eyes almost glowed as he peered down at you, the once thin slits of his pupils expanded, almost fully concealing the color. He looked mad. The pearly whites of his eyes tinted red along the edges. Bloodshot. He was lost. He looked as if he hadn't blinked in years, as if even the milliseconds it would take to close his lids were too long to not look at you.

"Are you ready for me, Love?" He spoke for the first time in ages. Voice raspy, dry, as though all moisture had been sucked from him. "Of course you are." He answered, with zero input from you, not that you could even muster words at this point. "So fucking perfect." He pulled his hand out of you. His eyes finally left you to look at the glistening moisture that covered it then at your thoroughly abused hole. His forked tongue absentmindedly licked your taste off his fingers. He began muttering to himself. Your concern for his sanity grew. You could barely hear his words; praises and coos for you. Thanking the Gods for bringing you to him. Making you for him.

When he raised himself on his tail you could see the leaking tips of his engorged members. Both of them pressing against his abdomen, twitching as though they were ready to spill seed at any moment. He positioned himself between your trembling thighs, one hand squeezing both cocks together. You'd yet to realize his intentions before you felt the dual tips slip into you. You opened your mouth to say something. What? Again, you weren't sure. But when he slowly began to push himself further and further inside you your vocal chords released a ferine moan.  You could feel your walls stretch to hold him, like a fulfilling pressure rather than the straining pain you'd expected. That scared you so much you never tried prior. He lowered himself over you, elbows bent on either side of your limp form. His eyes refocused, studying every minute movement of your face.

There was no patience in him, all of it spent. He'd bottomed out in you before you'd even realised it. His hips smashing against your pelvis with a loud groan. His chest pressed into yours with every breath. He'd give you a moment and only a moment before the thrusting began. You'd felt full before but it couldn't compare to what you feel now. The raw connection of having him inside you; not his fingers, not his tongue, not his hand but his manhood sheathed within you where it belonged. Nothing felt more right, it was both intoxicating and sobering. Pleasure would always be pleasure but this was something more.

You were reduced to cries and mewls as you both devolved into animals.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Eminem featuring Nate Dogg - 'Till I Collapse 2002

"'Till I Collapse" is a song by American rapper Eminem featuring American singer Nate Dogg, released from his fourth studio album The Eminem Show (2002). Despite never being released as a single, the song has managed to chart numerous times worldwide and was the most streamed non-single of all time on Spotify as of June 2022. In 2012, it was certified double-platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America for selling 2,000,000 copies in the US. This was followed by quintuple-platinum in 2018 and octuple-platinum in 2022.

When Eminem's single "Shake That" (also featuring Nate Dogg) was released in 2006, several Eminem songs re-charted that same week, including "'Till I Collapse". It charted in the UK at number 192 on April 15, 2006. In 2009, it was used in an advertisement for the game Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. It raised digital download sales of the song worldwide considerably, but in Britain the song sold so many copies after the ad aired that it re-charted at number 73, a new peak.

"'Till I Collapse" received a total of 63,7% yes votes! Previous Eminem polls: #27 "Rabbit Run".

[the-californicationist]

The Window (Ch. 02)

Tw: breeding kink, reverse harem gangbang MDNI

This is a repost sorry I’m trying to fix a broken link situation. Just ignore me.

The waiting was the worst part. You tried not to stare at the pregnancy test strip while it was still loading. A watched pot never boils, or whatever that saying was. You scrolled through your phone, you paced back and forth, and you listened to the murmuring voices on the other side of the door, eagerly awaiting the good news.

But, there wouldn’t be any celebrating. Not this month.

You threw the negative strip in the trash and tried to hold it together. You had been flipping through online baby stores, looking at cribs, watching videos about safety, and reading the towering stack of what-to-expect books that Soap’s mom had bought for you (you still hadn’t forgiven him for telling her, but you sent her a sweet thank-you card). And yet… it felt like it was all for nothing.

You imagined what it must be like for those women who got pregnant if a strong wind blew too hard that day, and you tried to fight the pang of jealousy. Then, you thought about your team. The disappointed look on their faces would be so hard to bear. But, you needed to let them know.

The door handle was cold in your hands as you popped it open and left the bathroom. When you looked up at the group, they were all sat, patiently waiting to hear what you’d come to report. It was quiet at first, and then Kyle raised his hands, an eager expression of joy on his face,

“Well?”

By the sudden, pained look in your eyes, he got his answer. In a flash, you were buried in Simon’s chest, wrapped in his huge arms, hearing him whisper,

“It’s alright, love. Next time.”

You felt Price’s palm on the nape of your neck, and Johnny had grabbed your hand. You fought the tears, overwhelmed by their support.

Simon broke his hug and sat down with you. You told them,

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I just can’t seem to —”

“No, lass. I willnae sit here and listen to you blame yourself,” Johnny protested.

“Agreed,” Simon nodded, pushing a lock of your hair behind your ear.

Price sighed, and his men looked up at him for guidance. So, he said,

“We’ll just have to double our efforts. We’re not giving up, love. Don’t you worry.”

A warm hand circled around your shoulders from the other side of the sofa, and you saw Kyle’s face light up with mischief,

“I like the sound of that plan.”

And that’s how you ended up in Price’s quarters, surrounded by all of your soldiers, getting pumped full of their thick come.

Gaz was pounding his length into your body like a machine. The wet schlicking noise your pussy was making for him filled the room, mixing with the dark, deep moans from the others as they watched you take his long shaft.

You were laying on the bed, propped up a bit with your head resting on Price’s huge thigh, watching him fist his fat, uncut rod inches from your face, waiting his turn. He was petting your forehead, telling you what a pretty little girl you were and how much he was looking forward to filling you up to your limit.

Ghost sat on the edge of the bed, jerking himself off languidly, lolling his soft tongue across your nipple, sucking it when he wanted to, leaving pink marks on your skin. Meanwhile, Johnny had situated his mouth right over your clit, not really minding Gaz and his pounding, eating you like he was going to starve to death.

You’d lost count of your orgasms, but you thought you were still in the single digits. Simon’s come was already frothing, packed deep inside of you from his earlier spend, coating your walls and Gaz’s shaft as he worked. The wetness made his cock gleam like a shining popsicle, and you wanted to lick him clean.

It was so erotic, you couldn’t help but cry out,

“Mmffuck! Kyle… please. Oh, my fucking God!”

“Good girl,” he smiled, panting, “You ready for more?”

You nodded your head, turning your cheek toward John, looking for his comfort. You laid your hand on the back of Simon’s head and encouraged him to suck a little harder.

John’s warm hand pet your cheek as he looked down at you,

“Here, love. Need something to suck on? C’mon. It’ll make you feel so full, won’t it.”

He pointed his swollen head down toward your lips and let you suckle from the drooling tip, comforting yourself with his flesh, enjoying his musky taste.

You felt Johnny’s mouth begin to suck at your clit’s rigid body, using his smooth tongue to push it back and forth, making Gaz’s every thrust feel like pure electricity. Your body arched into it, and even though your grunting and screaming were muffled by the captain’s cockhead, you came with a swirling, all-encompassing bliss, letting the glittering sensation rush through your veins like a drug.

“Pretty girl,” John held your cheek gently, feeling it swell with his hardness, “You look so beautiful when you come for us.”

“Fuck,” Gaz sighed, “She’s so bloody tight. I can’t… I’m gonna fuckin’ come.”

The whole room watched as he unloaded his pleasure into you, seeing his face melt with joy, looking at how his cock had stretched its way into you, pulsing now with each drop of his thick come.

“Tha’s it. Legs up for us, bonnie girl. Cannae have Gaz’s work go to waste, hm?” Soap grinned, helping you bend your hips up into position. Then, the moment Kyle stumbled back from you, Johnny eagerly took his place.

He wasn’t just hard, he was throbbing. His cockhead was rosy and pink, pulsating with his blood flow, ready and hungry for its hole. Johnny smiled down at you, his chin shiny and dripping from his meal, covered in you from cheek to cheek. He used his fingers to gently push Gaz’s stray load back inside of you and followed it with his cock.

Johnny wasn’t nearly as long as Gaz, but he was curved just right, arched and girthy, perfect for your already-sensitive g-spot. His feral thrusting had you crying out as you pulled your mouth away from Price, turning to face him in shock. His hands were busy, too. Johnny spread your legs apart by your knees and held them aloft, trying to keep all of the wet, creamy gifts you’d been given deep inside you.

In almost no time at all, he was ready to burst inside of you. Ever since he’d begun, you’d felt like you were riding the high of one long, never-ending orgasm, and you felt your pussy clenching around him, well-used and pliant.

“Holy fuck, lass. You’re so full of us. Gonna be drippin’ outta you all night, I’ll bet.”

“Are you gonna fill me up, Johnny?” You keened, knowing how much he liked it when you teased him.

“Jesus Christ, Sparrow,” Soap’s eyes furrowed, looking lost and then… he found himself. His orgasm raced through his body, bursting from his shaft in long, hot ropes of come, spending himself into you almost violently.

Barely able to breathe, he removed himself from you as gently as he could, wiping the fluids off of his cock and shoving them back into your well-used hole.

“Si,” Price commanded, “Can you hand me the plug?”

“Aye, Captain. Here,” Simon handed him the clean, girthy vaginal plug that the captain had purchased and passed it to him.

Carefully, Price reached down and wet it at your entrance before stuffing it inside of you, sealing his men’s semen inside.

“Wait,” you breathed, trying to get your brain back online, “What about you? It’s your turn.”

You looked up at him, glassy-eyed, and he grinned,

“I think you’ve got enough in there to last you the week, little bird.”

“But…” You tried not to sound selfish, but you couldn’t figure out how to ask for what you wanted.

Simon knew what you were trying to say, and he said it for you,

“She wants you, too, Cap. Full or not.”

“She’s spent, and she needs water and rest. She doesn’t need any more of —”

“Please?” You asked, watching him get up from the bed and move to get dressed, “Please, John.”

He put his shirt back on the chair and mounted you as if he was going to fuck you, pushing himself onto your body like an animal, pinning you down. His voice was a warning,

“Are you askin’ me ‘cause you think that’s wha’ I wanna hear, Spar?”

You shook your head, whispering, reeling from his display of power,

“No, I just… want you.”

Price sighed, running a wide hand down his face and looked over at his men. It seemed like he was asking for help, or permission. You didn’t fully understand, but Ghost did.

Simon stepped into his gym shorts and motioned for Gaz and Soap to follow him,

“Gonna hop in the shower. Still watchin’ MASH later, yeah?” Ghost put his huge hand on your forehead and brushed your hair out of your face.

“Aye,” Price nodded, watching them file out.

Johnny gave you his usual kisses, one on your lips and one on your forehead,

“Makin’ you popcorn, too, bonnie. Extra butter.”

You kissed him back, smiling at the boys as they left you alone with their leader.

You turned to him, waiting for him to decide, giving him a way out,

“Hey, if you don’t want to —”

“No,” he interrupted you, resting his impossibly fat cock on your folds, the head of him reaching past your belly button, “Tha’s not it, love. I want you so bad I can barely look at you. I just don’t wanna hurt you. Gonna be sore tomorrow, soldier,” he joked, trying to take the sincerity out of his voice, rubbing your outer lips with his thumbs, massaging the stretched muscles with care.

“You won’t hurt me,” you reached down and pet his shaft with your fingertips, pressing it into your belly, caressing it with the lightest touch. Against his will, it jerked up towards your hand in response.

He eyed you for a moment before twisting the plug out of you, not as mindful as Soap, letting the wet body of the toy rest on his sheets, covered in other men’s come.

Price dipped his thumb into your swollen hole, gathering up the mix of fluids onto the pad of his finger. He grabbed you by the nape of your neck and pulled you up, presenting this offering to you. Without breaking eye contact, you sucked his thumb into your mouth, eating the warm cream off of his hand.

Then, he angled himself toward you, still holding you upright, letting you watch as his cock stretched your lips wide and tight. Happy with his position, he tucked both of his hands around the back of your neck and began to rut into you like a wild beast.

You thought he was concerned about hurting you, but he didn’t hold back. If anything, he fucked you harder, as if he was trying to teach you — or himself — some kind of lesson. It was too intense. You could feel every inch of him as if you were being fucked for the first time. Your body trembled, and your mind swam, high from the continual hit of oxytocin, the pleasure making your thoughts dreamlike and surreal.

“Such a good girl for us,” he breathed, “Watchin’ you take their come like that. Bloody gorgeous. So willing. Your body just loves our cocks, don’t it?”

You nodded, trying to gasp for air, tumbling into an orgasm hard and fast.

“Yeah?” He grunted, “Fuckin’ hell. You fit me like a goddamn glove, little bird. I can feel them inside of you. All of their come. Feels so soft. So wet…”

“John… unghhh!” You came on him, but he didn’t let up. He just fucked you right through it, letting you suffer on his muscle, riding you hard and sloppy.

“Can’t wait to see you with that full, round belly. These big, heavy tits. Will you let me taste your milk, hm? Just a taste.”

He sucked your nipple into his mouth and laved at it with his tongue, sending bolts of pleasure right to your core. You weren’t sure what had gotten into your captain, but he was out of his mind with lust. His grunting and moaning were loud and shameless, and he manhandled your body like you belonged to him. Like you were his plaything.

“You are so beautiful…” John’s voice changed its timbre, and you met his eyes. There was something else he had to tell you, but he didn’t get the chance to say it. His face twisted into a mask of blissful agony and he let himself go, pumping his come deep inside of you, screaming in loud, barking shouts, holding you so tightly to him, you could barely breathe.

He fell on you, keeping his cock buried to its hilt, pulsing in you like a second heartbeat, totally spent. With the last bit of his energy, he fumbled with the plug and replaced himself with it, rolling off of you carefully, so as not to harm you.

Hours may have passed; you had no idea. But, since the others hadn’t come looking for you, you figured time was expanding only in your mind. You were pinned to Price’s furry body, covered in his heavy muscles as his little spoon, listening to him breathe. Eventually, when you could speak in full sentences again, you spoke softly.

“John,” you kissed his palm, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fallin’ for you, little bird,” he said with a cold, calculated certainty, “We all are. Don’t know how one baby can have four fathers.”

Your heart was crushed at the disappointment in his voice, and you turned to face him,

“So, what if it has four fathers? Will you love them less?”

“No,” he shook his head, “Of course not. If you… If you asked me to, I’d sign my bloody name no matter whose baby it was. Tha’s not what I’m worried about.”

“What are you worried about?” You put your hand on his cheek, making him look at you.

“I’m worried it’ll be too much for you. That we’ll be too much for you. You should do what makes you happy, little bird.”

He rolled out of bed and put his clothes back on in silence. When he was done, he helped you sit up and gave you some water. Wrapping you in a big fluffy robe, he pulled you to your feet and squeezed your hand,

“C’mon. Let’s go watch your show. The lad’s will be waitin’ for you.”

You followed your captain out to the common room, seeing that Simon and Johnny had saved you a seat between them. You smiled, settling into the middle of the couch, watching as Price sat in his big chair, lighting a cigar and stealing some popcorn from Gaz.

You couldn’t help but think about what he had said, nor could you stop thinking about the way that he had fucked you. Absent-mindedly, out of some form of comfort, you squeezed your tired muscles around the plug, wondering what the future held for you and these men. Could you care for them all? Was that even in the realm of possibility? It was so far from the accepted norm, you couldn’t envision a life like that. But, you were no quitter. If anyone was worth trying for, it was these four soldiers, and you decided you were going to do everything you could to care for them as much as they cared for you. Normalcy be damned.

///////////////////////

Ch. 03

[educatedsimps]

Aww I can't get over how amazing this blog is. Your fics are incredible, you're all so talented 🫶🏻 May I please request a Kenma x fem reader fic where we're married and have a little boy together who's like Kenma's double? I'm a sucker for cute domestic fluff and I just think you'd write husband and dad!Kenma perfectly. I hope that request is alright. Thank you so much! I hope you all have a lovely day ❤️

≪ back to fics masterlist

kozume kenma x f!reader

a/n: hi anonn thank you for sending in a request and we're so glad you like our works! i'm a sucker for cute domestic fluff too so i was pretty excited writing this request hehe, HOPE YOU LIKE IT :)

cw: domestic freaking fluff, reader's called mom, a lil surprise at the end

"Kaito! Time's up!" Your voice echoed down the hallway of your penthouse.

Sighing, you padded over to the game room with half a mind to throw the PS5 away for good. Giving the door two solid knocks, you opened the door to reveal your husband and son in the middle of a video game.

Kenma and Kaito were seated next to each other in their gaming chairs with their house slippers on the floor. With sock-clad feet, both of them had one leg tucked under them while the other leg was propped up on the armrest. They even wore matching Kodzuken hoodies and had the same hunch in their backs.

Kaito's cat-like eyes were laser focused on the screens in front of him (he got it from his dad), darting from point to point every second while his thumbs flew across the console in his hands. His concentration was unmatched and his avatar seemed to be holding up pretty well. Kenma, on the other hand, didn't have the same level of focus as his eight year old son - this level of the game was nothing to him.

Noticing your presence, your husband's gaze met yours and a small smile appeared on his face. The clacking of the console in his hands continued as he spoke, "Hey, babe, we're just finishing up the game."

"I'll be right there, Ma," came your son's monotone reply. You raised an eyebrow.

The clacking of the consoles continued and sound effects from the on-screen battle intensified.

"Kaito."

"Just ten more minutes, please? We're in the middle of a game- SHIT, DAD, HELP ME-"

"Kozume Kaito."

Kenma's eyes flitted over to you once again. Seeing your figure by the doorway with your arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the two of them, he chuckled knowingly before discreetly winking at you. You hummed in response.

So cute, Kenma thought.

Within seconds, he had absolutely destroyed their opponents and a congratulatory message popped up onscreen with confetti in the background. Kaito's eyes widened and he looked at his dad in awe. With matching smirks on their faces, Kenma and his little clone exchanged a swift handshake before your son hopped out of his chair and made his way towards you.

Raising your eyebrows, you looked at him expectantly. With a sheepish look on his face, he mumbled, "I know. School night. Sorry, Ma, I got carried away."

"I know you wanna be as amazing as your old man one day, but you still gotta get through school first, got it? After that, you can do whatever you wanna do. Now, listen to your mom, go brush your teeth and then it's straight to bed, okay?" came Kenma's voice. You nodded in agreement.

"Okay. Goodnight, dad," Kaito replied, sighing heavily. Approaching the door, he tiptoed to plant a kiss on your cheek and greeted you goodnight. You ruffled his hair in response.

Bending down, he placed a kiss on your baby bump and whispered, "G'night, lil sis. Once you're born, I'll play games with you till midnight everyday. I promise."

You watched as he shuffled off to the bathroom to do his business and you felt Kenma's warm hands wrap gently around your torso. The digital clock on the wall read 10:32pm. Rubbing your belly, your husband buried his face in the side of your neck.

The penthouse was now quiet except for the running of the faucet and the muffled sounds of Kaito brushing his teeth. Placing a hand over Kenma's, you stood there in silence for a while, soaking in the peacefulness.

The aggressive honk of a car on the streets below jolted you out of your thoughts.

"Babe, what time's your zoom meeting with the Russian investors?"

"Uh... 11pm," Kenma mumbled.

"Then you need to go get ready for it," You urged, lightly nudging his lean body off of you.

Kenma's phone buzzed in his pocket. Checking his notifications, he sighed, "Yeah, you're right. Yaku's already pestering me about it. He's not even the one presenting, he's just helping me translate stuff, but he seems more nervous than me."

Giggling, you gave him a peck on the lips before waddling over to the kitchen. "I'll have some instant ramen ready for you once you're done with it, okay?"

Kenma hummed, "Thanks, sunshine. I'll let you know once I'm done with the meeting. I love you."

"I love you too!" You called from down the hallway.

© educatedsimps 2024. do not repost, copy, translate or plagiarize any work from this blog on tumblr or any other platforms. if you do, the simps will hunt you down (likes and reblogs are appreciated)

[6okuto]

i write so you know i love you

🧺 #27: "handwritten letters" with akaashi for @shobvrry :D

the first letter akaashi wrote for you was a short, anxious confession slid into your locker, folded neatly with a star sticker to keep it shut.

i just wanted to say i like you, and i’d like to take you on a date sometime if that’s okay with you. please don’t worry if you don’t feel the same way, but also please pretend you didn’t read this if so. thanks for being my friend. i’ll see you tomorrow :)

he didn’t expect to see you waiting for him after practice that day, the familiar paper in hand. with his ending request, among a dozen catastrophizing explanations stood one reasonable for your presence—

“i like you too, ’ji,” you said a little faster than practiced, heart stumbling at the sight of him.

it was sunset as you held the letter in one hand, and for the first time, keiji’s hand in the other on your way home—pink and orange ribbons of light finding a temporary home in interlocked fingers and brushing arms.

the confession is still carefully tucked away in a box of other gifts and letters you’ve received—the first in a section just from him. he could’ve easily texted at least a third of them, you pointed out once, a few days before your first anniversary, but he only shook his head. it was the romanticism of it all, and—

“what if you texted back right away? i wasn’t ready to handle that, i probably would’ve thrown up or ran away or something.”

his feelings after your first date, a request to see you after school a month after, then the letter celebrating your one month anniversary exactly 31 days later.

they built and built—words pulled from an endless well of love and poetic prose in hopes of capturing just how much you meant to him. you still like flipping through them all, on anniversaries or an otherwise insignificant thursday afternoon.

seeing the different decorations and envelopes and letter lengths throughout the years, only keiji’s handwriting remains the same throughout. it’s the same one that writes “i hope these aren’t sour,” “don’t forget your project by the printer,” “i hope you have a good day :),” and i love you, i love you, i love you.

so when your four year anniversary nears and he makes a remark about his gift, you ask “another letter for me?”

keiji stills, fingers slowing down as they flip the next page in his novel—dostoevsky, you think. his index and thumb start to pull the corner (not enough to fold, but reminiscent of what he does to the hem of his shirt when he’s nervous anyway.) “maybe?”

he fixes his posture, sitting up straighter on the couch. “is that…i know i write them a lot, huh? would you like—”

“no!” you shake your head. “no, i like the letters a lot, keiji, i promise. i just,”—you move next to him and frown—“i hope you don’t feel like you have to write them, you know? i don’t know how your hands don’t hurt a lot after. you could type them out and i’d be just as happy.”

but keiji shakes his head, and it feels a little similar to three years ago. “no, that’s not the same at all. i want to write them for you,”—he closes his book with his thumb as a bookmark, the other hand moving to hold yours—“that’s what makes them special.”

“plus formatting them digitally wouldn’t be any easier than my double-sided tape—do you want to take the joy of tape and stickers away from me?” he raises a brow and squeezes your hand in his.

you snort. “okay, you know what? fair enough.”

and keiji pours a lot of honesty, of himself, into his letters, but maybe one thing he’ll keep a secret is how often his hand cramps and red indents and cuts form on his fingers. because it’s inconsequential in the end, really nothing in comparison to the bright smile and hug you give him when he hands you the next letter a couple of weeks later, carefully folded in an envelope with a star sticker on the front.

[gallusrostromegalus]

So I may have been browsing through your AEIWAM tag and came across your writing of Komamura saying it's too hot in summer when you have a fur coat you can't take off. By that logic he's gonna always be sitting beside Hitsugaya in Captain meetings if he can swing it, especially in the early days, cause that boy is like a mini air conditioner next to him. XD

Wolves are winter creatures. The double coat, the snowshoe paws, the proclivity for cuddlepiles- if Sajin could move somewhere that never got above 40F he'd be in heaven. Alas, he lives in a major city that hits triple digits in the summer, so he keeps close track of the little pieces of winter he can find.

The first person to realize his little game was Unohana. She knew about the wolfman thing- Yamamoto trusts her as much as Sasakibe, and persuaded Sajin that, should a medical emergency arise, it should not also be a medical surprise.

She is of course, the pinnacle of Medical Confidentiality.

...but his name came up during one of the Shinigami Women's Association meetings/boozing sessions, and a distinct schism appeared.

On one side was Soi Fon, Nanao, and Herself, who all found Komamura to be very polite, professional and reliable if somewhat reticent and at times, aloof.

"I swear I can't get more than three words out of him!" Nanao despairs.

"I like him. He knows how to Shut Up." Soi Fon agrees.

"He's a very private man." Unohana nods.

Across the table, Isane and Rukia are baffled.

"Captain Komamura? Ten feet tall, bucket head? That Komamura?" Rukia the so-called Ice Princess asks, gesturing to indicate their height disparity. "What the fuck are you talking about? He's SUPER friendly and will hang around to talk FOREVER."

"Yeah, every time I go to the 7th he always asks me to stay for lunch and wants to know how everyone in my family is doing and swap horror stories from the ER for tales of crazy people in the intake queue." Agrees Isane, wielder of the ice cloud Itegumo. "It's embarrassing, but one time I was more than two hours late getting back because we get to talking!"

Everyone stares at everyone else, baffled.

"Did- did I do something to piss him off?" Wonders Nanao.

"Huh. Maybe he just picked up on how much I hate small talk on the job?" Soi Fon shrugs.

Unohana is silent, thinking.

"GUESS WHO BROUGHT TEQUILA!!" Matsumoto Rangiku announces as she kicks in the door, holding four bottles of liquor, only three of which were still full.

"We need you to settle a debate!" Rukia demands at once.

"Ooh! I love passing judgement on things that don't effect me!" Rangiku coos, sitting down, her chest making an odd 'clunk' sound on the table "- there's also salt and limes!"

"It kinda effects you." Soi Fon waved her hand noncommittally. "How would you describe Captain Komamura?"

"Tall, Heavily Armored and Mysterious?" Rangiku shrugs, pulling the box of kosher salt out of her cleavage.

"...more like his personality." Isane clarified.

"Oh! Uhh... You know what? He's one of the few people that's ever complimented me on streamlining like 80% of the paperwork we have to do." Rangiku nodded, fishing the limes out as well. "Always has stuff done waaaay before I expected and I feel like a bit of a jerk for not replying immediately, but never complains if my stuff comes in late."

"Does he hang around and talk, or is he just really businesslike?" Nanao asks, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

"Hmm..." Fowns Rangiku. "Kinda varies by the day- Sometimes he's all business, other times he'll stay and chat. I always assumed he wants to talk but sometimes he's got work, you know?"

There is much confused muttering as the limes are cut, when Unohana raises a finger.

"...How is he with Lieutenant Hitsugaya?" She asks.

"Oh, he ADORES Toshiro!" Rangiku nods enthusiastically, salting her shot glass. "He actually does the majority of Toshiro's Bankai training now because The Old Man handed it off to him so he could focus on teaching Zaraki Everything But Kendo- which, bless him for doing that, Shiro-kin could literally freeze my tits off!- and he really does a good job listening to Toshiro's concerns and confusions- he's a sensitive boy, you know? And Koma-kun is so gentle with him and to be honest I always eavesdrop on his advice because I could use it too. Delightful man all around." She nodded, and moved to down her drink.

"...Why?" She asked, pausing her drink and glaring suspiciously at Unohana.

Unohana nods with the clarity of enlightenment. "Nothing serious, but everything makes sense now." She smiles, then cracks into a small giggle. "It's rather charming, actually."

"Care to elaborate?" Soi Fon grumbles.

"Yeah that answered NOTHING." Rangiku glares.

"We noticed an interesting disparity in his behavior." Unohana explains, pushing her own glass towards Rangiku to fill. "For me, Captain Fon, and Lieutenant Ise, Komamura-Taicho is very polite, but sticks to the matter at hand and will not volunteer any further conversation. For Lieutenant Koetetsu, Miss Kuchiki and apparently Lieutenant Hitsugaya, he has all the time in the world and is quite the chatterbox."

"...Weird." Rangiku frowns, intrigued by the puzzle. "For me it's like, half and half?"

"Not quite, I think." Unohana smirks. "What do Isane, Rukia and young Toshiro all have in common?"

The Resounding Silence of Thinking Very Hard around the table was a bit of a disappointment, but they were about three bottles into the evening already.

"Can't be Height." Nanao hummed. "Rukia and Shiro-Kun are shorter than a stack of pancakes but Isane's got legs that are too long for the cover of Vouge."

"Isane and Toshiro are both silver-haired, but not me, and he doesn't seem to be particularly close to Ukitake-Taicho and I think I've actually seen him run out of a room to avoid Gin." Rukia puzzled.

"What? RUDE." Rangiku protested.

"They're all under a century old, right?" Rangiku pondered.

"No, I'm almost two hundred!" Isane sighed. "Oh wait- we all graduated early from the Academy!"

"Ehhhh, I graduated because I got adopted, I'm not a genius like you and Shiro-kun." Rukia waved. "Also, how would HE know that?"

"You're all Lieutenants!" Rangiku perked up.

"Not yet I'm not!" Rukia protested.

"Pfsh- you run half the division anyway. Jushiro should promote you to Co-lieutenant with Kaien already!" Rangiku waved.

"Its- it's complicated." Rukia mumbled. "Also, Nanao-chan is a Lieutenant and he doesn't like her!"

"Does it have to do with how freakishly huge he is?" Soi Fon asked.

"...Yes, actually." Unohana decided. Sajin might not have so much trouble thermoregulating if he was the size of a regular wolf. She reasoned privately.

"Also, He likes Nanao-chan just fine as far as I know. I think it's less about how much he enjoys your company- which I think he does, he's not one for putting on facades- and more about how much he enjoys your Proximity." She clarified, taking her shot. "Oh, this is good, what is it?"

"Cabrito Blanco." Rangiku read off. "Huh. The Cabrito on the label sure ain't Blanco." She frowned at the brown goat.

"None of us have transferred out of the Division we started in, but again, how would he know? and that hasn't got anything to do with Proximity..." Isane frowned.

Rukia slammed her glass down. "WOW that's got a kick. Maybe uhhhh... None of us wear perfume, but Gin doesn't either. I hope. I don't want to get close enough to find out."

"He's really not that bad-" Rangiku sulked. "OH, 'Blanco' refers to the tequila and this is that goat's white tequila!" She realized.

"Sometimes I wish I could take a weekend vacation in your brain. Its machinations fascinate me." Soi Fon teased. "Hmmm... Lotta close but no Cigar, you're all young-ish, Isane and Toshiro have living relatives and Rukia has a large adopted family, but again, not exclusive or Proximal. You're also all S-rank duelists with- OH!"

"Shh, I'm enjoying the flailing." Retsu grinned.

"Pfff- okay, that is kinda cute and I don't blame him." Soi Fon giggled. "Sometimes I'm real glad my seat is right next to The Old Man for the same reason. Or opposite reason, I guess."

"Bwah?" Rangiku frowned.

"I do the same thing with You, Momo and The Old Man that He's doing with them." Soi Fon grinned. Rangiku frowned, peculiar machinations grinding slowly through the tequila, before she suddenly cackled, head thrown back so hard Unohana had to reach out and grab her by the scarf to keep her from tipping her chair over.

"OH NOOOOOOOO!!" She wailed, shoulders shaking. "Oh- that's cute but Toshiro can NEVER find out he'll be such a brat about it!"

"Sorry I'm late, I had to finish the latest report on the Rice Farm Subsidy Fraud Investigation!" Momo panted, jogging in late. "-What can't Toshiro find out about?"

"There is SOMETHING that You, ran-chan and Yamamoto-sama share, and it's the same thing but backwards as what Me, Hitsugaya, and Isane have in common that Komamura-taicho really likes it or something, and THEY know but won't TELL US and its MAKING ME CRAZY!" Rukia wailed.

Momo stood, expression blank for a few moments. "Wait. You didn't know?"

"KNOW WHAT?" Rukia wailed.

"That Komamura hangs around with people with Ic-Mmpf!" Momo started to reveal but was abruptly tackled and the rest of the sentence smothered in Rangiku's Cleavage.

"With WHAT?" Nanao demanded. "What do they have that I don't?"

"-Hang on." Isane frowned, the slowly turned to her captain, squinting. "Is. Is this a... Physics Issue?"

"That's one way to phrase it." Unohana smiled as Momo flailed for air.

"Oh my Gooooood..." Isane groaned. "Why doesn't he just ASK? I'd happily go over and give Itegumo some practice, I hate summertime too!"

"Huh?" Rukia glared, as Momo finally fought her way free and gasped for air.

"Itegumo? That's your- ohhhhhhh." Nanao realized. "That's. Okay yeah that's actually really cute." She giggled. "Poor guy. The armor can't help with that, can it?"

"That's what I keep telling him but it's-" Unohana waved her hands and grimaced with frustration. "-He wears the armor because he's facing the *stupidest* form of Political Persecution I've ever heard of." she sighed.

"Really?" Asked Momo. "Captain Tousen said Komamura told him it's because he's got a major disfigurement or something?"

Unohana sighed and rolled her eyes. "Komamura is FINE, he's just- It's complicated and medically private but trust me, the helmet is a reasonable precaution against an absurd problem."

"Oh." Momo winced. "Well, I'm glad he's medically alright at least!" "I'm so fucking confused." Rukia whimpered, deflating over the table in despair. "Is. Is hanging out with me making him less sick or something??"

"...Yes!" Unohana smiled. "Or at least, makes his condition more physically comfortable."

Rukia turned that over a few times. "...Talking with him is helping?"

"Yes, but only if you're in the same room with him. Doesn't work over the phone." Unohana nodded.

"Okay." Rukia said, reaching for the nearest bottle. "Lets talk about something else."

---

Years Later, after the Bedlam of her attempted execution and Subsequent Rescue, Rukia finally saw Komamura's face.

It was a bit awkward, walking into the hospital room in search of her brother to find a nine-and-a-half foot tall wolfman wearing the Seventh Division Captain's Haori visiting Momo. It took her a moment to realize who he was, and another as some neurons connected and she squawked indignantly, pointing at him.

"My apologies, Lieutenant Kuchiki, but-" He sighed, ears flattening back against his head with Chargin.

"AIR CONDITIONING?!?!" She bellowed.

Komamura scrunched back, chagrined. For a massive apex predator, he did an excellent Kicked Puppy face.

"Rukia!" Momo protested faintly from her hospital bed. "Keep your voice down, I don't want Toshiro to find out!"

"Find out what?" Hitsugaya grunted, stepping out from behind Rukia.

"Ah, Well-" Komamura started to explain.

Rukia rounded on Hitsugaya, pointing behind her at the captain. "THIS JACKASS HAS BEEN EXTRA NICE TO YOU, ME AND ISANE BECAUSE WE ALL HAVE ICE-TYPE ZANPAKUTO AND CHILL THE AIR AROUND US!"

"...Summer is very uncomfortable when you have a fur coat you can't take off." Komamura winced.

"Uh, duh?" Hitsugaya rolled his eyes, strolling into the room. "I didn't know you were chilling Koetetsu and Kuchiki here as well, but I kinda figured you enjoyed the cold when you stayed at my Bankai training like, five times longer than Gramps ever did."

"My apologies for the deception." Komamura bowed his head.

"It's no big deal." Hitsugaya shrugged, putting a hand up to indicate he wanted help up onto the hospital bed, and Komamura obliged.

"See? I use you being tall too." he smirked.

Komamura sighed fondly as the boy sat down between him and Momo. "Momo makes me chill all her juice too, but she never seems to warm up my tea." he handed her a juice box from the vending machine down the hall, covered in condensation.

"It would explode." Momo grumbled.

"Skill Issue." He shrugged and she affectionately swatted him on the leg. "Anyway, don't dogs cool off through their paws?"

"I'm from a wolf clan, but yes." Komamura cocked his head with curiosity, then alarm when Toshiro casually grabbed his forearm and started tugging his Gauntlets off.

"I don't mind being a human ice pack, especially not when it's nintey-eight freakin' degrees out, but be efficient about it, yeah?" Toshiro grumbled, tossing the gauntlet aside and plopping Komamura's pawlike hand on top of his head.

"...Thank you." Komamura smiled gently, and ruffled his hair a bit.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Hitsugaya shrugged, playing the tough guy even as his ears turned red. "At least you're polite about it! Freakin' Zaraki literally just grabbed me- like, put his whole arm through the office window! and threw me over his shoulders once. Jerk."

"TOSHIRO!" Momo yelped, hand on her face. "You almost made juice come out of my nose!" She half-giggled while Rukia snort-laughed at the mental image.

"Hey Kuchiki!" Hitsugaya growled. "He's got two paws!"

"You can't boss me around! You don't outrank me anymore!" She grinned.

"I have seniority." he teased, and the bed started to shake as Komamura tried not to laugh.

"You really don't need to-" Komamura tried to diffuse the argument. His voice was rock-steady but the wide grin betrayed him.

"You gotta follow my orders though!" Ukitake said cheerfully, appearing in the door. "Hi Lieutenant Hinamori!"

"C-captain!" Rukia yelped, spinning around to Salute. "What are your orders, Sir?

"Shh, nothing's happening. But I did hear you squawking from two floors down, so what's happening?" Ukitake smiled down at her.

"Captain Komamura has APPARENTLY been hanging around me and the other Shinigami with Ice Zanpakuto and using us as Air Conditioners!" Rukia glared up at her commanding officer.

"...Rukia," Ukitake patted her head and smiled gently. "Do you remember where Lieutenant Kaien's desk was?"

"Second door on the left, right next to your office, Sir!" She nodded.

"Right! And where's your desk?" Ukitake asked, leaning in closer to her.

Rukia blinked, confused. "...It's immediately adjacent to your desk in your offi- GOD DAMMIT! NOT YOU TOO?"

"Yep!" Ukitake cheerfully patted her head and then palmed it to turn her around to face Komamura. "Hop to it!"

"Technically, I got the Idea from him, when I saw how he'd rearranged the furniture..." Komamura whispered as he helped her up onto the bed as well and Rukia groaned in defeat, settling next to Komamura where she could sulk at her captain from over the wolfman's broad shoulders.

"Oh, stop pouting!" Ukitake teased, sitting down on the chair beside Momo's bed and leaning back. "It'll be winter soon enough. Actually, Your friend Mr. Yasutora told me about a fascinating wintertime holiday in the Living World-"

[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. 

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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.” 

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jason?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper his name.

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

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

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

“Crying..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all leads to Jason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

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

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

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

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

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

hi! could i request a rosa diaz fic where rosa has a really awful stomachache while she’s at the precinct, but she doesn’t want to admit she doesn't feel good. she keeps trying to work until reader eventually pulls her aside and rosa opens up and tells reader (rosa and reader aren’t dating yet). then reader brings her home and they get all cozy, and reader stays until rosa feels better. at the end rosa finally admits she likes reader and they kiss and its all very fluffy and sweet. tysm!!

Hey, friend! Hope this is what you were looking for. 🥰 This one took me a little longer than usual, but I'm really pleased with how it turned out. And for all you Rosa Diaz fans, get ready because I've got a lot of Rosa requests in my inbox! —illdowhatiwantthanks

Just Playing

Rosa Diaz x fem!reader Warnings: explicit language, cops (duh, but they don't do any cop things), mentions of periods, period pain, implied sex Word count: 2.9k

Summary: You take Rosa back to her apartment after she has a rough day at work thanks to period pains. But you never could have seen where the evening would take you.

Rosa was nearly bent double as she stood at the podium, reading notes from a clipboard on a new drug ring they’d be investigating over the next several weeks. Her teeth were gritted, and she looked for all the world like she could kill someone. Well, she looked more like she could kill someone than usual.

You were good at reading Rosa, better than the rest of the squad. Maybe because your job allowed you more observation time; you were an officer, sure, but you didn’t carry a gun and you didn’t police the streets. You were their digital analyst, doing your own investigations online and finding information for the squad to use in their investigations. As a result, you had a lot of time in the precinct.

You were quieter than the others, more reserved, more observant. You knew that Jake got loud when he got insecure. You knew that simply telling Amy she was doing a good job was enough to stop a spiral in its tracks. You knew that Captain Holt had a fondness for candy canes, so you kept some in your desk drawer all year round, just to pull one out when it seemed like he needed a pick-me-up. But you knew Rosa best of all.

You’d be lying if you said you watched Rosa for solely platonic reasons. She was pretty. She was smart. She worked hard, and she cared about people–no matter how much she tried to act like she didn’t. Best of all, you could make her smile. No one else made her smile. After your first month or so on the job, she started talking to you. At first you were taken aback. Why was she being nice to you!? Why was she approaching you at all!? Rosa didn’t do small talk. She didn’t do politeness for the sake of being nice. It had to be that she actually liked you. You were flattered. As far as you could tell, Rosa didn’t like many people.

She especially didn’t like people today. She was clearly not okay. And you weren’t the only one who could tell.

“Any questions?” Rosa asked, finishing up her presentation, and pressing a hand over her abdomen.

Jake raised his hand and Rosa rolled her eyes.

“What, Jake?”

“Are you feeling okay?”

She glared at him. “Why, fuckface? Do I not look okay?”

“No, no!” he squeaked, hands up in defense. “You look great. Everything’s great. Carry on.”

You fiddled around in your bag, waiting for everyone else to leave the room before approaching Rosa, who leaned heavily on the podium, eyes closed.

You approached her cautiously. After all, Rosa was known for her explosive temper. She’d never exploded at you, but there was a first time for everything you supposed.

“Are you really?” you asked quietly.

“Hmm?” Rosa grumbled, inhaling sharply.

“Feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Her voice was decisive, rough.

You lifted your eyes to study her face. When she finally looked at you–her expression pained, exhausted, embarrassed–you knew. She was not okay. The fact that she’d let you see that she wasn’t okay underlined just how not okay she was.

“What’s going on?” Your voice was low, your posture casual so that no one observing would be able to tell you were concerned about her.

“Cramps.” Her cheeks reddened a bit, and you nodded. She didn’t need to say anything else. You got it. Any woman would get it.

“Why don’t you go home?” you suggested.

“I can’t,” she said tersely, glancing into the squad room to make sure no one was watching you two.

“Rosa,” you scolded her. “It’s not gonna kill you to go home an hour early.”

“No, I mean, I can’t.” She grabbed your arm, and gently pulled you aside to where no one could see. Your stomach did little somersaults, and you felt bad for getting excited when Rosa was clearly in pain. “I tried getting on my motorcycle. It felt like I was being stabbed in the fucking uterus. I’m just gonna call a cab once everyone else heads out.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. Rosa raised her eyebrows at you. It’s true, you weren’t normally that blunt. “I’ll take you home. You shouldn’t have to stick around here just being in pain. That’s stupid.”

“No, Y/N, don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine.” She started walking away, and this time it was you who grabbed her.

“It’s fine, Rosa. I don’t mind. I’m done with my work for the day. We’re friends, right?”

Rosa looked at you long and hard, like she was thinking through a problem, before nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re friends.”

“Okay, then.” You threw your bag over your shoulder. “This is what friends do.”

You started to walk out of the room, swinging your keys around your finger before stopping and turning back to Rosa. “It’ll, uh, be a minute, though. Just so you know. I parked… pretty far away.”

She grinned at you. “Yeah, I heard about that. You don’t use the precinct lot?”

“No! You have to pay for it! I’m not paying for parking at my job.”

“So where do you park then?” Rosa asked, sitting heavily in a chair and spinning.

You shrugged. “Wherever there’s street parking.”

“I’ll give it to you, Y/L/N,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re committed.”

You shot her an awkward, two-finger salute before walking out of the precinct and starting the several-block trek to your parked car.

You were kind of hanging out with Rosa tonight! Sure, she wasn’t feeling well. Sure, she might just be desperate for a ride home. But it counted… right? You’d parked just a block away from a bodega and silently thanked this morning’s parking gods. You picked up an assortment of things, some you knew Rosa liked, some that you’d want when you were on your period. And then, at the last moment as you waited to check out, you grabbed a bouquet of baby’s breath. It always made you feel better to have something pretty to look at. They might be a little too much, but it’s not like you’d gotten her roses or anything. Baby’s breath was a just friends flower? Right?

You threw your shopping bag in the backseat, then zoomed to the precinct for Rosa. You texted her, then waited, growing more nervous by the second. You’d never been alone with Rosa. Not like this, not in an enclosed space that wasn’t work. She sat with you at lunch sometimes or you went out for drinks with everyone after work, but this was different.

Pull yourself together, you thought, taking a deep breath as Rosa opened the passenger door and sat down heavily, leaning her head back.

“You alright?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

She nodded slowly. You waited for her to tell you where to go, but she was quiet.

“Uh… Rosa?”

She glanced at you.

“I kind of need to know where you live.”

Rosa seemed to think deeply about this, then leaned back and said, “Turn left up here. I’ll tell you where to go.”

You put the car in drive and simply followed.

When you pulled up next to Rosa’s building–a pre-war dairy refurbished as lofts–you followed her in quietly, stunned into silence, the bag of bodega groceries swinging at your wrist.

The elevator took you up to the fifth floor, and you couldn’t help but gape at her huge windows, the sealed concrete floor, the top-of-the-line appliances and expensive furniture.

You set the grocery bag on the kitchen island and took it all in, eyes wide.

“No offense or anything, but… how the hell do you live here on a police officer’s salary?”

“I don’t,” Rosa said bluntly, opening her medicine cabinet and rustling around. “I flip old cars in my spare time.”

“Oh.” You were glad Rosa was turned away from you so she couldn’t see you flush bright red at the thought of how she’d look fixing a car.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed, slamming the cabinet shut. You jumped. “I’m out of–”

“Midol?” you asked, pulling a series of medicines out of your bag. “Tylenol? Advil? Aleve? Pick your poison.”

Rosa looked at the pills, grabbing the Midol, then staring at you so hard you blushed and turned away, rummaging through the grocery bag. You couldn’t see it, but her eyes softened as she watched you.

“You brought me painkillers?” she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Mmhm.” You nodded, still avoiding her eyes. “And…” You pulled things out of the bag like it was a magic hat. “Takis, Hot Cheetos, chocolate, a frozen pizza, and Moose Tracks.”

Now it was Rosa’s turn to gape at you. But somehow that made you blush all the more. “I just…” You stumbled over your words. “I always like pizza and chocolate when I’m on my period. And I know you love Takis and Hot Cheetos. And you always have Moose Tracks in the freezer at work.” When Rosa didn’t respond, you kept talking, trying to fill the silence. “It’s no big deal or anything. I didn’t want you to have to go out later or–”

“You noticed my Moose Tracks?” she finally said, smirking, her eyes twinkling.

“Well, yeah.” You shrugged. “I notice a lot.”

“Uh-huh…” Rosa mumbled, watching you flutter around the kitchen, opening cabinet after cabinet to find a glass and get her and yourself some water. You were so nervous your mouth was dry.

“Go lay down or something!” you told her, flustered. “I’ll bring you some water. Do you want me to put the pizza in the oven for you?”

“That depends, will you stay and eat it with me?”

Rosa seemed to have transformed all of a sudden. She’d been largely preoccupied with her pain before, and you could tell she was still feeling it, but it was like a switch had been flipped. Where before she’d been, if not distant, just vaguely nice, now she seemed smug, confident, almost… flirty? As if she had something on you. You desperately hoped that what she had on you was not the fact that you had a massive crush on her.

“Uh… s-sure,” you mumbled. “If you want.”

“I do,” she said, flopping onto the couch and covering herself with a blanket. You brought her a glass of water so she could take her pills, then preheated the oven, fishing a sheet pan out of a cabinet and placing the pizza in to bake.

You sat down on the opposite side of the couch from Rosa, inching to the very edge, and trying your very best not to touch her. You never, ever wanted to make her feel uncomfortable by touching her, even by accident. But she spread out and pressed her feet against your thighs, making your breath catch in your throat.

She scrolled through shows on her TV, then asked you abruptly, “You ever watch Drake’s Hollow?”

You shook your head.

“You should. We could now, if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, okay,” you said encouragingly, willing to watch literally anything with Rosa.

“We’ll start at the beginning so you know what’s going on,” she said, searching for the right episode. “It’s not good. It’s like… the McDonald’s of television.”

You grinned. “Like the frozen pizza of television.”

“Yeah.” She smiled at you. “But sometimes it’s all you want, you know?”

Rosa was right. Drake’s Hollow was not good. The acting was awful. The plot? Melodramatic and borderline ridiculous. But it was fun. You loved to gasp at the hilarious twists and turns. The melodramatic, lovelorn speeches of the characters. To yell, “Boo! Dump his ass!” at the screen when the husband was revealed to be cheating on the wife.

For her part, Rosa loved watching you watch Drake’s Hollow. But you wouldn’t know that. You could hardly believe your luck that you were here. In Rosa’s apartment. With Rosa next to you, so close she was touching you! That you were watching this stupid, stupid show together and making a frozen pizza. You were on cloud nine. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at her, so scared were you that you’d fumble and get awkward again and ruin everything.

“Bathroom?” you asked, standing during a commercial break.

“Down the hall to the right,” Rosa said, pointing behind her.

You stared at yourself in the mirror as you washed your hands, patting cool water on your cheeks in hopes that it’d bring down the flush that hadn’t left since the moment you’d stepped foot in Rosa’s house. You heard the oven timer go off and quickly dried your hands.

You walked into the kitchen, and your stomach dropped all the way to the floor. The pizza was out of the oven, cooling. And Rosa was standing at the island, pulling the slightly rumpled bouquet of baby’s breath out of the grocery bag. The bouquet you’d foregone, thinking it probably was too much.

She looked at you, and you looked away.

“Did you buy me flowers?” she asked.

Fuck, you thought to yourself. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yep,” you sighed, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just… like to have something pretty to look at. You know, when I’m… on my period.”

It was a ridiculous excuse. You knew it. Rosa almost certainly knew it. She wasn’t stupid. You exhaled heavily and slapped a few slices of pizza onto a plate, hoping that a return to the couch, to Drake’s Hollow, would return everything else to normal, too.

You heard Rosa fill a vase with water, heard her arrange the flowers before grabbing her own pizza. Be cool, be cool, be cool, you told yourself as she sat back down, setting her plate next to yours on the coffee table.

You avoided her eyes, waiting for her to start the show again. You got more and more nervous the longer the silence went on, the longer the paused screen vibrated on the TV.

“Y/N,” Rosa finally said, her voice softer than normal.

Fuck, you cursed internally. You’d fucked it up. She knew. She knew and she didn’t feel the same because of course she didn’t, and now you’d ruined everything. It was all going to be awkward and weird now. Fuck.

“Flowers aren’t a thing that friends do.”

You let out a shaky breath. “They… could be?” you ventured, knowing as soon as it left your mouth that it wasn’t true, not for you and her.

She carefully slid her hand into yours, and you felt your heart stop.

“And what if I wanted to give you flowers?” she asked.

You blinked, not quite believing your ears, and turned to look at Rosa. Her face was light, playful, so much softer than usual. Was she teasing you? Tricking you? Making fun of you? Surely, she wasn’t that mean. She could be ruthless, sure. But she wasn’t cruel. Not to people she cared about it.

She gently grasped your chin, and your stomach did flips. Then she leaned forward and she kissed you. Just like that. So simple, so easy, so soft. Softer than you’d ever imagined Rosa to be. A softness she probably didn’t let many people see. She was so gentle, her fingers light as feathers against the skin of your face, her lips barely grazing yours, as if to ask for permission.

When she pulled away, you were breathless, even though she’d barely touched you, barely pressed her lips to yours. You just looked at each other for a moment, as if to gauge the other, as if to ask if this was real. But you–you’d wanted to kiss Rosa since the day you met her. The fact that she wanted to kiss you? Unbelievable. Beyond your wildest imagination. Rosa fucking Diaz. Absolute enigma. Terror of the Brooklyn 99. Wanted to kiss you.

Before you could even fully register what you were doing, you’d surged forward, grasping her face in your hands, pressing your lips to hers with all the fervor of an unrequited love that had, against all odds, become requited. She laughed, smiling into the kiss, pressing her hands against your collarbone, curling them around your neck.

When you finally ran out of breath, you leaned back, grinning, hand pressed to your forehead. Rosa laughed again, and you turned to her.

“This isn’t a prank, right?” you asked.

“No!” she scoffed, grabbing a slice of pizza and taking a bite. “I’m not that mean.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Okay, I wouldn’t be that mean to you.”

“Wow,” you smirked, taking a bite of your own slice. “You really do like me.”

“Shut up, nerd,” she grumbled, mouth full, shoving her shoulder into you.

But you could tell by the way her eyes sparkled, by the way the corners of her mouth turned up, by the way she let herself linger next to you, skin touching, that she was playing when she called you names.

But she wasn’t playing when she kissed you. Wasn’t playing when she turned Drake’s Hollow back on and tentatively tucked herself into your side. And she certainly wasn’t playing when the pizza was done, the ice cream eaten, the show over, the night late. When she said, “You might as well stay if you want to. You’ll have to drive me in the morning anyway,” then stood and walked to her bedroom, giving you a look that let you know you were meant to follow. And you did.

[sheerfreesia007]

Data Breach

Pairing: Lee Felix x Reader

Word count: 5,834

Content warnings: Fluff, suggestive

Summary: Felix is the newly promoted head of your company’s I.T. department and you’re thankful for his expertise because are not your thing. What happens when he finds your computer illiteracy absolutely adorable as he tries to teach you about the digital side of things in your company?

Felix stares wide eyed at the red headed woman who’s sporting a pair of black cat eyed glasses perched on her pretty button nose. He can’t believe what she just said to him as he’s surrounded by his coworkers, you’ve been promoted to head of the I.T. Department Mr. Lee. Pride rushes through him as a beaming smile slowly forms on his face, he’d been working so hard to get to this spot and finally he was here he never thought he’d be here but he was so ecstatic to finally achieve his dream.

”Mr. Lee, Miss Whalton would like to meet with you if you have time before you start celebrating. She’d like to introduce herself since you’ll be reporting to her now.” The woman says kindly with a soft shy smile. Felix eagerly nods his head as some of his coworkers clap him on the back before he looks to the woman to lead the way.

The walk to the elevators is quiet as the two of them both wait for the elevator once she presses the button to call it down to them. And the elevator ride is even quieter as she stands right inside the doors after presenting her keycard to the scanner that allows her to press the button for the top floor. Felix can feel his excitement and anxiety coursing through him, this is huge for him and now he’s going to be meeting Miss Whalton who’s the owner of the company that he’s been working at for the past five years. He never imagined that he’d become the head of the I.T. Department let alone meet Miss Whalton.

”What’s she like?” He suddenly asks nervously and the woman turns to him with a curiously raised brow. “M-miss Whalton, what’s she like?” He asks again as his tongue stutters slightly making him blush. The woman’s face softens and she smiles brightly at him.

”She’s a fair yet stern woman. The hardest working woman I’ve ever met. She may come off as intimidating but she’s got a big heart and she wants the best for everyone.” The woman tells him fondly as she looks down at the floor shyly. “She helped me when I was in my darkest hour and I’m eternally grateful to her for that but she doesn’t hold it over my head or mention it ever. She just always checks in on me making sure that I’m alright.” She informs and he smiles widely at her as he nods his head at the information. “She’s very impressed with your work, when it came to her decision between you and Mr. Turner you were the far better choice and she easily saw that in you. So don’t let her intimidate you.” She told him conspiratorially and Felix flushed at her praise.

”Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind when I meet her.” He said softly. He turned his head to stare at his reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator and blanched at his disheveled state of appearance. He quickly slipped his clear framed glasses from his face before he gathered half of his hair up into a ponytail and tied it back with the black hair tie that he always had on his wrist. He checked himself out in the mirror making sure that he looked presentable before slipping his glasses back onto his face, his nerves starting to grow again as his eyes darted to the climbing numbers.

When the elevator finally came to its stop at the top floor he was escorted out and down a tiled hallway that had pretty framed artworks spaced strategically along the walls. He tried not to get distracted by the artwork as he felt his palms begin to sweat, he surreptitiously wiped them along his pant legs as the assistant began to slow as she came to the only office on the floor.

They both walked past a desk that sat in an open area before a pair of frosted double doors that were shut. Felix assumed that the desk was for the assistant and he was right as she moved around it to grab the ringing desk phone while holding up a single finger to him. He nodded awkwardly before turning and moving to one of the paintings hung on the wall opposite her desk to give her privacy on her phone call. 

“Sorry about that Mr. Felix, please, right this way.” She said softly and he turned and nodded at her. She then walked to the frosted doors and knocked loudly on them waiting for a moment before they both heard an acknowledgement. 

Felix was ushered into the office of Miss Whalton and nearly gasped loudly as his eyes were immediately drawn to the wall of floor to ceiling windows that showed a beautiful image of the cityscape outside. It was stunning and nearly stole his breath from him as his eyes darted around the skyline of the city.

”Miss Whalton, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Lee, the new head of the I.T. Department.” Came the assistant’s voice and Felix quickly turned from the windows and nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of you. You were a vision to him dressed in a pair of form fitting deep navy business pants with a cream colored button up blouse. Your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows and your wrists were adorned with delicate gold bracelets as you stood from your desk and walked over to him smiling widely while holding your hand out to him in greeting.

“Mr. Lee, congratulations on your promotion.” you greeted him warmly and Felix blushed hotly at your attention. He quickly reached forward and gripped your hand in a sturdy handshake, surprised at how firm and confident your hand felt in his.

“Thank you Miss Whalton, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” he greeted you with a soft shy smile and your answering smile made his breath stutter in his chest.

“Rachel would you hold any calls for the next two hours, I’d like to get to know Mr. Lee better and what he has planned for the I.T. department.” you said looking at your assistant who beamed at you and nodded her head eagerly. “Oh, that is if you’re free Mr. Lee. I know you just found out about your promotion, I don’t want to take your time away if you’re busy celebrating.” you said quickly as your head turned back to him.

“No!” he rushed out and grimaced slightly at how eager he must sound to you. “No, I’d love to talk and tell you my plans.” he said warmly and you nodded your head before turning back to Rachel.

“Of course Miss Whalton.” she said, nodding her head before walking out of your office.

“Please have a seat.” you said kindly as you gestured to the small area near the windows where there was a plush armchair and a sofa. Felix quickly moved to the armchair and sat down nearly groaning at how the cushions encased him and cradled him comfortably. “I had the same reaction to the armchair when I first sat in it.” you said with a soft chuckle and Felix flushed brightly at you being able to catch his reaction to the armchair. “Sofa feels the same way, I loved them so much that I bought the whole set for my apartment too.” you said cheekily and Felix grinned at your admission.

“You’re very observant.” he says and you grin at him softly before nodding your head.

“For people, yes, but I hate to admit that I’m utterly clueless when it comes to electronics or computers. I’m a little old fashioned that way.” you admit as you grimace slightly as your eyes dart over to your windows watching the cityscape beyond. Felix is surprised by your admission and he leans forward wanting to know more about you, it seemed so easy to fall into a camaraderie with you already and he was a little thrown off by how friendly you were being. You seemed nothing like what Rachel had told him and he was waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop.

“Well we’re opposites in that sense then.” Felix admitted with a bashful smile and your eyes darted back over to him and surveyed him quietly. “I’m more comfortable with computers than people.”

“Really? Well that’s not surprising to be honest.” you said as you tilted your head to the side. “Your resume was very impressive for someone as young as yourself. It speaks for you and makes total sense when you say that you’re more comfortable with computers.” Felix blushed hotly at your praise of his work experience as he ducked his head. “So I won’t know much of what you talk about when it comes to the computers but tell me what you have planned for the department.” you said with a cheeky smile as you gesture a hand out in front of you allowing him to speak freely. Felix beams with eagerness as he begins to explain to you all the plans that he’d like to accomplish as the head of the department, he notices as he tries to keep things in layman terms for you that your eyes only glaze over towards the end of the talk and he has to hide his giggle when you shake your head trying to clear it.

*-*-*-*

It’s been two weeks since Felix has been promoted and so far he feels as if he’s slipped into the role very well. He’s started implementing weekly meetings with his supervisory staff to keep a finger on the pulse of his department and make sure that he’s on top of any concerns or worries that they come across. That’s how he finds himself closing his latest meeting with them that morning frowning softly, the previous head of the department while was really competent with running the department they weren’t as well equipped on the logistics of cyber security like Felix is. After this meeting it’s become quite clear to him how loose your company’s security is. He knows it’ll only become a greater problem if he doesn’t get ahead of it now. That’s why he doesn’t even think as he rushes around his desk after shutting his office door to make a phone call to Rachel. 

Just as he sits down at his desk and reaches for his desk phone it begins to ring and he frowns softly wondering who would be calling him at work. He quickly picks up the phone and answers it easily.

”I.T. Department, Felix speaking.” He says in a professional tone and hears a soft sigh on the other end.

”Oh thank goodness. Mr. Lee, do you have time to come to Miss Whalton’s office? She’s managed to lose a file on her computer that she needs for an afternoon meeting and she’s starting to panic.” Rachel’s voice chimes over the phone line and Felix smiles softly at the mention of you.

”Of course, do you know if Miss Whalton has free time right now? I’d like to speak with her about my concerns about the company’s cybersecurity.” He said hopefully.

”She’s free for the next thirty minutes before she has to go to a lunch meeting.” Rachel informs and he grins before he’s quickly picking up his notebook.

”Okay, I’ll be right up.” He says relieved before hanging up the phone. The ride up in the elevator is quiet but Felix is filled eagerness and a giddy joy that bubbles within him. His proxy card has been upgraded to give him access to the top floor ever since he was promoted and he can’t help but grin widely as the elevator display beeps and blinks green before he presses the button for the top floor.

He can’t wait to see you again, he can’t deny ever since meeting you his mind has been filled with thoughts of you. Your easy conversation that you had shared together left him wanting more time with you, he wanted to learn more about you. It was almost as if he was having withdrawals of you, like he had been hooked on you with just that one meeting and conversation. 

And it wasn’t just your appearance that had kept his mind on you, no that was the thing that caught his attention but what kept his attention turning back to you was the easy laid back attitude that had an undercurrent of confidence. Your conversation had lasted only two hours but within the time frame you had shared parts of yourself with him that had felt like only a taste and he wanted more. He wanted so much more.

Soon the elevator doors were opening with a soft ding and he was striding down the hallway smiling softly at a relieved looking Rachel as she stood from her desk in a rush. She looked a little stressed as she beckoned him quickly to her side.

”Thank you so much for getting here so quickly. She’s a little stressed with everything that’s going on this week and with losing this file that she needs for her afternoon meeting she’s a little frazzled.” Rachel explained quickly to him as she escorted him to the frosted glass doors. Felix nodded his head at her words knowing that he’d do whatever he needed to restore your file just to make your day run a little smoother.

”Okay, no worries I’ll be able to find it.” He reassured her and she sighed softly nodding her head before knocking on the glass doors.

”Come in Rachel.” Your voice rang out with a tiredness that Felix could actually feel and he frowned softly wondering if you had taken the time to rest this week yet or things had been keeping you too busy to do that. Rachel easily ushered him into your office and you looked up from your computer with an aggravated sigh. “Oh, Mr. Lee.” You said surprised and Felix grinned at you as his eyes caught onto your wide eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you this quickly.” You admitted and his grin widened on his face happily.

”Rachel said you needed my help of course I’d drop everything to help you.” He said easily with a shrug of his shoulders feeling pride rush through him as your cheeks flushed prettily at his words.

”I’ll leave you to it.” Rachel said softly before nodding her head at the two of you before she scurried out of the office.

”Thank you Rachel!” You called out after her before standing from your desk. “Please take my seat.” You said easily gesturing to your chair before you moved a step away from it. Felix nodded as he pushed his glasses further up onto his nose with his index finger before walking over to your chair and easily taking a seat in it. You moved to the side of your desk and rested your hip on the edge of it as you crossed your arms over your chest before watching as he began to work.

”What type of file are we looking for?” He asked as he quickly began moving your mouse around your screen before he pulled up a command screen by typing on your keyboard.

”It’s a PowerPoint file. I was working on it earlier this morning trying to finish it before my meeting this afternoon and I got distracted by a phone call with Legal and when I turned back to my computer the file was gone.” You said helplessly as your thumb came up to your mouth and began to worry the skin of it with your teeth. Felix looked up at you in awe for a moment as his eyes followed your mouth’s movement against your thumb, he felt a pit form in his lower stomach as he watched your pretty pink lips slip around your thumb.

Shaking his head he quickly turned back to your computer before he nodded his head and began typing away at your keyboard looking for the file that you needed so desperately. He chuckled softly when it took him literally no time to find the file in an unnamed folder on your desktop and you tilted your head at him curiously.

”Don’t tell me you’ve already found it.” You bemoaned and Felix laughed delightedly at your frustration.

”Is this it?” He asked as he opened the file and you groaned loudly as you hung your head causing him to laugh loudly at your movements.

”Yes. That’s it.” You confessed and he grinned over at you with glee reflected fully in his face. “Thank you.” You said softly before grimacing. “Told you I was computer illiterate.” 

“Didn’t think it was this bad though.” Felix said amazed and you groaned once again causing him to grin up at you cheekily. You stomped your foot softly and Felix felt his eyes widened as he watched your tiny tantrum. “Oh that was cute.” He said teasingly and you shot him a feeble glare that had him laughing once again.

”Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it Mr. Lee.” You griped out and he flushed softly at you addressing him so formally.

”Please call me Felix.” He said kindly and you smirked softly at him as you straightened your posture next to him.

”That’s awfully informal don’t you think?” You asked softly and Felix felt his eyes widened with the panic that suddenly seized him, had he stepped over the line with you? Your pretty chuckle caught his attention and he focused on you once more. “Relax Felix, I was teasing.” You reassured him. “I owe you for your quick help.” You said to him goodnaturedly and he smiled softly before nodding his head.

”Actually I wanted to bring up something that I found concerning about the company.” He explained and watched as your eyes narrowed at him slightly before you slowly nodded your head. He stood from your chair and moved behind you allowing you to take your seat once again, he then moved to your side where he had placed his notebook and flipped it open to his report that he had typed up and handed it to you. You looked down at the report and Felix smiled as he watched your head tilt to the side trying to understand what it all meant. 

“You’re going to have to explain this to me so that I can understand. Is there something wrong with our security?” You asked him before you looked up from his report. He smiled softly as he nodded his head.

”Not the building’s physical security but the cyber security of the company. The digital files for the company have little to no security of being hacked or stolen from our network. I’d like to implement counter measures for the possibilities of attacks, not to mention secure all of the company’s files so that there’s more protection.” He explained gently and you frowned softly at his words before slowly nodding your head.

”How easy would it be to have our files hacked or stolen?” You asked, trying to understand and Felix smiled warmly at your attempt.

”A high schooler could probably hack into the email system.” He told you honestly and you frowned softly at his words.

”Okay, and you want to make it much harder for that to happen?” You asked as Felix nodded. “How do you plan to do that?” You asked curiously.

”I’d like to set up firewalls and tighter points of security within the network. It means that there’s barriers of code that hackers wouldn’t be able to get through.” He said as easily as he possibly could.

”Okay, draw up a plan with prices and hours of work to get this done and we’ll get it taken care of. I want you in charge of the project, make sure you’re aware of every aspect of this. Whatever you need to get this done you’ll get it.” You said easily and Felix snapped his head to stare at you with wide eyes.

”Really?” He asked, sounding breathless. You looked at him incredulously for a moment before smiling softly at him.

”Of course. There’s a problem with our security and we need to fix it. You know better about this stuff than I do and were able to find the issue with it already. I’ll make sure you have everything to fix it. You’ll be working closely with purchasing for whatever your needs are for this project.” You informed him and Felix felt his chest swell with accomplishment, he thought you would delay the project but you seemed very trusting of him and it touched him in a way that he wanted to do his best to make sure your company was protected.

”Thank you.” He said reverently and you nodded your head at him easily before you waved a hand dismissively.

”Just don’t let it get out that I’m so computer illiterate.” You griped and he grinned widely at you before winking at you.

”My lips are sealed.” He teased and that pretty flush grew on your cheeks once more enchanting him again. He felt himself falling into your charm so easily as his body leaned closer to you as you stared up at him blinking owlishly.

Just then there was a loud commotion coming from outside your office doors and you frowned softly before turning your head to glare at the doors. They flew open and nearly crashed back against the walls and you stood slowly from your chair. Felix felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as you slowly stalked around him and your desk to stand between him and whatever was coming through your office doors.

”Miss Whalton! I need to speak to you about this contract with Yang Incorporated. It’s too much in favor of the other company! You can’t be that daft to just squander this type of money all on a consultation!” Shouted a tall slender man with slicked back black hair dressed in an expensive pressed suit. Felix frowned darkly at the man who just came barging into your office without any care for your space. Rachel rushed in after him trying to usher him out and when the man turned and sneered at her causing her to step back quickly in haste to get away from him Felix felt the air grow cold in the room.

”Mr. Reeves!” You snapped angrily and the man turned back to you leaving Rachel alone and allowing her to exit the office when you nodded at her. 

“Miss Whalton! This contract is horrible for the company!” He insisted once again and Felix watched quietly as you crossed your arms over your chest and widened your stance as you stared the tall man down. “You are going to run your company into the ground if you just throw your money away like this!”

”Mr. Reeves, last time I checked you were a paralegal for my company and not an actual shareholder. You don’t make the decisions, I do.” You stated in a dangerously even tone that made Felix shiver as he bit his lip trying to curb his urge to laugh at your scathing remark. He stood next to your desk watching breathlessly as you faced off with the loud paralegal and felt the knot in his lower stomach start to form once again. “Stay in your lane, or there will be consequences.” You snipped out angrily and Felix felt the knot tighten with desire and fear laced together.

”Miss Whalton!” Insisted Mr. Reeves loudly as his top lip curled at you angrily.

”I didn’t stutter, did I?” You asked and Felix gasped softly at how that one question gripped in him a chokehold of lust.

”You are going to burn this company to the ground and I will not be a part of it.” Mr. Reeves foolishly snapped at you and Felix gaped at the man silently.

”Good, I’ll call security. They’ll escort you out.” You said in a dismissive tone before turning on your heel and stalking back to your desk to grab your desk phone. Felix made sure to stay as still as possible as you walked around him with a dark scowl on your face not wanting to feel your wrath directed at him.

”Wait! No Miss Whalton!” Scrambled Mr. Reeves as he walked towards your desk with his hands raised.

”You’re dismissed.” You said while leveling the man with a stoic look that had Felix shifting on his feet as his pants grew tight in a certain area. Felix watched with wide eyes as Mr. Reeves looked at you with a defeated look on his face as you spoke with security on the phone before he huffed and stormed out of your office in a rush.

”Holy shit.” Felix said quietly as you hung up the phone and turned to him with a soft grimace on your face.

”Sorry, you had to see that.” You said to him in apology but he quickly shook his head.

”Rachel warned me that you could be intimidating but I didn’t believe her after meeting you.” He said in a slight daze as you chuckled softly at his explanation before you shook your head. You carded a hand through your hair and shook it out before sighing softly, Felix could see the tiredness suddenly settling in your body and he stood there amazed at the many different sides of you that he was learning about already.

”Am I really that intimidating?” You asked curiously and Felix balked at your question.

”Absolutely terrifying in a sexy way.” Felix blurted out causing you to burst out in shocked laughter before his eyes widened and he looked at you with embarrassment coloring his face bright red. Your laughter morphed from the shocked sound to a happy cackle that made his embarrassment ease as delight filled him.

”Thank you for that. I needed that.” You said once you were finally able to get your laughter under control as you wiped tears from the corners of your eyes. Your eyes sparkled up at him with humor dancing within their depths and he found himself falling into them so easily.

”Miss Whalton, you have that lunch meeting to get to.” Rachel called out from the office door and Felix jerked back from his slight lean over you as you turned to face Rachel with a bright smile.

”Thank you Rachel. Apparently I’m absolutely terrifying.” You said proudly and Felix groaned softly as Rachel and yourself laughed delighted at his torture.

”You certainly are.” Rachel agreed and Felix shot her a glare that made her smirk at him.

”Get the plans drafted and submit them to purchasing so that we can get the security issued fixed.” You directed Felix and he nodded his head quickly. You smirked softly up at him as your eyes sparkled once again with delight and humor. “Thank you Felix.” You said fondly with that delicious smirk still gracing your lips and he nodded dazedly before walking out of your office. Rachel raised her eyebrow at him as he passed her with a knowing look on her face while he tried to avoid her eyes.

*-*-*-*

The next two months are busy for Felix as he works diligently on the cyber security project, he doesn’t get much one-on-one time with you besides your short project meetings to go over what’s going on. But you’re still heavily involved in the project and your steady presence throughout it gives Felix the confidence boost that he needs to complete it to his satisfaction.

And even when he’s not able to have much alone time with you like he’d want to, the time you both do share together is still special and meaningful to him. Your personality shines through no matter what situation you’re in and he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame. He’s been privy to so many sides of you that he feels like he’s got a well rounded picture of who you are as a person now and he likes what he sees. He likes it so much that he realizes that the two of you have grown from workplace acquaintances into friends without him even noticing until it’s already happened. There’s a comfortability between the two of you and he loves it.

You’re a hard worker who tries to be as fair as possible with all of your employees but you don’t shy away from hard situations and are able to step in swiftly. You also care a great deal for your employees as you would splurge on them for work lunches and approving overtime during the project. He did notice when the meetings would turn more towards the technical side of things you took a back seat and grew quiet while trying to follow along with what everyone else was saying. He would often find you writing down notes during these times and after everyone had left and it was just you and him cleaning up after everyone you would ask him your questions that you hadn’t understood. It found it utterly endearing that you tried to understand it all but just couldn’t seem to wrap your mind around the digital side of things.

In fact he offers one night to teach you more about the digital side of things and you eagerly take him up on his offer. The two of you soon fall into a pattern of spending some time after work hours holed up in your office going over aspects that were brought up during the meetings. Felix loved the extra time with you and grew to look forward to it every evening after he was done working, you were always so different when you weren’t working, more open and less stoic. 

But tonight as he makes his way out of his office locking it up behind him he sees your text come through letting him know that you’ve still got some things that you have to work on and won’t fault him if he doesn’t come see you. He smiles down at his phone before huffing softly at your text, you were always so considerate of his time and it made him fall harder for you. You were always so enchanting to him that it didn’t surprise him that he had fallen in love with you over such a short period of time.

Walking into the elevator and presenting his proxy card to the display he sighed softly as he leaned back against the back wall of the elevator. He had realized that he was in love with you halfway through the security project and it had only grown from there. You never gave off any indication of how you felt about him and he was worried that he was in too deep and would get his heart broken. He knew you’d do it as gently as possible if that was the case but he was still worried, which is why he never acted on his feelings for you since realizing them.

The elevator soon came to a stop on the top floor and Felix was walking out quietly as he ran a hand through his hair making it a mess to hang around his tired face. His eyes darted over to see Rachel’s desk abandoned and he smiled softly knowing that there would be no distractions tonight other than your work, but he was pretty positive that he could convince you to stop working. Smirking softly he gently pushed your office door open before peeking his head inside, your head snapped up from its hanging position as you poured over paperwork littering your desk. 

“Evening” Felix greeted you kindly and you smiled tiredly at him.

“Hi Felix.” you said tiredly and he walked towards you before his eyes darted down your body and nearly halted in his steps. His eyes widened slightly before narrowing in on your button up blouse, it was form fitting and hugged your body like a second skin but what made all the blood rush from his head to his stiffening cock was the fact that the top three buttons were unbuttoned and he could see your maroon colored lacy bra underneath. You tilted your head to the side confused at his change in manner before your eyes darted down to your blouse and you blushed brightly before gripping the shirt together.

“No don’t!” Felix called out suddenly as he rushed to your side. “Fuck sweetheart, you look gorgeous.” he husked out and you gaped up at him while blinking your eyes rapidly. He trails his fingers along your arm and you shiver at his touch as your hand loosens its grip on your shirt as you stare up at him in awe. He crowds you against your desk feeling your body flush with his and he groans softly as one hand grips your hip while his thigh slots between yours. His eyes dart over your exposed chest and his tongue darts out to swipe against his bottom lip. “Why I wouldn’t give to see the whole set.” he says softly and you gasp heatedly at his words.

“You’re lying.” you insist and he shakes his head as his eyes focus on your own confused ones.

“Absolutely not.” he retorts adamantly and you blink again at him. “I’ve been falling in love with you for months now.” he confesses quietly and your mouth drops open slightly as your eyes sparkle with delight while your hands grip his polo shirt and pull him closer to you.

“Kiss me, please.” you gasp out at him and Felix grins widely at your request before his other hand is coming up to cup your check and tilt your head up to his as his lips slant against yours in a heated wet kiss. The two of you stand there leaning against your desk as your mouths move together in a delicious dance that makes his head swim.

“No more working please, sweetheart.” he pleads with you after pulling away from your delectable mouth. “Let me take you home.” he whispers to you and you nod your head as your eyes glaze over causing him to smile widely at his affect on you. “Never thought I could make your eyes glaze over with more than just computer talk.” he teases and you suddenly narrow your eyes at him as one of your hands travels down his chest and cups him in his pants making him groan low in his throat.

“You’re lucky I love you too Felix. Lesser men wouldn’t get the chance to tease me this much.” you tell him sultrily and he beams down at you with happiness coursing through him. “Now take me home.” you instruct him and he nods his head hurriedly before he’s guiding you away from the desk and gathering both of your things.

SKZ Taglist: @intartaruginha

[triviallytrue]

I see the benefit in “was able to follow along each step and check for myself that the stated claim was true” but I’ve also seen people say the private vetting process can include things like “had a phone call with them where they fluently spoke the Palestinian dialect of Arabic” that can’t be checked by everyone, or “privately showed me their ID/birth certificate/bank info/official documents”, which probably shouldn’t be publicized. if these sorts of things (which seem fairly reliable if true) are indeed being involved in the process in at least some cases, how do you think people should vouch for that beyond a “trust me it’s vetted” without further clarification, or is it impossible to do so from your perspective since they could just lie?

so my suggested solution to these would be:

post a recording of the phone call, so that other Palestinian Arabic speakers can also attest that it's true

post redacted, watermarked versions of official documents

but you're getting at a very big problem: it takes a lot of information to vet people. the post i reblogged was only able to vet that one fundraiser because she's a PhD with a linkedin, instagram, tiktok, and pictures of her on a scientific organization's website. most people won't have that.

at a certain point, it also becomes a nightmare for the vetters (all or almost all of whom i suspect are just people trying their best in a horrific situation). if it takes an hour (or more) to fully vet one single gofundme, there are a single digit or low double digit number speakers of Palestinian Arabic on here with blog histories that stretch back before October 7th with the ability to vet people, and hundreds of gofundmes... well, you do the math.

this is the kind of work that is normally done by people who are paid to do it full-time, in a centralized fashion, not ad-hoc on the internet. amateurs are going to make mistakes - i've seen blogs successfully filtering out unsophisticated scammers, but this current discourse has already rooted out at least 3 scammers who made it onto the vetted lists. it's asymmetric - scammers can do this full time, hone their methods, figure out what exposed them last time and fix it, and overall iteratively improve the credibility of their scams, but vetters can't really keep raising the standards with the time and resources they have access to.

so unless we make the standards so high that they exclude many actual Palestinians (standards like the ones used in that ask), i think there will be some risk of even vetted fundraisers being scams. how big? 1%? 5%? 10%? i don't know, but it's definitely nonzero, and based on the uncovered scams so far, they are diverting thousands of dollars (possibly tens or hundreds of thousands) away from actual Palestinians.

which is why i think people should just donate to the UNRWA. there's a 100% chance your money will go to helping real Palestinians, and while it won't be as impactful for an individual as getting them across the Rafah crossing, that's only an option for a very small percentage of Palestinians anyway. as said before, there are 800,000 Palestinians in Rafah, something like 500 of which cross each day. those that can't cross and the Palestinians in other parts of Gaza deserve aid as well. people are at risk of starvation and have very limited access to medical care. donation to the UNRWA and organizations like it doesn't free anyone, but it does keep them alive, and the money doesn't end up in the pockets of corrupt Egyptian border officials who will wring every penny they can out of Palestinian refugees.

people are, of course, welcome to do whatever they want with their money, but those are my 2 cents.