MakoShifts

a series of questions for the days leading up to christmas for shifters!! Some of these questions are Christmas specific and others aren’t, feel free to answer what you want and how you want, ex. moodboards, short answers, longs answers. And if you’d like, you can reblog so it reaches more shifters. Merry Christmas and Happy Shifting :) post tags are #shiftmas #shiftmas2024 tagged: @arishifter

⌗ 𝟏. christmas caroling ; What are a few songs that remind you of your dr? Why?

FOUR YEARS NO CONTACT IS NOTHING COMPARED TO THE POWER OF THE LAW OF ASSUMPTION

A persistent throb pulses at the base of Jason’s neck, radiating outward into his shoulders like an invisible weight, pressing down with every breath he takes. Your fingers gently untangle the knots, gliding upward from his spine to the sensitive curve of his neck.

“Why are we even doing this?” He mumbles into the pillow, his voice muffled by the fabric.

You hum above him, your palms moving with a practiced grace over his shoulders. “You need rest, baby—and this is the only way I can get you to listen.”

He snorts, his voice low. “So bossy.”

“Shush. Enjoy it,” you tease, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Jason melts under your touch, his body surrendering to the soothing rhythm of your hands. You work his muscles like a familiar melody, your palms spreading the oil across the expanse of his scarred back. The liquid flows like golden rivers, tracing the crooked contours of his body.

His eyelids flutter, heavy with the weight of sleep, as your fingers weave deeper into his back. The softness of your touch, the warmth of your palms, drapes over him like a gentle cocoon, lulling him toward a peace he hasn’t known in weeks.

Your fingers land on a knot in his back, and with a subtle pressure, it unravels—like a tightly wound coil snapping free. Jason exhales in a soft rush, the sound of relief music to your ears.

“You sound heavenly under me,” you murmur teasingly, your voice low as you hover near his ear.

“Shut up,” he groans, burying his flushed face into the ivory pillow, his embarrassment hidden beneath the soft fabric.

“Look who’s blushing. Do I make you nervous, baby?” You can’t hide the smirk in your voice, amusement dancing in every word.

In response, he swats your bare thigh.

“Hey!” You squeak, surprised, but then give in with a playful surrender. “M'kay, fine. No more teasing.”

Jason hums, a small, content sound, his hand reaching back to gently squeeze your thigh, a quiet reassurance.

“Wanna try a different oil next? Or maybe body butter?” You murmur, your fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on his skin.

He doesn’t answer, and you pull your thoughts away from his warmth, noticing how deeply his features have softened as he drifts further into slumber.

He’s asleep. The realization brings a quiet smile to your lips, and you lean down to press a soft, chaste kiss to his forehead. Laying down beside him, you let the embrace of sleep pull you in as well, your mind quieting in the peace you’ve both found in this moment.

Bruce didn't give a speech at his parents funeral. Alfred had offered it to him, crouched at the threshold of his parents wardrobe, peering through the trousers and dresses and long coats Bruce had hidden himself in.

In those days Bruce often hid in his parents wardrobe. He'd been a people-shy child, had often spent dinners and events hidden in his mothers skirts or clutching his fathers pant leg. Martha used to gently tug his hair, tell him to 'go say hello bumblebee' and always welcomed him back to the shelter of her skirts with a laugh and a cloud of rich perfume. Thomas used to haul him up by his jacket, tuck him under his arm like a football and gently squish him until Bruce was laughing too hard to be shy.

Years later Bruce will remember the texture of his fathers favourite dress pants clenched under his hands better than the sound of his fathers voice.

the entire works of jane austen, especially pride and prejudice (his fav so far as we can tell)

the works of alexander dumas

the works of sir arthur conan doyle

hamlet by william shakespeare

richard iii by william shakespeare

1984 by george orwell

little women by louisa may alcott

the prince by machiavelli

fight club by chuck palahniuk

the art of war by sun tzu

these are just the real ones btw; he’s also read at least 2 self-help books, some entirely fictional series, books on japanese history, the napoleonic wars, and 19th century england, and in-universe superman comics.

He does apologize profusely every time he knicks you though (and depending on what he was trying to do, he’ll lick or kiss it better). Unfortunately he refuses to do it on purpose.