#catamount writes

Consciousness returns to Jason slowly, like approaching a landmark shrouded in fog. His head is pounding, his thoughts sluggish, and his tongue feels heavy and fuzzy in his mouth.

It takes him longer than he'd like to drag together his scattered wits and assess his situation, whatever he was dosed with making what's normally a reflex into a herculean task.

Last he remembered, he had been on a rooftop, taking a breather after a fight with Black Mask's goons. There had been- something. A sound, maybe. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

And then it all went black.

He tries to stretch, to feel out his limbs since the room around him is dark, but he's met with the clink of chains and the sensation of swaying.

Alarm shoots through him, not quite managing to burn through the artificial haziness. His limbs jolt and flail, making him twist and swing in the restraints suspending him in the air.

The thrashing makes him realize something else, something that sends a confusing thrill down his spine.

He's naked. Completely and utterly bare, except for his helmet.

Fear and confusion and something hot coil low in his stomach, his mind racing as much as it can through the fog. None of his enemies would pull something like this — which means he's dealing with an unknown. One that's…interested in him in ways that make his mouth go dry.

It's sick. Perverse. But he can feel his skin heating and his breathing going heavy, dark arousal simmering in his veins. What the hell was he dosed with?!

The sound of a door creaking open and a wash of dim light makes him go still. He strains his eyes to try and see the figure that steps into the room, but he can't even make out their gender from their build, much less any details of their features. It's not just whatever drugs are in his system — there's something wrong with the lenses of his helmet, like a blurry film over his vision.

"Who are you?" Jason tries to make himself sound firm, tries to be intimidating, but the voice modulator in his helmet must be on the fritz — there's no other explanation for the way his voice wavers. Right? "What do you want?"

The figure doesn't answer, but Jason can almost feel their amusement. And their gaze…it's like a physical thing, a caress against his skin. He twitches away when they approach, twisting against his bonds when a gloved hand skims up his thigh.

"What-" Jason gasps, his voice failing and his legs twitching, uncertain if he's trying to get away or get closer. It feels like the sensitivity of every nerve is dialed past eleven, exposed and raw and almost needy.

Leather-clad hands move over his skin with a proprietary air, like they have every right to be there. To be touching him like this.

He can feel the warmth of their body near his, and some distant part of him insists he should be resisting. That he should be fighting. But as those hands move further up his body, guiding and arranging his limbs just so, he finds that he can't.

Maybe it's the drugs. Maybe it's some fucked up, morbid curiosity.

Or maybe it's the dark, quiet part of himself that he tries not to think about, the part that craves this. That longs to be owned. To be taken. To be obsessed over.

Whatever it is, it means he doesn't thrash or resist when those hands roam, only squirming as they map every dip and curve and line of his body. It means that the pleasure that pools in his gut is only tinted by shame, rather than drowned in it.

"What do you want from me?" He whispers as his head is tilted carefully back. A bitten off gasp slips from his lips in the wake of his fruitless question, drawn from him by the press of lips against his throat.

If they were rougher, he might be able to resist, to convince himself this doesn't feel good. But they're not — the kisses that trail down his neck and over his collarbone are hot and wet and reverent. Like he's something sacred, something prized. Something to be worshiped.

"Sh- shit-" He pants when that mouth moves down over his chest, lips and tongue working against one stiff, pebbled nipple as a gloved hand pinches the other. It feels like there's a line straight from his nipples to his cock, every brush of tongue and teeth making him harder. His hips twitch, moving in little, unconscious circles to try and chase stimulation that isn't there. He's so hard it hurts, and they've barely touched him.

The figure pulls off his nipple with a wet sound, their teeth tugging lightly one last time before they switch focus to the other one. He whines, despite his best efforts to suppress it, and jerks his hips in a silent plea for something more.

For a beat, he thinks they'll ignore that wordless request. But, despite their focus on his chest, they do notice —and he can feel them smile.

They drag briefly back and seem to do something with their hands, taking off one of their gloves. While they lean back in to recapture his abused nipple between their lips, their hand moves down. The skin-to-skin contact is even more intense, even with so light of a touch, and he nearly sobs when they bypass his aching length altogether.

"Please," He hears himself beg, earning a soft chuckle from his captor. He opens his mouth to beg again, only for a wanton moan to escape instead — that was the moment they decided to slide two spit-slicked fingers inside of him.

There's a bit of a burn, as he's breached. A stretch as his body learns to accommodate the warm fingers inside. But it feels good, surprisingly good, and it feels even better when their fingers move. They're careful, and relaxed, like they have all the time in the world to unravel him. He can't stop the noises that escape him — the whimpers, the moans, the desperate little whines. He's never felt like this, never been touched like this, never been taken apart, piece by piece.

It's torture.

And it's bliss.

It is a small town, a quiet town. The sort of place where everyone knows everyone, where doors are left unlocked at night and children wander without fear. Some call it idylic, some call it a paradise, others simply call it home.

Things are different, however, when the visitor comes to town. No one knows their name. They barely know their face. Each time, they are a little different, the details a little strange. They come to trade, to barter for what they cannot find or make.

Their wares are good, and their dealings fair. If one can afford their talismans, the things are well worth the cost. One of them saved the Peters boy from a bear, you see, and another protected old man Callaghan from breaking his neck when he fell from his deer stand. In mountains like these, good protection is worth the price.

For there is a price. All things have one.

The people of the town do not speak of it. They do not mention how the visitor never ages, how their town is sheltered from ill luck, how the creatures that lurk in the woods around them dare not cross the town line.

They do not speak of it, when a child goes missing on a moonless night. They do not need to. A child lost on a night when the moon is dark becomes nameless, existing only in memory.

They keep no record of them, they mount no search.

---

His father hadn't believed him any more than his men had, and neither did his brothers. But he supposes that doesn't truly matter, not unless the siren bears a son. And even, that assumes she would keep her word.

He puts it from his mind, focusing on his duties as a prince - second son or not, he's busy enough to keep him well occupied.

---

Months pass, and then a year. He sees neither hide nor hair nor scale of the siren.

Sometimes, though, when he walks the shore, he swears he hears a few lilting notes of a familiar song from the deep.

---

It's on one of those walks which have become habit now that he sees her. He goes stock still, staring into eyes he has not seen in nearly fifteen months. He hears his elder brother, who has accompanied him on his walk today, say something of little import - his name, maybe, or a query, but he pays it no heed.

His boots come off before he really thinks about it, his socks following before he rolls up the legs of his trousers. His brother definitely calls his name this time as he wades into the water, going as deep as his waist before he's face to face with the siren.

She's as beautiful as she was that night, but it's not her ink black hair or gleaming amber eyes that catch his eye. No, it's the six month old babe wrapped in some sort of woven kelp blanket and cradled in her arms that captures his attention so utterly.

And as she offers the child to him, he notices the sling made of the same kelp, surely swaddling another child. But that one she keeps carefully beneath the waves.

"Have you named him?" He asks, his mouth dry and his mind feeling as if it's full of cotton as he accepts the child from her arms.

"No. I thought you would wish to," She says, her gaze not on his face but on the babe now in his arms. She had not told him what her kind usually do with sons, but given the bittersweet expression on her face...his grip tightens on the child.

"...and the girl?" Her gaze flicks to his face when he asks, but he does not falter. He cannot.

"I have named her Amaranth." The siren dips further into the water to gather the girl from the sling, careful to keep her beneath the surface but allow him this glimpse. "She cannot breathe air yet."

The explantion makes something within him relax and tense in the same moment, but he simply nods.

"I want to know her," He says, tongue heavy with things unsaid. "Return here. Yearly. ...please."

The siren regards him quietly for a moment, then lets her gaze drop to the babe in his hold.

"Tell me what you will name him and bring him to the visits." Her condition is an esay one - he wouldn't want to keep her from her son.

"Caius. He'll be named Caius. We'll see you here next year." He watches as she nods, casting him and his son one last glance before she disappears below the waves. He lingers for another few heartbeats, staring out at the glittering waves, before adjusting his hold on his son and turning back to the beach where his gobsmacked brother awaits. A small, fleeting smirk pulls at his lips.

I love you

At least, I think I do

As much as I can love someone

I told you things I've never spoken

I listened, I hung on your every word

I soaked up every ounce of attention,

when you chose to give it

I opened my home to you

I poured my love into gifts, made with my own hands

I made a space for you in my heart, in my life

And you threw it away

You threw me away

You haven't told me why, and I haven't asked

You told me about her, and I knew

I see you with him, and I know

I know I'm not what you wanted

I never could have been

When you see me, what do you think?

Do you regret?

Was I a waste to you?

Just a placeholder for better things?

Do you see me at all?

You're there, every day

Child of the Forest, who calls you home?

The trees call me home, to the shadows beneath their boughs.

Child of the Mountains, who calls you home?

The peaks call me home, to shelter at their feet.

Child of the Shore, who calls you home?

The tide calls me home, to rest within its hold.

Child of the Forest who tends your hearth?

I have no hearth but cooking fires, ever-banked to protect my home.

Child of the Mountains, who tends your hearth?

I tend my hearth, rooted in stone to stave the wind.

Child of the Shore, who tends your hearth?

I am made of broken shards

Glued together with boiling tar

Broken mirrors and window panes

Words like vines pruned

Choking roots, heavy leaves

It's worse than me wanting things from him he isn't willing to give.