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smileysuh · 2 months ago

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fresco

🌙 starring. Lee Donghyuck x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. When you first met Hyuck in the elevator, you’d thought he was nothing more than some fuckboy line chef. But now, you see a deeper side of him. He’s thoughtful and caring, a little chaotic in the best way, but willing to calm down and match your pace. And to top it all off, he’s hot as fuck.

tw/cw. protected sex (for probably the first time ever), gentle/slow build-up sex, oral/pussy eating, slight praise, slight dirty talk, reader hasn’t been fucked in a while, low-key wholesome sex with a reformed fuckboy because you’re now cat co-parents, etc… I pet names: (hers) gorgeous.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 6.8k

🍭 aus. Restaurant au, neighbors to lovers, accidental fur baby co-parents, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. Fresco, meaning a painting done rapidly in watercolor on wet plaster on a wall or ceiling, so that the colors penetrate the plaster and become fixed as it dries. - Alternative; Alfresco, meaning a meal eaten outside “in the fresh air” - fresco is Italian for “fresh,” and the culinary usage is relatively common in English. this fic is in conjunction with Real Talk and Comfort Cuisine.

Prologue:

You’re a little shocked to hear a knock at your door around one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. As something of a recluse professional artist, you don’t get many visitors. One look out the peephole reveals that your surprise guest is a neighbor, one Lee Donghyuck from two units down.

“Hyuck?” you ask as you open the door. “Is something wrong?”

“I found a cat!” Hyuck whisper screams as he holds open his jacket, revealing a tiny, orange puffball, who immediately meows at you. “Can I come in?”

You’re so taken aback by this whole interaction that you don’t have it within you to argue, you simply step aside and let the frazzled line cook into your apartment.

“Okay, I don’t have much time,” Donghyuck explains. “My chef is going to kill me for taking the longest vape break ever-”

“Slow down,” you laugh.

“Look, I went for a vape break, I found this kitten by the dumpster, I jumped in my car and came here.”

“It’s a no-pet apartment building,” you point out.

“Can you just take care of him for the day? While I figure this out?” Hyuck pleads.

“Don’t you have other friends in the building?”

“No one who’s home all day like you are- come on, it’s a kitten, it needs someone around or it’s going to be screaming super loud and then the landlord will hear it and evict me-”

“What about a shelter?”

“I don’t have time to look up no-kill shelters, and besides, you know how the cat distribution system works!”

“Fine,” you sigh, gazing at the purring ball of fur. “What time are you off work.”

“Around nine,” Hyuck responds, holding the kitten out for you. “You’re doing me a huge favor.”

“Just this once, while you figure the whole situation out.”

One:

You’re doing your best to continue working, but the kitten has been a bit of a menace the entire day. You suppose this orange fur ball is a bit like Hyuck that way, not that you know your neighbor very well, but you have a sense for him. Hyuck has to be a little chaotic to turn up on your doorstep with a kitten he found by the dumpster, but the flip side of this whole thing is that Hyuck is showing a lot of tenderness to have cared about this cat at all.

You work as much as you can, but when the kitten starts crying, you decide to call it a day.

There’s a can of tuna in your pantry, the type that’s in water from when you were on a health kick a month ago, and you spoon it onto a little plate for the orange kitten.

He’s eager to eat it all up, making an obnoxious yet endearing gnawing sound as he decimates all the tuna.

When he’s finished, you lift the little cat up into your arms, taking him to your couch to rest while you put on a show.

The little trooper is exhausted, and a food coma comes quickly.

He lays on your lap, napping and purring and relaxing, and you can’t help but enjoy the little fur ball’s presence. He calms you, and before you even know it, it’s nine, and a knock at your door signals Hyuck’s return.

You lift up the orange kitten, carrying him to your door. Hyuck enters your apartment with a sigh.

“How was my child?” he asks, immediately reaching out to take the cat from your hands.

“He wasn’t too bad, I fed him a can of tuna. He’ll probably be good till the morning, but you’ve got to figure out what you’re doing with him.”

“Yeah, I’m still thinking about that,” Hyuck groans. “Thanks for the help today.”

“Don’t mention it, seriously.”

“I’ve gotta get home, I’m exhausted from work, and I’m guessing you’ve got things to do.”

You don’t have anything in particular on your schedule, but it’s not like you and Hyuck are very close, so you let him leave. It feels a little odd to look at your empty apartment once he’s gone- sure, you’d only had the kitten for nine or so hours, but… he’d livened up the space a little, in a way you can’t quite explain.

You go back to your couch, letting out a sigh as you turn your show back on.

Not fifteen minutes later there’s a knock at your door, and for the third time today, Lee Donghyuck enters your apartment.

“He wouldn’t stop crying for you!” Hyuck explains, handing the squirming kitten over to you. “Maybe he thinks you’re his mom now!”

“Hyuck,” you sigh. “You’ve got to sort this out.”

“I was thinking… can you… can you take him to the vet tomorrow?”

“The vet?”

“You know, make sure he’s not tagged or anything?”

“Make sure he’s not tagged?” you ask. “You’re hoping he’s a stray?”

“If he’s a stray then I get to keep him,” Hyuck states.

“Again, this is a no-pet building.”

“Everyone says that, but I know for a fact that Mrs. Sue on the fifth floor has some mega old and dying Persian, and I’m pretty sure the nonbinary couple next to me have some calico that’s missing a tail-”

“What?”

“It got out one day, I saw it scratching at their door. Have you really not seen any cats in the building?”

“I don’t go out much,” you admit.

“The point is, people have cats, they just hide them.”

You release a sigh. “I think there should be an emphasis on the word cats, not kittens, who are substantially louder and need more attention.”

“Well…” Hyuck gazes down at his feet. “You work from home.”

“So what, this is our cat now?”

“It could be,” the line chef muses. “I mean, look at him, he’s obsessed with you!”

The orange kitten is purring like an engine in your arms, making softies against your chest, and you have to admit, it’s clear he’s taken with you, perhaps as taken as you are with him.

“Fine,” you relent. “I’ll take him to the vet tomorrow. We’ll see if he’s tagged, and we’ll work it out from there.”

“You’re literally a lifesaver.”

Two:

The lunch rush is over, and Hyuck has time to think about you while he’s prepping for dinner. His coworker, Mark, is beside him, and Hyuck can feel his gaze.

“You good?” the tattooed softie of a chef asks.

Hyuck sighs. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

About you. How you’re the girl next door, the artist, the visionary, the lifesaver-

“I found a cat by the dumpster yesterday,” Hyuck admits.

“What?”

“My neighbor is taking care of it right now, and I guess we’ll find out if it’s chipped or not.”

“Isn’t your building like, a no-pets sort of thing?” Mark asks.

“That’s more a guideline than a rule,” Hyuck explains. “Besides, it’s a tiny cat that weighs two pounds, not some dog.”

Mark only shakes his head, continuing to cut carrots.

“I’m thinking I want to give the cat a name that’s related to food and art.”

“Why art?”

“Because my neighbor is an artist.”

“That’s cool, have I heard of his work?”

“My neighbor is a she, Mark, god, you’re so sexist.”

Mark stops what he’s doing, turning to face Donghyuck. “Now I get it. I bet you think she’s cute.”

“She’s super cute.”

Releasing a sigh, Mark rests his hands on the cutting board in front of him. “Names that are related to art and food. I guess you could do colors that are foods. Like, clementine or olive or something.”

“That feels too food driven, I want like, an artsy name.”

“Let me think about it,” Mark sighs.

The two continue to work, and at the end of their shift, Mark pulls Hyuck to the side. “There’s only really one super artsy name I can think of, and it’s Fresco.”

Hyuck has no idea what Fresco means, but something about it speaks to him. Without a second thought, Hyuck blurts out, “It’s perfect!” and he promises himself to look it up before he drives home.

Three:

Hyuck is practically buzzing as he arrives at your apartment, but he forces himself to rein in the excitement. “How was the vet visit?” he asks.

“You got your wish, he wasn’t chipped. The vet guessed he’s a stray, born on the streets, that sort of thing,” you explain, cuddling the kitten close to your chest as you speak. “I figured you might not have time to grab provisions for him, so I got some cans of food, a litter box, some toys-”

“Really?!” Hyuck immediately reaches into his pants to pull out his wallet, removing some cash, which he thrusts out toward you. “Thank you so much for the help!”

With a shake of your head, you accept the money. “I don’t know if you’ve thought this whole thing through.”

“He’s our cat now, the distribution system is never wrong.”

You laugh, but the chuckle turns into a sigh. “Our cat, huh?”

“I was thinking, if you don’t mind, he can stay with you during the days when I’m at work, then I’ll have him when I’m here, you know, like a child of divorce or something.”

The way you blink at him tells Hyuck you don’t find his words to be that amusing, but he can see you’re up for the task. It’s clear to him that you have fallen in love with the kitten, and Hyuck would be lying if he said he wasn’t excited about the prospect of a dual ownership- after all, it would mean the two of you would see each other more often.

“I guess we can make this work, but if the building manager finds out, I’m blaming all of this on you,” you warn.

“I’ll take full responsibility.”

“So… I guess now you just have to name him.”

“I was thinking about that!” Hyuck blurts out, unable to hide his excitement anymore. “What about Fresco?”

“Fresco?”

“I came up with it myself,” Hyuck lies, wanting to impress you. “Fresco is an art term right? Something about painting plaster?”

“Rapidly and somewhat erratically, yes,” you laugh.

“And Alfresco is Italian for eating food outside, like, fresh air, or something,” Hyuck explains, doing his best to remember the brief research he’d done on the word before knocking on your door.

“So it’s an artsy food name,” you muse with a smile.

“An artsy food name,” Hyuck agrees.

“I kind of love it.”

Four:

You suppose you should be used to Hyuck knocking on your door by now, but for some reason, it always comes as a surprise.

He steps into your apartment with a grin, holding Fresco in one hand, and a six-pack of beer in the other. “It’s my day off,” he announces. “Do you wanna hang out?”

You look him up and down, shaking your head and laughing. “I’m working.”

“Painting something?”

“I guess you can come see.”

“We won’t bother you too much, I promise,” Hyuck tells you as he follows you through your apartment to your little art office space. When his eyes land on your canvas, he lets out a whistle. “So you’re an artist artist?”

“I get paid for it, so yes,” you giggle.

“You’ve got the whole setup,” Hyuck muses, immediately heading for the small couch in the corner. When he’d first dropped Fresco off, the kitten had fallen asleep on this couch, and it seems his owner is just as able to make any place into his own home.

Hyuck collapses onto the sofa, immediately cracking open a beer. “Can I watch you paint?”

You’re not one for having others watch you do your craft, but Hyuck - as it turns out - is extremely hard for you to say no to.

“Just don’t make any comments about what I could be doing better,” you warn him.

“I don’t know anything about art, so you don’t have to worry about that,” he assures you.

“Some people don’t know anything and they still make comments,” you muse.

“Then they’re stupid.” Hyuck takes a swig of his beer, stroking Fresco as the kitten gets settled on his lap.

You pick up where you left off with the art piece, and Hyuck is quiet. He drinks his beer, pets Fresco, and scrolls on his phone, but after a while, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“Have you owned cats before?” you ask.

“Not really.”

“Well, you’re good with them. I never would have pictured you as a cat guy, it’s giving maternal.”

Hyuck lets out a laugh. “If you didn’t peg me as a cat guy, what did you peg me as?”

“Honestly? A fuckboy?”

“Everyone says that.” Hyuck shakes his head.

“So you’re saying it’s not true?”

“I mean… maybe in the past, I’ve been a bit of a fuck boy. But, everyone around me is in these long-term relationships, and I guess these days I want commitment, even if that commitment is with a cat and not a girl.”

You consider his words, and as you do so, Fresco gets up. He approaches a few of your finished canvases, smelling them carefully. You and Hyuck both watch him as he begins to pur, clearly enjoying the colors.

“He likes your art,” Hyuck grins.

“He has good taste.”

The two of you continue to chat while you work, and after a while, both Hyuck and Fresco pass out on the couch.

You note the way they’re bathed in the sun, and with a sigh, you put your current project to the side in favor of a blank canvas.

It’s rare to have a person, or an animal for that matter, sit still long enough for you to paint them, and something tells you both Fresco and Hyuck are tuckered out for the long haul.

You enjoy painting them, taking in every detail, and the creativity comes as easy as ever with the two of them as your muse.

Five:

You and Hyuck have something of an understanding now. It’s been two weeks. Hyuck works, you take care of Fresco, and when he’s off, the line chef comes straight to your house to see your shared fur baby.

The kitten has truly become your muse, and you’re enjoying the art of drawing this rambunctious cat.

It’s around nine o’clock, you’ve got a glass of wine, and you’re just putting the finishing touches on your recent Fresco piece, which is when Hyuck knocks at your door.

You’d unlocked your apartment an hour ago, and one call ‘Come in!’ has Hyuck entering. He lets out a whistle as he sees the canvas. “Holy shit, that’s good!”

“I know, right?” You can’t help the grin on your face. You’ve been testing out different methods, watercolors, acrylics, more abstracts- this one is more of a splatter piece, where you’d painted Fresco in funky colors, and then splattered it, you’d even dusted the canvas with glitter, spraying it with hairspray to get it to stick as an adhesive.

“I feel like you’ve captured his chaotic essence,” Hyuck laughs.

“He’s not so chaotic right now,” you muse, looking at the kitten who’s tuckered out on the couch.

“Do you want me to take him home? Or… do you want to watch a movie or something?”

You look Hyuck up and down. “That sort of sounds like a date.”

“I mean… these past few weeks we’ve kind of been having little dates, right? I mean- I want to ask you on a real one, but we can’t leave Fresco alone…”

“No, dates here sound nice,” you nod. “I’ve got wine, if you go and wash up, grab some beer, it can be a date when you get back.”

“Really?” His eyes practically bulge out of his head.

“Yeah, why not.”

“I’ll be right back,” Hyuck promises, nearly tripping over himself to run to the door.

He’s an odd one, but you kind of love it.

Six:

Hyuck’s not one for dates, but there’s something very comfortable about a stay-at-home sort of situation. The two of you are used to each other’s company, and the ease that Hyuck feels isn’t something he’s experienced with any other girl in a very long time.

In some ways, this reformed fuck boy is a touch obsessed with you.

Part of him wonders if it’s the joy of the chase- after all, he’s never interacted with a girl this long and not weasled his way into her pants. However, another part of Donghyuck knows his sexual attraction to you isn’t the main drive behind this connection.

There’s just something about you that he clicks with on a deep level.

He loves your whole art thing and he loves how kind and peaceful you are too.

“You know, you’re different from most of the girls I’ve gone out with,” Hyuck muses.

“Yeah, how so?”

“Well, usually I date within the industry, you know, servers, expo girls, that sort of thing. They’re all very… I don’t know, at work they’re extroverted. They always know what to say, but sometimes in the past, I’ve wondered if it’s all an act, and it’s made it hard for me to trust them, hard for me to see them as any more than flings.”

“That sounds like a you problem, Hyuck,” you giggle. “If you have trust issues, you have to own that, you can’t blame it on the women you’ve dated who didn’t contribute to the original wound that developed into a mistrust of girls.”

Hyuck sits with your words for a moment.

“Also… I used to be a server, so are you saying you don’t trust me?”

His eyes snap toward you in shock. “Really?”

“Just for a bit,” you shrug. “You’d be surprised how many people take a stint at serving, especially when they’re going through uni.”

“I guess that’s where your charm comes from,” Hyuck says, swallowing thickly. “Bet you made big tips.”

You laugh, and the way your face lights up makes Hyuck’s chest feel tight.

The sound wakes up Fresco, who has been sleeping for most of your date. The kitten yawns obnoxiously, stretching out and making biscuits against your leg.

“I’ve done alright for myself,” you muse, petting the kitten lovingly. “Which, speaking of, I think it’s about time to call it for the night. I’ve got to wake up early and finish a commission that I’ve been pushing off.”

“Right, yeah.” Hyuck shakes his head to snap himself out of the daze he’s in. “I’ll take Fresco and give you some room for your beauty sleep.”

He reaches for the kitten, who cuddles up against his chest, purring loudly as Hyuck makes his way to the door, where Hyuck stops. He turns to you, licking his lips.

“That was fun.”

“It’s usually fun with you,” you agree.

“Can I… do you mind, I mean-”

“You can kiss me, Hyuck,” you laugh, reading his mind and making him even more flustered- which is odd, because Hyuck never gets flustered.

He swallows the lump in his throat, leaning forward. You close the distance, cupping his face so he can press his lips to yours.

Hyuck melts into the kiss, but he’s also aware of the kitten purring diligently between your chests. You’re both careful not to squish the small creature, and as much as Hyuck wants to kiss you stupid, he holds back. He gets the sense you’re also restricting yourself, and it’s all Hyuck can think about as he heads home.

He could taste the passion on you, and it’s a temptation unlike any other, a need left unsatiated due to circumstance.

Seven:

“You seem eager to get out of here,” Mark notes as Hyuck hurries with his closing duties.

“Gotta get home to see my cat and my neighbor.”

“Your neighbor, you mean the cute girl next door who you somehow talked into taking care of the stray kitten you found.”

Hyuck rolls his eyes. “It’s a dual partnership sort of thing, we both love Fresco.”

“Dual partnership,” Mark mutters. “Dude, are you like… dating this chick?”

Now Hyuck turns to look at Mark, and it takes him a second, but then he simply blurts it out, “You know what, yeah! I am dating this chick! We have a whole ass child together.”

“Your kitten is not a child,” Mark groans.

“He cock blocks like one.”

Mark immediately grimaces. “Jesus, I did not need to hear that.”

Eight:

It feels like now that you’ve kissed Hyuck, some invisible door has been opened in regard to your relationship. If he’d been tiptoeing around you before, now, he’s uninhibited. He shows up at your place with a bouquet of flowers, and without a second thought, you invite him into your apartment to watch a show while Fresco naps.

While this is only officially date number two, it feels like you’ve had a lot of dates- the two of you have been spending many evenings together when Hyuck picks up Fresco after work, it’s just now, these ‘hangouts’ have a more specific purpose or designation.

You’re interested in Donghyuck, and your opinion of him has changed drastically in two weeks.

When you first met him in the elevator, you’d thought he was nothing more than some fuckboy line chef. But now, you see a deeper side of him.

He’s thoughtful and caring, a little chaotic in the best way, but willing to calm down and match your pace.

And to top it all off, he’s hot as fuck.

God, you pour so much of yourself into your art that you haven’t really left room for a relationship in a long time. There’s a convenience to Hyuck, given that he’s your neighbor, but this whole blossoming relationship isn’t just founded on proximity.

The cornerstone of all of this is Fresco, if you’re being honest with yourself.

Fresco, the little cat that Hyuck brought into your life because he knew you would open your heart for it. He knew that together, the two of you would be able to take care of this sweet kitten and give him a good life. Existing as something like strangers, Hyuck had been able to see your caring soul, even if you’d been blinded to his kindred heart.

You’ve already ripped the bandaid off with a kiss, and when Hyuck notices you staring at his mouth, he shifts closer.

“Hi,” he grins.

“Hi, yourself,” you giggle.

You watch him swallow a lump in his throat, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then up again. “I’m hoping that kiss wasn’t a one-time thing.”

“It wasn’t,” you assure him. “I’m just not used to dating, and making a move has never been my fortè.”

“Then I can make all the moves,” Hyuck chuckles. “We can go as slow or as fast as you want.”

“I think you know what I want right now.”

Hyuck’s grin widens. “For a girl who doesn’t make moves, that was a pretty sexy move you just made.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Hyuck can only laugh as he leans forward, cupping your cheek and bringing his lips to your own.

You grab at his shoulders, trying to shift closer- but Fresco is asleep between the two of you, so there’s only so much room to move.

The kiss turns heated, with Hyuck’s tongue swiping your bottom lip, and you can’t help the moan that escapes you.

He feels so good, and the way his hand cups your cheek- there’s something dominant about it. Hyuck’s clearly confident, and from the way he kisses, he has every right to be.

You’re drunk from just a bit of kissing, and you can only imagine what full-on sex with this man would be like-

A loud meow makes you jump, and Hyuck lets go of you with a sigh. Both of you look down at Fresco, who’s now awake, and as rambunctious as ever as he begins to make softies on Hyuck’s thigh.

“Cock block,” Hyuck groans, but he begins to pet the small kitten all the same.

You laugh a little, releasing a sigh as you try to calm your racing heart. Maybe you’d needed an interruption because you were about ten seconds from ripping Hyuck’s clothes off, and maybe, just maybe, you should give things with him just a little more time.

You’re horny after a long period without a relationship, and you want to be sure Hyuck’s right for you before you jump into something with your neighbor, after all, not every romp with the boy next door ends happily, and you very much like this living tension free in this building.

Nine:

It’s been a week of making out and getting interrupted by Fresco.

Tonight, you’re in the little studio room. You’re on the couch sipping wine while Hyuck uses a feather-string toy to tire out the naughty kitten.

It’s been an hour of playing, and you’re shocked such a tiny animal has so much energy, but you can see it dwindling.

“Come on, Fresco, don’t you want a nap?” Hyuck groans, lying on the ground while he flicks the feathered toy here and there for the tiny kitten.

You can’t help but laugh at his antics. At this point, Hyuck looks more tired than Fresco does, but that’s what happens when he works a nine-hour shift. He’d told you when he arrived that the restaurant was busy today, something about a walk-in twenty top just as happy hour started, and the longest order of appetizers he’s ever seen.

You’re thankful when Fresco finally yawns, and Hyuck practically jumps for joy, picking up his kitten and carrying him to the little bed you’d bought. Hyuck sets Fresco down on the green pillowy fabric, and the kitten immediately stretches, letting out a sigh.

You begin to pet Fresco as Hyuck lets out a sigh, collapsing on the couch and reaching for his beer.

“Who knew having a kitten would be like having a baby.”

“To be honest, babies might be easier,” you joke, making Hyuck laugh.

“Do you want kids?” he asks, shifting the tone rather suddenly.

“Uh… I don’t know, do you?”

Hyuck shrugs. “I guess it depends on the girl I end up with. I would be happy with kids, but I’d be just as happy with two cats and a dog, you know?”

“Two cats and a dog?” You cock a brow. “When did you come up with that specific of a dynamic?”

“Well, I figure, cats like company. Fresco would be easier to take care of if he had a playmate, you know? And I like dogs, but if we have more than one dog, then it might overpower Fresco and the other cat. So I feel like, Fresco, another cat, and maybe a cat-sized dog would be perfect.”

“I never pictured you as a small dog kind of guy.”

“Well, weiner dogs are cute as fuck, I don’t know what to tell you.”

You laugh as you imagine this perfect little life dynamic that Hyuck has clearly spent time thinking about.

“You’d have to find a different apartment to live in,” you muse.

“That’s doable,” Hyuck shrugs. “You’ve got this whole one-bedroom, den, and office space set up, but I’m in a bachelor suite right now. If you and I end up dating for a while, we’d have to find a bigger place.”

“You’ve been thinking a lot about the future, huh?”

“I’m a father now,” Hyuck jokes, petting Fresco, “I need to be thinking ahead.”

You stare at this pretty man, this man who had walked into your life only a month ago like a sudden storm. You’d initially seen him as a type of chaos, but he’s calmed down considerably. He’s a reliable, nurturing person, and now, the type of man who thinks about the future instead of just taking things as they come.

You like that he has plans, plans that seem to include you. This isn’t just a short-term thing to him, and that knowledge has your throat feeling tight.

Looking down at Fresco, you realize he’s asleep. “Come on,” you whisper, “let's move to the kitchen.”

Hyuck doesn’t question you as you both stand, and you exit your small office studio area, carefully closing the door behind you.

In the kitchen, you set your wine glass down before turning to Hyuck.

“How long do you think Fresco will be sleeping for?” you ask.

Hyuck shrugs. “Could be an hour, could be ten minutes.”

You consider his words for a moment. “I get the feeling you can work with ten minutes.”

He stares at you blankly, and you see the second the lightbulb goes off in his brain. “I mean-” He clears his throat. “If you’re up for that, I could definitely- you know, I could take care of you in ten minutes-”

“Then let's not waste any more time,” you tell him, closing the distance to throw your arms around Hyuck’s shoulders. His lips press against yours immediately, his hands grabbing your hips to pull you incredibly close- this is the first time Fresco hasn’t been between the two of you, and it feels like heaven to have full-body contact like this.

God, his tongue is perfect as it strokes against your own, his fingers digging into your hips when you release a moan from the sensation.

“Your bedroom,” Hyuck whispers gruffly, and you can tell it’s taking all his control to not throw you over your kitchen counter right now.

“Come on,” you tell him grabbing his hand and leading him to your room. For good measure, you close the door, hoping two sound barriers will allow Fresco to sleep through all of this- you’re not sure what you’d do if he began to cry while Hyuck was balls deep inside of you, and you don’t want to find out, not now.

Hyuck’s lips are on yours again almost immediately, and you grab the front of his shirt, pulling him with you as you back up toward your bed. Your calves touch the mattress and you lower yourself down, keeping your mouths connected as you do so.

“Take your shirt off,” you command next, a little shocked that you feel confident enough to tell Hyuck what to do in a situation like this.

“Whatever you say, gorgeous,” Hyuck laughs, breaking the kiss so he can tear his shirt off.

Then he’s on top of you, and your legs are wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer as your lips clash passionately.

“Can I start undressing you?” he asks, mouth moving to your throat, where he licks at your skin and makes you gasp.

“Yeah, whatever you want,” you tell him, swallowing thickly and trying to center yourself.

His fingers find your shirt, and he slowly pulls it up. You help the process by lifting your arms, and the fabric is discarded. You’re in a cute lacey bra and silky shorts now, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been dressing extra cute this past week in the hopes that this would happen.

No, you’re fully prepared. You’d taken one of those horrific ‘full-body showers’ in the morning, and you’re thanking God that it wasn’t in vain.

“This is cute,” Hyuck tells you, mouth moving down to your chest as his hand cups your breast through the bra, squeezing gently.

“Thank you,” you gasp, loving the way it feels to be touched by him like this.

You’re a little surprised when his mouth moves down past your breasts to your abdomen, and he slinks down onto the floor as he begins to drag your shorts off.

It’s clear what his intention is, and it has your heart racing- you haven’t been eaten out in ages, and most men make the whole thing feel like a chore. Having Hyuck, who is clearly eager to get his mouth on your pussy without being told to… it’s super sexy, and you can feel yourself getting wet already.

“Ten minutes, right?” he jokes, looking up at you as he hooks his fingers in your panties. “I think I can work with that.”

You can’t even find the words within yourself to respond as he strips you bare from the waist down. His hands grab your thighs and he begins kissing up your legs, looking up at you to be sure you’re okay with this.

You nod at him, swallowing thickly in preparation.

“So wet already,” Hyuck muses. “Guess you’ve been wanting this for a while too.”

“Uh huh.” God, you feel so dumb, but he just makes you crazy- he takes your words away, and as he takes his first lick of your pussy, all you know is pleasure.

Your head falls back as a groan escapes you, your body immediately relaxing as he starts to eat you out.

He’s slow with it, taking his time to explore you. You get the sense that he’s listening to your responses, gauging what feels best.

His lips suction around your clit and you whimper, threading your fingers through his hair.

Hyuck switches between licking and sucking, testing different pressures until he finds the right one, and then you’re gasping, eyes clenched shut as pleasure begins to build even faster in the pit of your stomach.

“That feels so good,” you whimper, wanting to give him praise despite your current tongue-tied disposition.

Hyuck groans against your core, and the sound has your legs shaking. Your grip tightens in his hair, and from the way he reacts, you can tell he kind of likes the pain.

Fuck, he’s so sexy- you’ve never been this turned on before, and it helps you get to the edge faster than you can even fathom.

“Shit, fuck, Hyuck-” you groan, eyes clenching shut again as your stomach muscles tense incredibly tight.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pull away from your pussy for even a moment, but a new vigor erupts through him, and that’s all you need as confirmation that he wants you to cum.

A few more licks, a few more sucks, and a gasp escapes you, your muscles clenching right before the release that rockets through your entire body.

Your core is throbbing, pulsing with pleasure that overwhelms you in the best possible way.

Sounds of pleasure are escaping you with no regard to being too loud- your mind is blank except for the orgasm Hyuck has just provided, and he eats you out through the entire thing until your thighs are shaking and you can’t take it anymore.

He pulls away, and you can practically hear him licking his lips.

“I’ll grab a condom,” he tells you.

Although you’re on birth control to manage your period, this is a man you’ve never slept with before, a man who hasn’t discussed exclusivity, and more importantly, a man who’s admitted to being a fuckboy in the past.

You stay quiet as Hyuck pulls his wallet out of his pants, retrieving a condom.

Then, Hyuck pushes the fabric of his jeans down, exposing himself fully to you.

You can’t help the way you begin to salivate.

His cock is thick, and it’s a decent length too. Your best friend has referred to this type of cock as ‘boyfriend dick’ before, meaning the type that’s big enough to satisfy, but not so big that it leaves you feeling wrecked.

You undo your bra, joining Hyuck in full nudity before you reposition on your bed, moving up so you can rest on the pillows.

He rolls the condom onto his cock, not whining one word of protest about wearing it- in fact, you hadn’t even asked him to, he’d just taken matters into his own hand to practice safe sex for your first time.

You kind of love this.

He’s definitely turned your opinion on him right around- this is not the man you thought he was, and the man he is… well, he’s so much better than you could have imagined.

“Okay,” Hyuck whispers as he finishes with the condom, looking up at you. “You good for this?”

“Yes, please.” You open your arms for him, beckoning him onto the bed.

He joins you, and your legs wrap around his hips, your lips meeting his own.

He kisses you deeply, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, but it’s not unpleasant. He groans against your mouth and you thread your fingers through his hair tugging gently.

Hyuck is grinding down against your core, and it feels amazing to have slight stimulus on your clit after an orgasm, but your inner walls are screaming for attention, and soon, you’re reaching between your bodies to grab his cock.

“Ten minutes, remember?” you laugh.

“Fuck, I got distracted.” He presses his forehead against yours, looking down at where you’re guiding his tip to your entrance.

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “Just focus now, I got to cum, so I want you to cum too.”

Hyuck moans at your words, and you slip the tip of his cock inside of you, making you groan too.

He smashes his lips to yours again, kissing you eagerly as he sinks into your core. He goes slowly, allowing your body to adjust, and once he’s fully inside of you, he pauses so you can both moan from the sensation.

“You feel so good,” he tells you, his breath hot along your throat as he moves to press kisses there.

“You too,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “You can move.”

“Okay, gorgeous.” He swallows thickly. “I’ve got you.”

Then he begins to fuck you. As was his pace when he entered you, Hyuck is careful not to start at a hundred percent. He builds tempo comfortably, and your moaning urges him on until he’s fucking you so hard that the bed is shaking.

You grasp his shoulders roughly, whimpering as he kisses your throat, paying attention to your sweet spot. Each lick of your neck has your body tingling, your pussy getting wetter and wetter as he rails into you.

Your nipples feel incredibly sensitive too, pushed up against his chest. Each rock of his body is a sensation against all your most important erogenous zones, and it has you going crazy.

As it was with him eating you out, your mind is blank as Hyuck fucks you, and you kind of love it.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking perfect,” Hyuck groans.

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers as he presses it to the bed as an anchor, and then his lips meet yours again.

It feels so intimate to be fucking like this, and it makes things even more pleasurable.

You can feel the pressure building in the pit of your stomach again, can feel your core beginning to tighten around him-

“Are you gonna cum again for me?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m close,” you whimper.

“When you cum, I cum,” Hyuck tells you, pressing his lips to yours so you can’t disagree.

He fucks you even harder, and each drag of his hips has your clit being stimulated too, which is tightening the coil in your abdomen even more-

You begin to gasp against his lips, getting closer and closer until you explode for a second time, your pussy clamping down on Hyuck like a vice.

“Fuck!” He pulls away from your lips, moving to bury his face against your throat. You can tell your orgasm has triggered his own from the way he’s panting, his thrusts faltering ever so slightly- you’re pretty sure he’s doing his best to fuck you through your high, despite the fact that this might be overstimulating for him.

Maybe he likes a bit of overstimulation, as he likes the pain that comes from pulling on his hair. Regardless, he fucks you through it until you’re both gasping messes.

Then, as you lay there for a moment, you hear a meow.

You and Hyuck both break out into laughter, and you kiss his cheek. “You can go clean up in the bathroom, I’ll deal with Fresco.”

“Can I stay here tonight?” Hyuck asks. “You know, cuddle?”

“You and Fresco can both stay,” you assure him.

“The first of many sleepovers,” Hyuck tells you, standing up with a groan. “I like you a lot.”

You can sense there’s a deeper emotion behind his words, but it’s still too early to be deep diving into any feelings more serious than ‘liking’ each other, so with a nod and smile, you agree. “I like you too.”

And for now, that’s all you need to say.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! We love men and kittens!

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!

🔮 preview. You feel closer to this man than you’ve ever felt to anyone in your life, and warmth spreads from your chest at the notion of having a forever love like this.

cw/ tw.Unprotected sex, oral, blow job, hand job, pussy eating, sixty-nine, foreplay, grinding, nipple worship, overstimulation, Hyuck is a little on the rough side, multiple reader orgasms, size kink, fucking quietly/with a hand over your mouth, slight breath control/sensory deprivation, etc… I petnames. (hers) gorgeous.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 130

🌙 starring. Donghyuck x afab!Reader

bonus

It’s been six months of hiding Fresco, and three near misses with your building manager, so when Hyuck shows you a pet-friendly apartment he’s found online, you jump at the chance to view it.

“This is so much bigger than your space,” Hyuck muses as you do the walk-through. “And look, this room has better light for your paintings!”

You can see him imagining himself here, and it warms your heart.

“Are you ready for this next step?” you ask, pulling Hyuck to the side to have a heart-to-heart.

“I’ve been ready to move in with you for months,” he tells you, hands falling onto your hips.

“This is a big change,” you remind him.

“But it’s good, for us, for Fresco- and the lease doesn’t say anything about the amount of animals either.”

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general taglist

@gotshinct - @subhyuck - @fraechan - @learnthisfeeling

@runahways - @d-abin - @milkteade - @woogyuhae

@anothershorthuman - @nihxxy - @vantxx95 - @bangshii

@poutypoutybin - @notbeforelong - @creepybakeoven

@ninetechculture - @yungiland - @suhsfam - @binchangf

@meowniee - @learnthisfeeling - @gigilame - @cumtrov3rsy

@mocha000 - @darthlunaa - @just-here-to-read-01 - @shiningnono

@lovelyhan - @grilledbananas - @sourkimchi

And thank you to those who interacted with the teaser :) 30

@ohmysion - @audreybub - @freesmbdy134 - @axo-l0tl

@leejenostan - @amazinggraxia - @pandabur666 - @lunacrtk

@imnotrosiee - @mingcouper - @tenjyucat - @phatjuicy420

@xjxnox - @fabletics-corp2012 - @tattedhyun - @kjwoozz

@bobathi - @theworld-accordingtocasey - @szakias - @sunflowerhc

#haechan #haechan smut #lee donghyuck #lee donghyuck smut #lee haechan #lee haechan smut #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #haechan nct #nct haechan #nct haechan smut #haechan nct smut

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corkinavoid · 1 year ago

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DPxDC Shit Fae!Danny Has Said While Living With Waynes

Danny, making a 'got your nose' gesture: Hey Jason, look, I've got your name!

Red Hood, who suddenly can't remember his own name: What the fuck

Bruce, in a tired dad voice: Danny, please, we talked about this, return your brother's name back

Danny: Oh, come on, it's not like he even uses it

Jason, thankfully remembering his name: And I repeat, what the f u c k

Steph, at dinner: I was wondering, what do faeries even eat normally? Like, flowers and stuff?

Danny, his eyes two black voids inside his eyesockets: The souls of the innocent

Steph: So that's a 'no' on the flowers?

Danny, back to normal and shoving a bagel in his mouth: I mean, I can, but would you want to stay on the crumbs-only diet when you are in a 5-star Michelin restaurant?

Tim: It's actually 3-star. Michelin rating system only has three stars, not five.

Dick: Are you saying that people are basically food joints for Fae?

Damian, at Constantine: It would do you well to choose your wording better when speaking to fair folk-

Danny, very much a fair folk, appearing out of thin air in the Cave: Yolo, s'up bitches, guess who's back in town!

Damian: -even when they do not necessarily do so themselves.

Constantine, looking between them: Are you sure you're the human and he is the changeling?

Tim, 46 hours of no sleep: Hey, if you can take a name from someone, does it mean you can take, like, other things that have no real shape or form?

Danny: Names do have shape and form, they even have taste. Yours is like a ping-pong ball made out of really dense cotton candy with banana-caramel flavor.

Tim, losing his touch with reality: Dense banana cotton candy...

Danny: By the way, I know you wanted to ask me if I could take your need to sleep from you, and theoretically, the answer is yes.

Tim, his whisper full of hope: ...will you?..

Danny: No. Either go to sleep or keep suffering. I'm not here to make your life easier.

Danny, after a half-an-hour rant on the Fae customs and traditions: -and Fae never tell the truth, but also never lie. It's a work of art, you know, say what you want but never in a way that makes sense.

Jason: So Fae just like to fuck with people.

Danny, looking him in the eyes, smiling and winking: Sure, humans are very fuckable.

Bruce, trying very hard not to pay attention to this: Can you make an example?

Danny: Sure. I lied.

Bruce: Where?

Danny: :)

Bruce, feeling like he is about to lose his mind: W h e r e ?

Alfred, right after he heard Dick's muffled screaming in the hallway: Young Master Danny, would you mind returning Master Dick his ability to talk in coherent sentences?

Danny, obediently standing up and walking out of the library: ...okay.

Bruce: How come he always listens to you?

Alfred: He knows what I will do if he doesn't.

Danny, returning to the library: He will change all the silverware to iron-ware. As well as the doorknobs and hairbrushes and lightswitches and everything else.

Alfred: Did you fix Master Dick's shoes?

Danny: I did. But I still think that making all of his shoes left ones was funny.

Alfred: Indeed, it was.

| <-prev | next-> |

There's also a fic now.

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dc x dp #batfam #fae rules #fae #tim drake #bruce wayne #damian wayne #jason todd #john constantine #changelings #danny is a little shit #bruce is a tired dad #am i going to write a fic with this au soneday #maybe #dialogue prompt #feel free to add on #cork prompts

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thatiranianphantom · 2 years ago

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Oh god, I don't think I can watch this.

It'll make me too mad in multiple ways, as someone who has personally experienced the Ugandan healthcare system and many, many missionaries, and knows that nuance dies on the internet.

But if you're curious, this is a pretty balanced article about the whole situation.

#movies #savior complex #people have legit accused me of defending this girl #let's be clear I AM NOT #what she did was not defensible #you should NEVER be performing medical procedures without training #But I have seen malnutrition in uganda #Her center's mortality rate was 10% reportedly #if you think that's horrifying you are absolutely correct #it is horrifying and we should immediately seek to change that #but when government hospital's mortality rate for malnutrition is about 25%#It says something #But that's the issue isn't it for this and for people like murphslife on tiktok #You are only bandaiding a larger issue #We can't JUST fix the healthcare system #the systems are too interconnected #We can't overhaul healthcare without also having to overhaul all the other systems #I'm talking labor #education #infrastructure #government #social assistance #Literally everything #Things cannot be fixed in a two minute tiktok video of people crying and them giving them a house or something #development doesn't work like that!#Gonna stop now before I write my whole dissertation in tags

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scriptermubarak · 2 years ago

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What is the interest rate system for card loans? Easy-to-understand explanation of calculation methods and ways to reduce interest

card loans interest system: Many people may consider using a credit card loan when they need a large sum of money to pay for ceremonial occasions, illness, injury, or other medical expenses. However, using a card loan means taking out a loan, so it is no wonder that you feel reluctant to use it without knowing the details. “What is the interest rate on a card loan?” “What can I do to reduce…

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#Annual Percentage Rate (APR)#Borrowing costs #Compound interest on card loans #Credit card APR #Credit card interest calculation #Credit card interest rate #Finance charges #Fixed vs. variable interest rates #Interest rate system #Managing card loan interest

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mariasont · 1 month ago

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GLUE MYSELF SHUT

it starts with ice on your tongue and ends with spencer trying not to picture what else his mouth might be good at

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, not explicit smut but it's suggestive, post prison spencer, fem reader, fluff, reader has an oral fixation, talk of alcohol, alcohol consumption (wine), spencer having some semi super-naughty thoughts, he’s obsessed with her lips, he’s so down bad it’s not even funny. except it is. i find it hilarious. i feel like the ending was weird but i stared at it for like 6 business days and couldn’t figure out how to fix it so #word wc: 1.6k request: here

The autonomic nervous system, when overengaged, compulsively chases external release valves. Little, repetitive distractions employed to dissipate internal pressure. Cognitive behavior theory identifies these as primitive anxiety-management strategies. Lip-biting, skin-picking, hair-twisting.

For you, the chosen method consists of timed intervals involving ice cubes, precisely fourteen minutes apart. Pinching it between cautious fingertips, rolling it contemplatively, savoring the brief burst of cold against skin.

He watches, a reluctant voyeur to the slow meltwater streams trickling along your fingers in mercury rivulets, until finally disappearing past parted lips. His eyes shutter sideways, hurriedly silencing the part of his brain that longs to quantify the thaw rate versus thermal conduction properties of ice on the surface of your tongue.

You’re studying a painting in the corner of the restaurant — abstract oils bleeding into one another in nebulous fashion behind Emily’s shoulder. Spencer finds himself studying you, an equally abstract form of art. You’re a fan of art. He’s seen your tendency to pause at gallery plaques, eyes tracing curatorial notes while your fingers twitch involuntarily, as though fighting the impulse to physically touch the described textures.

He isn’t much different at this moment.

You’re never exacting, never critical of the things you see. You’re easy to please in the purest sense, content to absorb shapes and colors simply because they exist, acknowledging beautiful things without demanding it prove itself worthy.

It makes him wonder, morbidly, if you’re easy to please in other ways.

Do you make noises when someone kisses you properly? Would your thighs tremble if they whispered how lovely you were, over and over again? Could you come from just a few well-placed touches?

He knows how polymers behave under heat. He wants to know if you’re the same.

He shouldn’t be indulging these thoughts. He’s repeated the admonition several times already, a silent internal chant that does nothing to stem the tide because here you are, unknowingly feeding it.

Your lips gleam with condensation, a lone droplet suspended just above your mouth, a tiny, inadvertent physics demonstration awaiting disruption.

His thumb tingles impulsively, a raw, tactile curiosity urging him to test the exact point at which tension collapses, to feel moisture yield to pressure.

He blinks hard, almost violently, screwing his eyelids shut in an effort to sever the treacherous visual connection tethering him precariously to your mouth. His gaze then drops like ballast to the nearest neutral object — his plate, where a roasted carrot glares back up at him with bland contempt.

Spencer coughs into a closed fist, a pathetic smokescreen for the heat scalding up his throat, licking at his ears like flame-starved oxygen.

With determined resolve, he refocuses, or at least pretends to, zeroing in on Rossi’s dramatic discourse about the fermentation processes and barrel chemistry. Wine science, he assures himself, is safe, dry, deeply unsexy. Unlike you. Unlike the mental imagery of your mouth encircled around other, less work-appropriate things.

These team dinners are, in most cases, a slow bleed. A sensory minefield dressed in linen napkins and over-loud laughter. Spencer doesn’t resent the company, he loves them, every single one, but the sound never stops, the social current too nonlinear to keep up with.

Noise and light and movement pile upon each other until his nervous system blinks seven different shades of red.

So yeah, usually, he counts minutes and builds exit strategies.

But tonight, that never happens. There’s no grit behind his eyes, no anticipatory urge for flight. Instead, there’s only a strange sense of equilibrium and the certainty that it begins and ends with you.

Every shy laugh you offer at Morgan’s jokes, every awkward tuck of your hair behind your ear when attention veers too close to you, every furtive glance his way like you’re reassuring yourself he hasn’t dematerialized between breaths.

He notices it all. Worse, he likes it. Relishes it in a way that feels almost parasitic when he dares to think about it too long.

You inch closer, lowering your voice to be aimed at him. “Do you think Rossi would be crushed if he found out I genuinely can’t taste the difference between this and, like, Welch’s?”

Spencer bites back an immediate grin, angling himself toward you until the barest fraction of space remains between your shoulders.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“So that’s a yes, then?”

“Pretty much.” He slides his glass your way. “Here, try this one. Rossi said it’s supposed to have subtle oak notes. I think that’s just the polite way of saying it doesn’t feel like lighter fluid.”

You accept his glass, fingertips brushing his as you take it.

Spencer’s eyes cling to your mouth as you sip, lips parting over the same place his touched, sealing over it perfectly like you were made to erase him and replace him in one motion.

When you pull back, the wine stains your lips in a dark, sultry crimson. He imagines pressing his mouth to yours until the color smears, until it becomes something new altogether — a hue birthed from shared breaths and synchronized heartbeats. He wonders what saturation your mouth would take on if it were shaped around his name.

Spencer recognizes that he might be one errant breath away from ruin.

There are other people here, he reminds himself. Polite company. His colleagues, no less, who are presumably not here to watch him experience this kind of deranged attention he’s directing toward you. He’s certain he must be blushing, overheating, or having a close, conversational strow. Each scenario feels equally plausible, equally shameful, equally likely to leave him socially incapacitated.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised in patient confusion. Three long, interminable seconds crawl by before Spencer realizes you’re awaiting a response.

Shit.

“What?” he blurts, louder than intended.

“I said I don’t think I have the palate for this one. Kind of tastes like overpriced raisins.”

Spencer bobs his head eagerly. “Right. Yeah. No, I — agree.”

Your smile is soft but searching as you seem to follow his thought process and come up short. Spencer’s heart kicks harder in his chest. He fumbles for normalcy and overshoots.

“The raisin flavor, it’s probably residual sugar. Or the grape variety, certain grapes naturally have that characteristic. Sometimes they’re intentionally allowed to over ripen, concentrating sugars. Could also be oxidation. Or, possibly, microbial spoilage, though that sounds bad, it’s usually done on purpose, beneficial spoilage. Controlled spoilage.”

“What kind of grapes do they use for that, then?” Your voice is tentative, uncertain, as though worried the question might sound overly simplistic.

It’s not. It’s absolutely fine, ideal, even. Except Spencer’s concentration evaporates instantly when your tongue flicks gently across your lower lip, leaving behind a glossy sheen.

Suddenly, grapes don’t exist. Language doesn’t exist. Spencer himself might barely exist.

“Usually Muscat or Zinfandel,” he manages at last, “They, uh, leave them on the vine longer to intensify sweetness.”

You laugh under your breath, pushing the stem of the glass back toward him. “Makes sense, though I might not be the best judge. My mom used to say that anything that didn’t taste like peach schnapps wasn’t worth the bottle.”

Spencer’s mouth opens, poised to respond, but your hand is already in motion, fingers dipping into your glass for another cube of ice. He watches as your thumb gently glides over its edges. Checking for symmetry, perhaps. You bring it to your mouth and he doesn’t blink, can’t. There’s a fleeting glimpse of pink tongue against transparent ice, the slight hollowing of your cheeks.

All sentence structure evaporates, replaced by a pounding rush of blood to his temples and other less cooperative places.

“That’s…” he rasps, then clears his throat. “That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“Your um. Your mom’s schnapps rule.”

“Oh.” You cock your head. “I always thought it was kinda trashy.”

“It’s not,” he says, too fast. “I’ve heard worse opinions about alcohol.”

“Yeah?” Your purse your lips and the ice shifts, creating a temporary distortion in the shape of your cheek. “Like what?”

Spencer watches the dent smooth out, watches how the overhead lights refract across your skin — warmer along the apple of your cheek, cooler where it softens into shadow near your jaw. A perfect gradient, like a masterwork in motion. A living chiaroscuro. Oil paintings where the subject glows not because of the paint, but because of its depth was coaxed out by patient and loving hands.

He wonders who has painted you in that light.

You mentioned your mother and he wants to know more. What was she like? Did she nurture your curiosity, or did she scold it? Was she tender, or tired? Did she sing while she cooked? Did she let you cry, or did she rush to clean it up?

And your father, was he there? Was he gentle? Did he hug you with both arms, or with silence? Did he make you feel small in the way children should, protected, or in the way they shouldn’t, invisible?

Spencer hopes, deeply, that they were kind. That you were someone’s favorite part of the day. That you grew up held, not just housed.

He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone romantically. Not seriously. He suspects he’d know, suspects there’d be signs. Someone waiting at the door. A name that surfaces too often.

But you probably have been with people before. Respectful ones, preferably.

“Like how some people can’t tell the difference between a five-hundred-dollar Bordeaux and… grape juice,” he finally says, quirking a brow. “Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Not everyone’s tongue works quite as well as yours, Doctor Reid.”

Spencer sees the instant when your brain catches up with your words, cheeks flooding with heat, eyes widening incrementally, mouth parting in a mortified ‘O’.

“I mean — not like that.” You quickly stumble forward, hands fluttering uselessly in your lap, voice pitched high. “Refined taste buds. Taste buds, I meant, not… not tongue in any other context.”

Your expression is a fascinating disaster, eyebrows drawn tight, lips flattened into a line like you’re hoping the pressure alone might rewind time and vacuum every syllable back into your throat.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s imagination flickers to life, promptly supplying him with an intensely distracting scenario involving precisely how well his tongue works when applied directly to you.

“Right. Taste buds,” he echoes, voice two octaves higher than usual. “I knew what you meant.”

Except he hadn’t, not immediately. His heartbeat already sprinting ahead of him, generously pumping oxygen to regions he’d strongly prefer remain switched off. He briefly considers explaining the basis of verbal slips — the Freudian slip theory, perhaps — but decides against it.

Better to pretend that his mind hasn’t already replayed your words more times than strictly necessary.

One day he’ll show you.

shy reader is part of a stand-alone series! you can read more here!

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

#🌺 maria writes #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x shy!reader #post prison!spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid self insert #reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid fluff

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wispitty · 2 months ago

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(short reacts) | "you kiss him when he's having a bad day" + one piece men

summary: he's tense. tired. frustrated. on the verge of biting someone’s head off. so you come in and give him a lil forehead kiss.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

He’s behind his desk. Rings off. Fingers clenched. Jaw tight.

Everyone’s been walking on eggshells.

You stroll in, quietly set a folder down, and without a word…

Lean in. Kiss his forehead.

He freezes.

Eyes widen—barely.

You smile, soft and warm, and whisper:

“You’re doing more than enough. I'm proud of you.”

Then you walk away.

He stares at the empty doorway like you just shut his entire system down.

A long pause.

And then—

“...God fucking damn it.”

MIHAWK

He’s staring out the window, jaw clenched, barely breathing.

You walk in. No preamble.

Stand on your toes, gently lift your hand to his cheek—and kiss his forehead.

His eyes close.

You brush your fingers through his hair once and murmur:

“Even the sharpest of swords need rest.”

And then you leave.

He doesn’t move for several minutes.

Just breathes.

Softer than before.

MARCO

He’s leaning over reports, face in his hand, feathers dull, stress in his shoulders.

You step in. Gently put a cup of tea by his elbow.

Then kiss his forehead.

He looks up, startled.

You smile.

“Take five, flamebird.”

And you’re gone.

He exhales.

And you hear him mumble:

“I’d take forever if it meant more of that.”

ACE

He’s pacing. Huffing. Throwing little sparks.

And the air around him is hot.

You sneak up behind him, tug gently on his wrist.

“What?!”

You stand on your tiptoes and kiss his forehead.

He goes silent.

You smile.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore, remember that.”

Then you vanish down the hallway, humming.

He stands there with both hands on his face, vibrating.

“I’m not gonna cry. I’m not gonna fucking cry. I—”

“—FUCK, man.”

SHANKS

He’s unusually quiet. Nursing a bottle. Staring at the night sky.

You walk up to him, slide a little fruit plate in front of him, and tilt his chin up.

He blinks.

You kiss his forehead.

“All these stars and you’re still the brightest light in the sea, know that?”

You ruffle his hair and stroll away like it was nothing.

He leans back in his chair and groans dramatically like it didn't go straight through his soul.

Mutters:

“God fucking help me, I'm gonna marry her at this rate.”

LAW

He’s hunched at his desk. Frustrated. Cold.

You step in, softly touch his shoulder, and when he glances up—

You kiss his forehead.

“You don’t have to fix the world alone.”

And you’re gone.

He stares blankly at the door.

Then slowly leans forward, resting his forehead on the desk like:

“I am not built for this.”

CORAZON

He’s frowning over maps. Hands shaking slightly.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns.

You kiss his forehead. Brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you for always protecting us.”

You squeeze his hand and walk away.

He sits there in stunned silence.

Then tugs his collar over his face and weeps softly into it for the next ten minutes.

Why is it that you always bring out the softness in him so easily?

#one piece reacts #sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #shanks x reader #shanks #marco the phoenix #marco x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #corazon x reader #corazon #ace x reader #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #donquixote rosinante #rosinante x reader

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shrimp1y · 2 years ago

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"wrio isn't a cop hes a king"

Can someone with brains please please PLEASE talk about the disgusting portrayal of cops, crime, court proceedings, justice system and prison incarceration in genshin impact's fontaine update because I cannot SIT HERE and see people completely destroy their brain cells just so they could play a mediocre game and make some fictional men fuck in their mind

I'm deadass surprised there isn't more people talking about it??? I'm honestly so ??? It's literally presenting prison labour as a good thing. Wriothesley, the prison administrator, got rich off of making his inmates build police robots for the state AND HE'S PRAISED FOR IT. AND THEY'RE PAID IN COUPONS THAT CAN ONLY BE USED IN JAIL. HE WAS REWARDED FOR IT WITH HIS DUKE STATUS.

The fact that the fucking MC's mascot was like "oh the prisoners get one free meal a day? you're making life too good down here what if no one wants to leave :(" what in the bullshit. What in the. There's also a fighting ring in the prison, by the way, and you can bet on it with your coupons you just can't bet on both fighters.

The. This is a scene people think is hot. "But that's a bad guy!" THAT'S HOW THE NARRATIVE IS WRITTEN. THEY ARE ALWAYS THE BAD GUY IN FICTION. THAT'S HOW COPAGANDA WORKS, they make you think people in power can just beat the shit outta anyone and of course the person deserves it because they are clearly always the bad guys! And the people in power are always right! This is sarcasm btw.

Neuvillette and the magic judgement machine are literally seen as undeniable justice ordained by magic and NO ONE KNOWS HOW IT WORKS. NEUVILLETTE HIMSELF HAS NO CLUE WHAT HE'S DOING HE'S ACTIVELY FIGURING SHIT OUT AS WE SPEAK. And yet it's what sends people to The Worst Most Dangerous Super Scary Prison Ever Where There's No Laws [but 1 meal a day's great /s].

"But he feels bad!" Genshin has repeatedly chosen to highlight the pains and troubles of the oppressors [Eula] [Ei/Shogun] and there's literally never any repercussions for them aside from when they portray The Haterz clearly as villains or they turn it around and say "Well it was a misunderstanding all along! No one's to blame here!"

I'm not smart enough to go into details I'm just saying. This. needs to be talked about. I'm not telling you to stop the game bc Hyperfixations not really smth that can be controlled or whatever I get It I Got Back into the game when the first trailer dropped I drew neuvillette fanart and then everything just went downhill since then and I'm like why the fuck did I expect anything better than racist, pro cop dogshit from Mihoyo It needs to be talked about ESPECIALLY by people who still cares about it to critically. assess what the fuck you are absorbing because this shit isn't okay. This is literally paw patrol for weebs they just didn't call anyone a "cop"

PLEASE. TALK ABOUT IT.

#genshin impact #wriothesley #neuvillette #the fact that he parades around in handcuffs aside #scratching my head. erm. either way. guillotine #the only goal of this post is to get people thinking about it. i know genshin fans have no brains tho #like i said.#paw patrol for weebs #if ur a wrio fan getting hot flashes or whatever please do realize he's done the most dirty through the writing. because he was convicted.#as a child. and treated horrifically in prison. but because genshin don't actually want to make commentary on anything.#he's given no real development or complexity in the most Traumatic aspect of his history.#like i said. unfortunately I had my own interpretations of wriolette and especially wriothesley. it's bc when I see something bad i start t #fix them in my head and then i get attached to the superior version that i made up. but like if you don't see a problem #with the fact that 1) wriothesley was originally gonna be the darkest beige in fontaine. and hes the exconvict who #ends up being the warden. the narrative being written isnt a good one. his 'growth' isnt a good one. he was an abused and neglected child #he didn't need 'oh hes a convict but because of his exceptional skills and good perspective he's redeemed himself!' he needed fucking #social services and therapy. Do they even have education in the meropide. he was arrested as a child AGAIN LIKE. WHO TAUGHT HIM ECONOMICS.#even for a character people care about they'd rather suck genshin's dick than think more than a second about what's being spoonfed to them #'it wasn't shown as a good thing for him!' but it's writing a narrative that he 'succeeded' because he works hard and was smart about it n #because he wasn't angry and bitter about his position. because he never blamed or questioned the very system that failed him #these very same narrative are pitched against ex convicts. that they are only respectable if they don't complain and just Be Better despite #being given no support no education no capacity for growth. the fact that genshin talks more about wrio boxing his way to the top of the #prison hierarchy than even mention ONCE that he was given therapy or social support. or even give him a representative in court. no this ki #just showed up and knew he was going to jail the moment he woke up in the hospital bed. LIKE HOW ISNT HE PISSED. DOES HE THINK THAT WAS OKA #those affected by the actions of their oppressors in genshin are literally #never allowed to show anger or resentment and everyone who does are antagonist NPCs or brushed off as 'they misunderstood' like there's a #narrative being written here is that victims are only valid when they're 1) exceptional 2) not angry 3) has the inner peace of a fking sain #and it's always THEIR SOLE responsibility to get their lives figured out god forbid they show symptoms that bugs other people or complain #' if prison standard of living was better crime rates would increase!' guess who also says this irl about prison reform.#anyways. i dont really know that much abt prison reform and abolition but i know enough to tell this is bullshit. hence people with more br

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onedingo · 3 months ago

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info post about weapons used in mass shootings/attacks!!

!!!!!! informative content !!!!!!

index/foreword: Adam Lanza, Dylan Klebold, Alexandre Bissonnette, Robert Bowers, Patrick Crusius, Guilherme Taucci, Fabiano Kipper Mai, Dylann Roof

post with pictures/visual content

1. Adam Lanza - Bushmaster XM-15

The Bushmaster XM-15 is a civilian adaptation of the M16 combat rifle. In other words, it is very similar to the M16, but it has been modified for civilian use outside of military combat. It is a semi-automatic rifle, which means that one bullet comes out at a time each time the trigger is pulled.

It has a medium damage capacity and is used to hit light objects, but can be fatal to humans. The XM-15 generally uses .223 Remington or 5.56x45mm NATO ammunition. It does not have stopping power (the ability to incapacitate instantly), but it is enough to cause lethal damage, especially if combined with the ability to reload quickly and a high rate of fire, it increases the destruction. It can be filled with 10, 20 or 30-round magazines, but this depends on state legislation.

Very popular for its versatility, which allows for customization of sights etc. on the part of the bearer.

2. Dylan Klebold - TEC-9

The TEC-9 was one of the weapons that became most popular in the wake of the Columbine massacre in 1999, thanks to videos of Dylan Klebold practicing shooting, and the photo captured by the school's cafeteria camera showing Dylan holding his TEC-9.

The TEC-9 began to be produced in 1980, and is a relatively large semi-automatic pistol, but for civilian and mainly police use.

It has a 9x19mm Parabellum caliber, a type of caliber widely used in firearms that originated in the German Empire and still exists today! The gun has a simple design, with a long barrel and a grip that offers good stability, as well as being able to carry magazines with large quantities of shots, such as 32, 50 or 72 [shots]. The gun was so successful that it was modified, giving rise to models that are automatic.

3. Alexandre Bissonnette - Glock 17 9mm semi-automatic pistol

The Glock 17 has a 9x19mm caliber and is known for its effectiveness at medium distances and with less recoil. It is a very reliable weapon because it has a high safety system, which allows it to only fire the projectile when the trigger is fully pulled. The standard is to hold 17 cartridges, but it is possible to customize it to hold 33. It is light compared to other pistols and is widely used by civilians. It is a semi-automatic pistol. It is also famous for its high durability and its fixed sighting system.

4. Robert Bowers - AR-15 SP1

The AR-15 SP1 is the original model of the famous AR-15 semi-automatic rifle and began production in 1960. It has a light recoil, which allows successive and rapid firing depending on the skill of the handler. Its caliber is the .223 Remington and it has the possibility of using the 5.56x45mm NATO although it is not recommended to put a 5.56 in the .223 as it can misfire and damage the weapon. The AR-15 generally uses 20- or 30-round magazines, but with personal customizations the gun can hold up to 40 or 100 rounds, which makes it very deadly.

The material is lighter compared to other rifles, but quite resistant, and the barrel is relatively long, which allows for greater distance between the target and the shooter.

5. Patrick Crusius - WASR-10

The WASR-10 is a semi-automatic rifle with a 7.62x39mm cartridge. It has a detachable box magazine with a capacity of 30 rounds. It is a direct variation of the AK-47, which is automatic and was built by the Soviets.

The WASR-10 was mass-produced in Romania and exported to the United States. Being a semi-automatic rifle, unlike the AK-47 (which is a war weapon), the WASR-10 gained popularity as a more affordable weapon than an AK-47, but very similar to it. This semi-automatic rifle has the capacity for customizations and changes from the factory original, which generates excitement for gun enthusiasts. It is generally used for training and shooting practice, collection, hunting, self-defense and more.

6. Guilherme Taucci - 38 caliber revolver

I'll tell you a bit about this one before I talk about the gun.

Here in Brazil it is very difficult to obtain firearms, whether a pistol or a semi-automatic rifle. The legislation is very strict, as well as being illegal, and getting a gun legally is complicated. To get one illegally, most of the time you need to talk to corrupt police officers and people linked to the drug trade (who control the arms trade), and these people, although they do carry out attacks, don't carry out mass attacks on schools or anything like that, which increases the difficulty.

The 38 revolver has the .38 Special caliber, which is about 9mm. It is a repeating revolver, meaning that with each shot you have to rotate the cylinder of the revolver, which requires agility and speed, as was the case with Guilherme Taucci. It is light and has a light recoil, which makes it easy to handle. It's a reliable weapon. It has a low-pressure cartridge design. The .38 and revolvers in general can hold 5 to 6 shots

7. Fabiano Kipper Mai - Ninja Sword

The Brazilian-made melee weapon with a stainless steel blade is inspired by the model known as the “Red Guardian Ninja Sword”, produced in the United States.

The weapon chosen by Fabiano to commit the crimes is a model that resembles a ninja sword. According to a relative of the accused, the knife was bought on a large digital retail platform days before the action that caused the death of five people.

8. Dylann Roof - 45mm Glock 41

The Glock 41 is a semi-automatic pistol with a .45mm caliber, which is a high-impact caliber. It comes from a variation of the Glock 21, making it more susceptible to putting more cartridges inside and is a very popular weapon. It is relatively heavy, which can make it difficult to carry. This pistol has a capacity of 13 cartridges, and Dylann put in 17 cartridges.

#tccblr #teeceecee #tcc info #info post

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hattedhedgehog · 8 months ago

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My (spoiler-free) thoughts on Dragon Age: The Veilguard

The review embargo has lifted and I can officially say that I've played through Dragon Age: The Veilguard early!

Here are my spoiler-free thoughts and personal opinions on the overall gameplay experience:

Narrative:

Rook's dialogue and decisions impact SO MUCH of the game, and come into play later on. From companions remembering your beverage preferences, to whether someone you spared shows up later to help or harm you, it feels like the game is paying attention and that you matter.

The stakes are unbelievably high. The Evanuris are utterly terrifying villains, in ways that Corypheus wasn’t. You really feel the magnitude of their power on a personal level as well as a worldwide level.

Whatever your thoughts on him, Solas is FUN as a character. He’s fun to talk to, fun to talk strategy with, fun to rile up and verbally spar with and fun to grudgingly ally with. Now that he can drop his former act and appear to you as the Dread Wolf, and you get to see his memories, you and he team get to decide how to utilise his knowledge and how far your trust extends.

The setup and payoff of the story beats are absolutely superb. The emotional turmoil as a player of being ensnared by things that was foreshadowed earlier in the game is utterly exquisite. Every thread of the larger tapestry has been woven with so much love by the writing team, and every character’s arc tie into the larger story in interesting ways.

The characters feel like they have full lives outside of the player character. You frequently go exploring their home turf and can meet their friends and family. They interact with each other on their own and move about the Lighthouse to spend time together, leave notes for each other, and talk about each other even when the other isn’t there. The team feels like they all really care about each other as well as you.

You can tell what your approval rating is with characters, but if you want to romance them you have to put some thought into it. Interactions and world events besides the heart on the dialogue wheel influence their attraction to you.

Gameplay:

The combat is very engaging, and I enjoyed how unique all the enemies were.

Abilities in the skill tree can be refunded so you can redirect to a different specialization, which is really handy if you’re indecisive and overwhelmed at first (like I get when choosing abilities). Most companions can get healing abilities no matter what class, so you don’t have to worry about balancing your rogues/mages/warriors (most of the time).

Climbing, balancing on ledges, using ziplines and sliding down slopes made environments feel more immersive. Additionally I like how each companion has unique abilities that let them interact with the world (fixing mechanisms, breathing fire, summoning bridges from the Fade, etc), and learning their abilities alongside them helps you grow closer.

The wayfinder light makes everything feel streamlined, so it's way harder to get lost while exploring an area. I hardly had to look at the mini map at all, and usually I’m glued to it! This meant I could actually look around at the beautiful environments and appreciate how lively they were, even without NPCs.

The upgrade system is far less overwhelming than in Inquisition; there are a finite amount of weapons/armour/accessories to be found, which are designed for each specific character like in DA:O and DA:2. There's also no longer crafting from scratch. If you loot an item you already have, it automatically upgrades the single item rather than giving you duplicates.

You know that frustration of coming across higher-level armour that just isn’t as flattering as your current one? Not to worry, you can collect “appearances” which you can toggle on as the visual for the armour while still retaining the benefits of the original.

I cannot stress enough how simple and easy to use the inventory is. It's heavenly.

Using the shops of specific cities increases your reputation within those cities, which is a good incentive to explore and use the shops. I usually hate in-world shopping but here it was simple, and thinking about it tactically worked pretty well.

Quests sometimes reach a point where you can't continue at your current place in the story, and must return to in later acts. When re-exploring familiar areas, everything feeling big enough to be fresh with each visit, and new loot and codex entires appear.

Edit: something I forgot to mention. In character creator, you get to make your Inquisitor after you make Rook. The build menus are all the same, so manage your energy accordingly for doing it all again immediately after for your Inky. I spent an hour and a half building my Rook and wanted to get right to playing, and had to re-wire my brain a bit to be patient and keep going with the CC. (Seeing my Inquisitor with new graphics was awesome though).

A couple little things I appreciated:

The control sounds are very pleasing. From the whoosh of opening the combat wheel to the clinking of upgrades to the subtle whir of holding the decision button, they're a nice touch.

If companions are interrupted in conversation by combat, they resume it afterwards with a "what were you saying before?".

Photo mode is so fun to play with, and you can adjust blur/brightness/lens/depth within the scene. You can also toggle on and off the visibility of your Rook, your party, NPCs and enemies!

Assan learns new interaction tricks at the Lighthouse as the game goes on.

Nitpicks:

Overall I had an incredibly positive experience. The gripes I had were tiny things like:

I genuinely like the new art style of the game as a whole. However, the blurriness of some of the features in contrast with some elements being very crisp was distracting.

When trying to sell valuables for faction points without using Sell All, it takes quite a long time to count up all the individual sales, and it isn't a live counter. So it's kind of annoying if you get +3 points for each item you sell, need 150 points to get the next tier of items, and over 10K worth of valuables that you want to sell to other factions.

If you do lots of quests without returning to the Lighthouse often, occasionally companions at the Lighthouse will have dialogue pertaining to the quests you've just finished as if you haven't done them.

You can pet the dogs and cats in the cities, but Rook turns their back to the camera to do it and it blocks most of the action unless you rotate quickly.

Gender stuff:

I was incredibly moved that not only can Rook be trans/nonbinary in the character creator if you so choose, but they get options to feel differently about their identity and journey, and it impacts their dialogue and how they relate to other characters! To access this make sure to interact with Varric's Mirror in your room in the Lighthouse. There are many conversation options throughout the game to discuss your identity with other characters, or relate your change of self to other situations. Crucially, it comes up when entering a romance and you have to communicate with your partner about it, which I never even THOUGHT of including in a game because it seemed impossible to even allow trans main characters to begin with.

There are also multiple trans and nonbinary characters throughout Thedas. What I found the most realistic was that just like in life, it is a consistent presence in any character's life, and comes up in conversation more than once. I have never seen a game this forthcoming and open about the topic of transitioning, and it was so validating.

Final thoughts:

I adore the other games in the franchise. Something about The Veilguard affected me in a way no other game has. I cried multiple times while playing this game, both from joy and sadness. What struck me most is that the people who worked on this game REALLY listened to feedback from previous games, and were very set on making a piece of art that meant something to people. Even during the last few years of me testing the game, things have been adjusted and changed in direct response to our reactions and suggestions. It's surreal and quite touching.

Mileage will vary, but my playthrough was 70 hours on very low difficulty and I haven't done every side quest yet. I could easily have spent more than 100 hours in the game if I wasn't pressed for time.

I hope you enjoy this game as much as I have. See you in Thedas.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age veilguard #harry plays the veilguard #I hope these are somewhat useful/interesting to people thinking about playing #I am so sorry if it shows up as a wall of text I don't know how to make the format more interesting

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seleneprince · 3 months ago

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Snippet of my Neglected! Family x Yandere! Batfam au (I really need to find a name for this au already)

Wife! Darling has known of the Batcave's existence for years already, and so do her children.

She found out by pure accident. Her oldest daughter was doing her usual computer stuff she didn't understand, and said she found a weird signal coming from under the manor, in the underground...only they didn't know there was anything down there, not even a basement. Alfred never mentioned it.

The girl went to check, tracing the mysterious signal with her phone, and found a hidden compartment behind the pendulum clock. Before her mother could tell her to stop, she went down there.

Cue to Wife! Darling following her daughter to make sure she didn't get in trouble or hurt herself, because who knew if Batman even bothered with basic security measures for his vigilante stuff. From what she's seen of him as Bruce Wayne, she doubted it.

And that's how they found the Batcave. By the time Alfred found out and met them there, the daughter had already tinkered with half the equipment and replicated part of the Batcomputer's code in her tablet for fun, while her mother explored the whole place with a critical eye. Alfred expected them to be angry, to ask a lot of questions, but instead:

Wife! Darling!: "Who takes care of this place?"

Alfred: "Mostly me, Mistress (Name)."

Wife! Darling squinted her eyes, gaze darkening: "Just you? Does no one help you?"

Alfred: "It's part of my job, Mistress (Name). Don't worry, I can handle it perfectly well on my own."

She scoffed. "Well, this has to change. You're just one man, Alfred, and you're not getting younger with the years. The fact that they let you do so much already by yourself is infuriating, and you also have to clean after their crime-fighting bullshit? The nerve. I'll take care of this from now on"

Alfred blinked: "Mistress (Name), I can't possibly ask you that. You already help me more than enough around the house-"

Wife! Darling: "Nonsense, Alfred. You do way too much already. At this rate, it'll only affect your health for worse. I live here too now, so technically it's also my responsibility."

And that's how she ends up handling the maintenance of the Batcave along with Alfred, even taking over his tasks entirely. She starts off with the excuse of helping him, which it's true, but eventually she always takes care everything so the man has no option but rest.

And because she's such a perfectionist, she doesn't spare any efforts in the task. Cleans all the surfaces, fixes the suits, rearranges the weapons after cleaning them and creates a system to organize their gadgets so they're much easier to find. Even the Batmobile is left spotless, inside and outside. She goes as far to feed some of the bats casually roaming around the edges of the cave.

(And if her kids had naps inside the batmobile sometimes when they were down there, only she and Alfred are witnesses. Well, the bats too, but they're not snitching)

This way she takes some work off Alfred's shoulders. She finds it enraging that a man his age has such a heavy load of work with little to no help, so she takes over some of the house chores for him so he can have breaks. Plus, it helps her unwind and relax a bit from her usually stress-fuelled life.

She also begins to leave snarky notes about the shameful state of their gear when she finds it in particularly bad shape. And feels even worse that Alfred has had to take care of all of this at his age until she came.

"This blade is duller than your sense of self-awareness. Fix it"

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up"

"If you die in this crusty suit, I’m not cleaning your corpse"

"Are you fighting villains or rolling in garbage?"

Seriously, the richest man in Gotham can't even afford a bit more of staff? But of course, she reminds herself he's the same man who forgot to use protection when fucking a random woman, so she shouldn't expect too much from him.

To avoid uncomfortable encounters, she specifically schedules her cleaning times for when the whole team is out, so she can work peacefully without being having to be in the same room as them. So far, it goes well. Alfred even warns her when they're coming back, and the Batcave is actually a pretty nice place to enjoy time for yourself when it's empty. Just the beeping of the computers as background noise, or her children messing around when they go down there to do their things.

It becomes part of her routine, one she even looks forward too during the day. Until one day.

The Batcave has been left spotless, as usual. Weapons polished. Suits lined up by height and damage level. Even the Batmobile has that new-car shimmer. It smells faintly of citrus-scented cleaning spray and frustration. There are also four sticky notes scattered across the table already, complaining about the state of their things again.

She is crouched near the weapon rack, holding the Batman suit with one gloved hand and a lint roller in the other, glaring at it like it personally offended her.

She mutters under her breath in Spanish, something about how "ni siquiera una máquina de coser podría salvar este desastre de traje, Dios mío." (Not even a sewing machine could save this disaster of a suit, my godness)

She’s in sweats, hair tied back in a messy bun. An apron over her tank top that says "KISS THE COOK (or don’t, I’ll stab you)". She's so deep in the cleaning zone she doesn’t hear the footsteps.

"Well, this is a surprise. I could get used to this."

Her entire body freezes. It feels like her blood turned ice in her veins instantly with the voice. That irritating, familiar voice.

Her head turns slowly, and there he is. Bruce Wayne in the flesh. Her husband in paper, father of her first child, owner of this cave, and responsible for half of the stress she deals with.

She could be annoyed or even embarrassed that he caught her like this, handling his suit no less. But instead, her mind is focused on what he said, and the tone in which he said it.

She arches a brow at him.

"Excuse me?"

He steps closer, clearly taking note of her work there. His eyes drifting to the Batmobile, the weapons, all she's taken care of already.

Bruce: "Me, coming back from work to find you cleaning my stuff. It’s so… domestic. It’s almost like we’re a married couple."

There’s a beat. A dangerous silence.

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. Processing the fact that he really said that. Out loud. To her. And in a completely serious tone.

Then he looks at her, and she notices the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. Oh, that filthy little-

Her eye twitches.

Wife! Darling: "...........Oh, absolutely."

WHACK.

She chucks a batarang at his head with a speed and accuracy that would’ve made Deadshot whistle. He barely ducks, and it slams into the metal behind him with a THUNK so loud the Batcomputer flinches and some bats burst out from their spots.

Bruce: "That could’ve taken my eye out."

Wife! Darling:"I was hoping so."

He stares at her, and then shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle. A chuckle. Since when is this man capable of that? Before she gets her answer, he pulls out the batarang with ease and places it back on the rack (Good, she would've murdered him for real if he left it anywhere else).

Bruce: "I meant it. I think I like this sight of you. Suits you well. You look like the ideal housewife."

Without looking, she reaches for another batarang and throws it at him. This time, he catches it mid-air, cool as ever, before setting it down on the table like he isn’t one second away from getting stabbed.

Bruce: "Was that really necessary?"

Wife! Darling: "It was either that or shoot you. You're lucky I'm generous today."

He watches her, barely concealing his amusement now, but there’s something else in his expression too, something he's never had when looking at her: Curiosity.

She doesn't like it.

Unbothered, as if he didn't just activate her kill switch, he starts to walk to the table and peels off one of the sticky notes, reading it aloud with a deadpan tone.

"Blood is not a fashion statement. Grow up."

Bruce: "You know I beat the shit out of people in this suit, right?"

She replies without sparing him a glance, wiping down a grappling gun with unholy aggression: "Yeah? Well, do it without staining it with their blood. You look like Gotham’s dirtiest raccoon."

He leans against the Batcomputer, arms folded. "How long have you been doing this, exactly?"

She scoffs, going back to adjusting the suit like she isn’t being interrogated. "Long enough to know that you leave your weapons in a shameful state. Honestly, it’s a miracle your stupid gadgets still function. Do you ever bother to maintain your own things, or do you just throw them around and hope Alfred fixes it?"

He watches her for a moment longer before finally speaking.

"And you’re doing this because...?"

"Because unlike some people in this godforsaken house, I actually care when an old man is running himself ragged taking care of things that none of you seem to appreciate."

Bruce pauses. He glances at the Batmobile, cleaner than it’s ever been. At his weapons, neatly arranged, polished, functional.

At the post-it notes stuck to the Batcomputer, scrawled in Rosa’s angry handwriting.

He actually huffs a quiet laugh. Again. It's unsettling her.

Then, almost as an afterthought, she mutters, "Besides, if you die because your equipment fails, it’s only a matter of time before you try to drag me into this circus. And I refuse to wear spandex."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’d look good in spandex."

Silence.

She throws the batarang at him again. This time, it actually clips his shoulder.

"Go get that treated before you stain anything, or I'll wipe the floors next with your face."

.......................

...........

Suddenly, Bruce starts to "casually" come to the cave early more often.

Now she has to adjust her schedule AGAIN to avoid him. And in the meantime, her children start betting on how many batarangs it takes before Bruce gets critically injured. Or dead.

#holy shit #this was supposed to be so much shorter #just a snippet #it got out of hand #wow #i'm impressed with myself #and dissapointed at the same time #anyway here you go #wife! darling and bruce having their most pacific interaction to the date #before the plot starts #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere bruce wayne #yandere bruce wayne x reader #wife darling au #neglected wife au #dc x reader

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snail-day · 4 months ago

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A Hypothesis on You

Sum: You led on the nice guy, but they don't always finish last.

Yandere Nerd!Gojo x Reader

Next part: Gaslighting? Baby, I'm just lovebombing (not official title)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, murder, implied unprepped anal, toy mention, masturbation, kidnapping, noncon, brief gore/violence, forced discord kitten, mdni

WC: 3.6k

Satoru Gojo had arrived at a definitive conclusion, one backed by indisputable, empirical data collected through careful observation. The hypothesis? You were in love with him. And, naturally, upon evaluating this data, he had no choice but to reciprocate with an all-consuming, maddening adoration of his own.

The evidence was overwhelmingly positive.

Exhibit A: The Discord Calls

The instant the Discord ringtone reverberates through his headset, a low-frequency hum tickles his synapses. His heart rate accelerates - not in an alarming, fight-or-flight way, but in a perfectly measurable, dopamine-infused, love-induced response. He notes the variables at play: the sharp pang of anticipation, the compulsive need to fix his posture, the way his pupils dilate when he catches sight of your profile picture - just the default Discord logo, a bland, impersonal icon that only fuels his insatiable curiosity.

Who are you, really?

What do you do in your free time? What are your hobbies, your secret indulgences, your intricate thought processes? And most critically - what is your type?

He should be focusing on the study session, reviewing notes, optimizing memory retention, and running mental simulations of possible test questions. Instead, he’s staring at that stupid little logo, heart stuttering at the mere idea of your fingers brushing against your keyboard, your voice filling his ears any second now.

And there it is.

Your voice, chipper and bright, crackling through his headset like an electrical current straight to his nervous system. You ask to compare answers for the homework - again. How predictable. How utterly adorable. His lips quirk up, concealed behind a palm as a distinct warmth creeps up his pale face. He knows you’re copying his answers. He always has.

But isn’t that just another irrefutable piece of evidence?

You trust him. You rely on him. You need him.

The sound of frantic scribbling in the background doesn’t go unnoticed - oh no, his genius-level intellect catches every minor detail, every rushed stroke of your pen, every minuscule pause where your breath hitches as you struggle to keep up. A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, but he keeps his tone light, unassuming.

“Your calculations must’ve been off again, huh? Silly girl.”

He could just give you the answers outright - he wants to, craves the idea of you depending on him, owing him. But it’s much more satisfying to hear the subtle, breathy giggle on the other end of the line, the quiet little “thank you, Gojo” that slips past your lips. An auditory reward.

Exhibit B: The Study Sessions

Oh, how he craves you when you ask him for help. It’s intoxicating, the way your voice, normally so light and confident, softens into something hesitant and uncertain as the test creeps closer. As if you’re nervous, as if the pressure is gnawing at you, sinking sharp little teeth into your resolve, and the only person who can fix it, the only one who can calm you, is him.

That realization? That knowledge that you need him, that you trust him enough to ask?

It sends something thick, honey-sweet, and deliriously suffocating curling low in his stomach, burrowing deep in his chest like a sickness - festering, spreading - one he never wants to recover from.

"Gojo, can we go over the Kreb’s cycle again?"

Your soft, saccharine voice makes his fingers tighten, twitch over his pen. His pink lips part, something between a smirk and a weak, aching sigh, a sound so pathetically fragile, so awed, it nearly makes him sick.

"Again?" he teases, tilting his head slightly as he leans closer to his mic, pretending as if he’s unaffected, as if his body isn’t trembling from the mere sound of you.

You huff, breathy and a little sheepish, like you hate admitting you need him. It’s adorable.

"Yeah… I just - ugh, I always get confused on this part. You explain it better than the professor, anyway."

Oh.

Oh, God.

His brain empties, whites out, dissolves into nothing but static and heat and throbbing, unbearable pleasure. You think he explains it better. Better than the professor. Better than the textbooks, the lectures, every single, mind-numbingly boring source of knowledge you could have gone to - yet you chose him.

He exhales slowly, carefully, forcing himself to stay composed, forcing his grin to stay teasing, lighthearted, like he isn’t about to collapse under the weight of your praise, your trust, your utter dependence on him.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess I can help you out one more time."

He drawls it out, slow and syrupy, because he loves the way you laugh when he flirts - how it always sounds a little shy, a little uncertain, like you don’t know whether he’s joking or not. (He’s not.)

So, he guides you. Carefully. Methodically. Painstakingly.

(He could be a little more patient, but who cares about patience when you’re hanging onto his every word?)

His voice stays playful, painting each step of the process into your mind with such excruciating care, as if his words alone could wrap around you, cocoon you, pull you deeper into him.

And oh, the way you listen. So perfectly. So obediently. So helplessly.

Every little fact, every single note, all scribbled onto your cheat sheet, one you really should have written last night, but you didn’t. Because you needed him to explain it. Because he explains it better. When you finally repeat his words back to him - carefully, thoughtfully - your voice slipping into that sweet, focused lilt that makes his breath hitch, makes his vision blur and darken at the edges - his long, slender fingers twitch over his notes.

God, you sound so pretty when you’re focused. So adorably unsure of yourself, as if you’re afraid you’ll do something wrong. Baby, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve got him wrapped so tightly around your fingers, he might as well be bound, gagged, and helpless at your mercy.

And yet, it’s him who keeps chasing the sound of your voice, his body betraying him like the sniveling, desperate wreck that he is. Heat begins to coil, low and tight and unbearable, an awful, cloying pressure building deep, deep in his gut, in his chest, in every aching, pathetic part of him that only responds to you.

He has to mute himself.

Has to slouch back in his chair, sucking in sharp, uneven breaths, as his hand - shaking, trembling, fevered and desperate - palms himself through his navy blue sweatpants, pressing against the unbearable, aching strain beneath the fabric.

He shouldn’t.

Really, he shouldn’t.

But your voice - soft and sweet and so fucking eager to learn from him - curls into his ears like a siren’s song, wrapping tight around his throat, unraveling him from the inside out. When you reach past the citric acid portion, stumbling just slightly, your voice breathy, triumphant, proud, it makes his body lock up.

Keep going.

His thighs clench, his lips part soundlessly, a pathetic little whimper catching in his throat, his hand moving against himself without even thinking, mindlessly chasing the unbearable, excruciating bliss of you. Before he can stop himself, before you can even utter the words oxidative phosphorylation, he’s coming, thick, hot white ropes spilling messily over his hand, just picturing how pretty they’d look on your sweet, stunned face, those wide, innocent eyes looking up at him, dumb and pliant and utterly dependent on him.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His head tips forward, cheek pressing against the desk, eyes glassy, unfocused, dazed, utterly shattered as the aftershocks rip through him.

The Discord call remains active.

"Gojo? Are you still there?"

Shit.

His nerves jolt, his hand jerks back from the mess in his lap, and he scrambles, wiping himself down with sharp, frantic movements, fingers shaking as he fumbles for the mouse.

Unmute. Breathe. Act normal.

He clears his throat, forces a lazy, almost airy chuckle past his lips, masking the remnants of his absolute, pitiful, all-consuming climax with that same easygoing drawl.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just, y’know…" A pause, a slow grin curling at the edges of his mouth, voice dropping into something thick, teasing, syrupy smooth. "Kinda hard not to zone out when you sound that cute."

You scoff, exasperated, but flustered - just the way he expects, just the way he needs.

"Shut up, Gojo."

He just laughs. Because you don’t mean it. Because if you flunk, you won’t be able to take the next class with him.

That? That would be unacceptable. Because you need him. And he needs to hear that pretty little voice for much, much longer.

Exhibit C: The Messages

His texts are simple. Uncomplicated. Texts that linger unread, swallowed by the void of your notifications, responses so infrequent they might as well be artifacts of a bygone era. And yet, he is always at your beck and call. A constant. A fixed variable in the chaotic equation of your life.

Perhaps you’re just not a big texter. You’re cute like that. You probably prefer face-to-face interactions, don’t you? You want to see him, hear him, breathe the same air. Of course you do. It’s only natural.

Your response, as always, is frustratingly brief.

BlueEyesWhiteDragon: Hope you ate well today! There’s a new bakery nearby, want to check it out?

BlueEyesWhiteDragon: Test scores are out! Let’s celebrate! Drinks on me :3

You: Sorry Gojo! I’m busy :(

Ah. An anomaly. A deviation in the otherwise flawless data set that is you. That’s fine. He understands. Really. Truly.

…Except, no, he doesn’t.

Because then you waltz into class, oblivious and radiant, a walking contradiction wrapped in soft smiles and gentle warmth. You stop by his desk without hesitation, fingers barely grazing his as you press something into his palm - a Digimon (limited edition) pen. A relic from overseas, something rare, something treasured.

"I really appreciate you, Gojo." Soft words, spun from silk, weaving their way into the tangled web of his mind. His fingers tighten around the pen. Neural pathways ignite, synapses firing in a frenzied, luminous cascade. Patterns emerge, connections solidify, conclusions crystallize into absolute truth.

This is an offering. A token of devotion.

Penguins do this, scientifically speaking. They scour the earth for the perfect rock, presenting it to their chosen mate as a vow, a bond, a forever.

Is that what this is?

It has to be.

Because you always sit next to him. Because on test days, you arrive early, never too soon, never too late, just in time to secure the seat beside him. Because your leg brushes his, again and again, warmth seeping through the fabric, sinking into his skin.

Because you lean in, voice hushed, lips barely parting as you whisper, "I’m not looking at your paper, I promise."

But Satoru doesn’t need to analyze probability, doesn’t need statistical models to confirm the truth. The evidence is irrefutable.

You love him.

However, there is an inconsistency in the data. A variable unaccounted for. A contradiction in the flawless theorem that is: you + him = inevitability.

You rejected him.

The memory loops in his mind like a corrupted file, fragmented yet perfectly preserved. He remembers it all, every detail, every nuance, every pixel of your expression. The way his voice had been effortlessly light when he’d asked, his body leaning in, his grin the very picture of confidence as he peered over tinted glasses.

"C’mon, you owe me. How about we grab a meal together? Or, better yet, let’s hit up the arcade. I’ll win you a prize and everything." He had been prepared for many things. Flustered giggles. An exasperated but fond sigh. A teasing eye roll before you inevitably gave in, brushing off his boldness with a "Fine, but you better actually win me something good."

Instead. You hesitated.

Your fingers fidgeted at the hem of your sleeve. Your eyes flickered away. And your lips - so sweet, so cruel - curled into something fragile.

"I’m… I’m not really ready for a relationship right now."

Something fractured. A hairline crack, nearly imperceptible, but there. A fault in the foundation of his reality, small but damning.

"I just have a lot going on, but… maybe when I have some free time, we could… give it a shot?"

And then - then you reached for him. So gently. So thoughtlessly. Tugging at his sleeve in a fleeting, absentminded motion. A mere second of contact, but Satoru felt it everywhere. Your fingertips through the thin fabric of his navy sweater. The featherlight scrape of your nails before retreating. The way your gaze softened when it met his, hesitant, uncertain, but undeniably warm.

It should have pacified him. It should have soothed the sharp, gnawing tightness in his chest, the static buzz at the edges of his mind.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it confounded him.

Because if you truly weren’t ready, if you truly wanted distance, then why did you touch him like that?

Why was your voice so gentle?

Why leave the door open, just a crack, just a sliver of an invitation, just enough for him to slip through like a whisper on the wind?

It doesn’t make sense.

Which means: You’re scared.

Of course, you must be. It’s the only explanation. You’re utterly, helplessly terrified of how much you love him, of the sheer intensity of it, the unfathomable depth, the suffocating inevitability, the inescapable, all-consuming truth that binds you to him. You don’t understand it yet. You don’t see the full picture, don’t grasp the overwhelming magnitude of what you feel, the way it stretches into infinity.

But that’s okay. He can wait. Patience is a virtue he’s mastered. He can guide you - new things are daunting, unsettling, horrifying even. He understands; he was the same way with Suguru. A little hesitant. A little afraid. But love is a science, an immutable force, a precise and predictable phenomenon governed by distinct, repeatable patterns. And you - his perfect, brilliant girl - are simply a variable in need of proper calibration. A puzzle to be meticulously solved. An equation to be elegantly balanced.

Though Satoru wasn’t expecting to black out so soon. Not like this. Not from something so trivial, so insignificant, so utterly beneath him. There you were. Standing in that dimly lit hallway of the old lab building, facing away from him while that pathetic, insignificant little man faced him. There you were. Laughing. Twirling your hair. Tilting your chin up in a way that he has never been privy to, pretty eyes flickering with something playful, something forbidden.

Your lip caught between your teeth.

A smile you had never once given him.

Hiding.

Hiding everything.

Satoru blinked. When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else. His breath came in shallow, sharp gasps, the copper-tinged taste of adrenaline thick on his tongue. Those slender, pale fingers of his ached, stiff, strained, bloodied. Perfectly manicured nails were splintered. Jagged crescents of flesh wedged beneath them. He wasn’t sure when his hands had wrapped around the bastard’s throat, when he had squeezed until there was a crack, a wet, ugly sound that didn’t quite register until the body collapsed onto the flooring in a graceless, lifeless heap.

Not like the movies. There was no dramatic last words. No struggle. Just the light fading from the bastard's eyes and your screams.

Satoru exhaled, slow and even, watching the body twitch, watching the useless, pitiful sack of flesh that had touched you, looked at you, laughed with you, go still.

No witnesses. No evidence. No problem.

Satoru had paid someone to take care of it. It was just that simple. Blood money for blood stains. A phone call. A transfer. A sigh. A body gone. Clean. Efficient. Effortless. You - his sweet, little traitor - had been so easy to take after that.

Dragging you away was nothing. You were too shocked to fight, too stunned to understand. To light in his arms, even as you thrashed, kicked, screamed, all useless, all futile. He had shoved you into the car, tucked you so nicely into the back seat. Your muffled screams, your fists pounding against the door, such adorable resistance. All it took was a few words, a whispered warning, and your fight died.

"If you scream, kitten, someone else is gonna have to disappear tonight."

You were much more pliant after that, bounded, subdued. Perfectly still. Those pretty, glistening tears streamed down your horrified face, carving delicate, shimmering paths along your flushed, trembling skin. Satoru wiped the last crimson remnants from his hands, his mouth quirking into a lopsided, exhausted smile - lazy, almost affectionate.

“Sorry, kitten,” he murmured, his voice light, breathless, far too casual and sweet. A teasing lilt was buried beneath the softness, barely masked.

Like this was normal.

Like this was just another one of his usual flirtations.

“Sorry you had to wake up here,” he cooed, tilting his head as if in thought, his crystalline eyes gleaming with playfulness. “But you did kind of ask for it.”

Your throat bobbed with a silent, quivering sob, the gag muffling the fractured sound into something weak and helpless. Satoru studied you, his gaze lingering, indulgent. You did look so pretty like this, eyes blown wide, glossy with pitiful tears, frantic and pleading. Your lips, raw and swollen from desperate, futile struggles, clung helplessly to the gag, little muffled whimpers slipping through. Your body trembled in the sweetest, most delicate shakes, the shivers rippling down your spine, your chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven heaves, every panicked breath proof of your helplessness. So small. So utterly, exquisitely defenseless.

His eyes darkened, something wild and untamed curling deep in his gut, a primal, simmering heat coiling beneath his ribs.

"You lied to me." A slow quirk of his lips, his voice dipping into something softer, almost sing-song, a dangerous kind of amusement threading through the lilt of his words as he moved closer. Satoru crouched before you, knees bending with an almost lazy, effortless grace, one hand resting on his thigh, the other reaching for your tear-streaked face with an unsettling gentleness.

Your breath hitched.

You flinched away.

A mistake.

His fingers tightened instantly. Gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his dull blue-eyed gaze - pressing, pressing, pressing - the tips of his bloodstained nails biting into the fragile skin of your cheeks. Tiny pinpricks of pressure. Your frantic, choked whimpers were music to him. A trembling, pitiful melody that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. A sharp inhale before dragging his thumb down the curve of your cheek, smearing the warmth of your tears with an almost devout reverence. Worshipful. Possessive.

"You called me pathetic," he murmured, light, conversational, as though this were nothing more than idle chatter. "A loser."

Your pupils dilated, wide and glassy, breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts, your chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.

"You lied," Satoru continued, voice dipping lower, rougher, tinged with something ravenous. "Said you weren’t ready for a relationship. But I saw your phone, kitten. Saw all those little apps. Saw what you said about me." Your body shuddered beneath his grip, trembling like a fragile, wounded thing, and something deep in his chest thrummed - a slow, indulgent pulse of pleasure at your helplessness.

"I really just wanted you to be my girlfriend, you know?"

His tone was fond. Almost dreamy. A slow exhale, savoring the moment, fingers ghosting down the delicate curve of your jaw before dipping lower, feeling the erratic rhythm of your pulse, the delicious, frantic flutter of your heartbeat thrumming beneath his touch.

"But being my kitten…?" A soft sigh. "That could work too."

Your tears spilled, unchecked - hot, feverish, slipping down your cheeks in shimmering rivulets, a plea of sorts. One that will go unheard. Satoru hummed a quiet, pleased sound, dragging the pad of his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, feeling the tremble, the way you struggled to hold back the sobs choking your throat.

“I was saving this for our anniversary,” he mused, his voice light, conversational, as if this was nothing more than an offhand remark. His free hand moved, reaching beside him, fingers curling around a carefully bundled package. A costume. Soft velvet, delicate lace. Cat ears and a tail.

For you.

For his new kitten. One that he won't have to listen to on discord anymore. His smile widened as he held it up, tilting his head as if admiring his own thoughtfulness.

"I guess we’ll just have to celebrate early," he cooed, voice dripping with saccharine delight.

You screamed and thrashed as he shoved you down, face-first onto the cold, polished floor, his weight pressing down on you, a purr of amusement vibrating in his chest.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay." Satoru ran his fingers through your hair, twisting tight at the roots - yanking your head up, forcing you to stare at the glossy, pristine poster in front of you.

Geto Suguru. Your favorite idol. One you would talk to Satoru in the lab about. A common interest between you to. Little did you know, he was a little closer to that interest of yours.

"I did promise you were going to meet him soon, didn’t I?" His breath was hot against your ear, lips curled into something stretched and unhinged. "Mommy is really going to like you."

Your broken, choked sobs filled the room, but he just hummed, smiling like he’d just gifted you something precious. Pressing his lips to your shaking temple. Your breath came in sharp, rapid gasps - panicked, broken, desperate - but Gojo Satoru sighed, twirling a loose strand of your hair between his fingers.

His voice dropped into something dark, low, and breathy. "Daddy is going to take such good care of you." Your body jerked, muscles pulsing with adrenaline. however, his grip tightened, ensuring you were safely in place. Satoru's bright, hungry blue eyes flicked toward the cat tail in his hand -the matching little ears tucked away for later. Lips stretching into something impossibly wide, impossibly giddy.

"Sorry, kitten." A mocking chuckle filled the room as he flipped up your skirt, dragging the steel along your clammy, fevered skin. "I was going to be gentle." Your eyes widened at the coldness, a soft sigh escaped his lips as he titled his head as if deep in thought, then continued to trace a slow, lingering touch over the goosebumps rising along your skin. "But you really, really broke my heart."

A pause.

"Don’t worry, though."

His breath was warm against your cheek, hot, feverish, as you felt his warm hand push your panties down.

"Mommy will be home soon to make everything better."

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