#head ahh

[rummy1869]

Im poppin

[zlut4rina]

not eating someone's cum is stupid.

Word, I hate spaghetti, but I turn Hella Italian when I'm down there.

[zari-san]

jade!!!!! jack!!!!! ruggie!!!!!................who's this guy 🙄

[isamoa]

“ DOCTOR’S ORDERS! ”

gojo x fem!reader ࿐ MDNI.

ᰔ、summary. in which you use your gynecologist to get off lol.

ᰔ、tags. naive gojo at first, reader is a whore tbh, taboo, female anatomy, exhibitionism, fingering, porn with plot, long asf intro

ᰔ、a/n. lowkey inspired by that one cherie deville video if u know what i mean..

doctors offices always made you uncomfortable.

from the seemingly miserable front desk assistants with terrible social skills, to the overall unsettling and dull appearance—it was probably the last place you would rather be.

and it was always so cold; the eerie atmosphere of the boxed room giving no warm comfort to soothe the fear of potential bad news or unwanted concerns.

but today you were rather warm.

though hesitant at first to show up for todays appointment, you were now glad to have come in.

you hadn’t expected your doctor to be a man.

and with the initial assumption of having someone of the same sex for such an intimate procedure, you didn’t expect such a handsome man either.

not that you were complaining.

sitting on the examination table, where your lips would usually be quivering and legs shivering, you felt an awfully recognizable heat between them instead—in a place of no familiarity.

too focused on admiring the man’s panty-dropping appearance, you failed to hear the introduction given by him, let alone the greeting.

“no need to be shy.” you soon heard him say, this time loud and clear. god—even his voice was attractive.

you watched him walk to the small sink in the corner of the room to wash his hands as the words registered in your mind. “sorry- what did you say?” you asked apologetically, giving a guilty smile.

the doctor angled his head towards you while he continued to clean his hands, eyebrow raising slightly at your question. he had assumed with your reluctance to answer that you were just nervous; a common relation between his many patients on their first appointment.

he smiled kindly, drying his hands before repeating his words again.

“i’m doctor gojo,” he repeated. “you must be y/n.”

you nodded your head in affirmation, eyes darting down to look at his hands as he pulled on a pair of blue gloves. his fingers were long and slender. you wondered how they would feel inside of-

a sudden sound of a loud clap rang through your ears, interrupting your thoughts.

“well! now that we know each other,” gojo started with a bright smile still on his face, his hands clasped together in the air. “i’m just gonna ask you a few questions before we start.”

“now i know these kinds of things can be a little intimidating, but i promise you, there’s nothing to be nervous about.” he began, releasing his hands to stuff them into his pockets.

quite the talker.

“i’m not nervous.” you declared proudly—earning a surprised look from the man in front of you.

it didn’t take long for him to break into a light laugh, his head anchoring down slightly, white bangs falling perfectly over his eyes as the corners of them crinkled, lip smirking in amusement.

he went on to ask the usual questions, trying to determine your sexual activity and other important factors about your life before stepping out so you could undress.

“all set?” he asked politely a few minutes later as he opened the door with a knock—a comforting gaze sitting upon his face.

you watched him close the door behind him before slowly making his way towards you, pulling the steel cart with him as he went to take a seat on the rolling chair.

“sorry-” you spoke, waiting for him to look up at you before continuing. “do you mind locking it? i just..feel like it would make me feel more comfortable.”

not noticing the innocent facade, he paused for a moment, the muscles in his face tightening in the slightest bit before eventually calming back down.

the smile was back on his face as quick as it left as he went to stand back up; walking towards the door and turning the knob to lock it.

“go ahead and lay back for me now,” he soon began, once again taking a seat in the chair and moving it up towards you. “and place your feet on the rests.”

you obediently did as you were told, leaning back with a sly smile on your face as you slowly opened your legs, putting your feet up on the footrests one by one.

there was a little pause in his movement when you revealed your uncovered intimates, his adams apple bobbing in his throat when he cleared it roughly, blinking a few times before looking away.

you watched from the corner of your eye as he took a long metal tool from the cart, turning back to you and meeting your gaze.

“this shouldn’t hurt. let me know if it does.”

you didn’t answer, only stared intently as you waited for him to continue.

you stared until a small gasp escaped from your mouth at the feeling of his gloved finger gliding down your slit, eyes locking on the ceiling as your leg twitched.

soon, a cold sensation pressed against your hole—causing you to jerk back and your foot to slip off the pedestal.

you felt gojo’s hand quickly grab ahold of your ankle, fingers gripping it in hopes of preventing you from hurting yourself. you apologized with a small laugh, sinking further into the medical chair as he continued with the procedure.

he apologized in return for not letting you know first, the cold feeling soon back again before you slowly felt him start to insert the tool, his eyes moving to look at you for any indications of discomfort.

“any pain?” he asked quietly, eyes still locked on you while pushing it further in, waiting for an answer.

you kept quiet for a moment, hoping to create a more believable reaction before speaking up suddenly. or rather, wincing.

“a little.” you replied, looking down at him and meeting his gaze.

a lie.

you felt him halt, eyes looking away from yours to stare down at your exposed core, his head angling to the side slightly before he slowly pulled the tool out, placing it back on the tray and moving to get up.

“sorry. let me get-”

“no!” you yelped, springing up from your laying position to grab onto his wrist, yanking him back towards you.

“maybe just- use your- um..” you stuttered, pulling on his hand to place it flat against your heat—his fingers automatically curling themselves inside as he looked up at you.

his eyebrow raised slightly, ultimately letting them rest inside your warm cunt as he turned to look back at the tool that laid on the tray, fingers slipping out slightly.

“i do need that though for the-”

“but it wont.. fit-” you interrupted again, your grip on his wrist tightening a bit to keep him in. “so this will help.”

he looked back up at you again, swallowing roughly before pulling the seat to come closer once again.

he let you slowly push his hand back into you—eyes dropping back down to look at it softly while bringing his free one up to rest on the inside of your thigh.

his back straightened as he fixed his posture, body moving back slighting but hands staying put; as if they were glued.

you stayed sitting up, loosening your grip on his wrist but still holding it when you felt him push his digits deeper on his own, your chest dropping as you released a sigh at the movement.

his ears perked up at the sound but he kept quiet, slowly moving his hand back and forth inside your cunt to prep it for the tool that he was seemingly dying to use.

though he couldn’t feel it with the glove on, he knew you were wet from the way it glistened whenever he pulled it out slightly; light reflecting off of the creases.

he grew concerned as to why it ‘‘hurt’’ when you were still creating so much arousal, his eyebrow creasing slightly as he let the ends of his fingers curl upward, earning a sudden whimper from your mouth.

his hand stilled, eyes widening slightly as he looked back at you with an apologetic look, assuming the noise was one of discomfort.

“it’s ok.” you assured, nodding your head as you looked at him. he paused for a minute, not moving an inch as his eyes switched from your face to your cunt—and back up again.

“why don’t you sit back.” he offered, a slight hint of growing worry in his voice; his head twitching forward as his eyebrows raised before relaxing quickly.

you stared at him as you gave another guilty smile, leaning yourself backwards once more to lay against the cushion of the chair.

a hum sounded from your throat when his movement picked up again, his eyes staying locked on your face.

“do you feel looser?” he asked intuitively, the words having different reasonings between the two of you.

you faked a whine, face scrunching as you moved your head to rest on your shoulder and look at him. “still kinda hurts.” you avoidantly concurred, following with an innocent apology.

another lie.

gojo smiled understandingly nonetheless, dropping his gaze once again as he continued.

you almost felt bad. was he really that naive?

“you’re discharging.” he shared suddenly, voicing no disgust but rather proudly announcing it to you—hoping to calm what nerves he assumed you had. “that’s a good thing.”

the word made you blush, your cheeks heating up as you looked at him, mouth slightly agape. the feeling of his fingers inside of you made your mind go blank; only focused on how bad you wanted him right now and how long it was gonna take for him to realize.

your hand slowly started to slide down unintentionally, an uncontrollable urge and a need for pleasure overcoming your attempt to stay composed. you knew better than to behave like this—especially in such a forbidden environment. but you just couldn’t help it.

your hand subconsciously drifted down your stomach, gliding on top of his own before coming back up; the pads of your fingers stopping directly over your sensitive clit.

“do you mind if i do this?” you asked seemingly innocent, chest rising and falling rapidly as you slowly rubbed, not bothering to wait for an answer. “just to distract me.”

gojo paused, eyes staring at you with no expression before following down your arm to the moving hand above his own, his fingers twitching.

he’s never had a patient do this before, but he wasn’t going to deny you if it had the possibility of aiding you. he truly cared for your well-being after all. he wasn’t going to deny the way it made him tighten in his pants either.

“uh..if it helps you with the-”

“yeah,” you heaved, sitting up a bit on the chair, your fingers circling your bud as you stared at his hand.

“it’s really helping with the pain, doc.” you insist, a pout forming on your pretty little lips, trying hard to not show too lewd of a face.

lucky for you, gojo was too filled with thoughts of doing his job to tell the difference between a look of pleasure and pain at the moment.

his poor little patient, you were in so much pain—he figured a girl as pretty as you must have been tight, but not like this. he just wanted to help you feel relaxed.

so he let you do as you pleased.

he felt ashamed for thinking so inappropriately about you, but who wouldn’t? he wasn’t an idiot—though if he realized your true intentions, he might say other wise—he knew what masturbating was.

but you were just trying to distract yourself from the pain! what kind of person would it make him if he didn’t let you?

though he admits it’s a little unprofessional, he didn’t bother to stop. his fingers kept moving, and the other hand on your thigh even rubbed calming circles once in a while to help you out just a little bit more.

and he knows he should probably be looking at your pussy to do a proper evaluation, but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from your face. he’s never had such a pretty patient before.

and you’ve never had such a hot doctor.

you couldn’t help but let a tiny moan slip from your lips when his slender fingers hit against a certain spot; the sound causing a pause in gojo’s movement.

ok, maybe he really shouldn’t be doing this. what if someone heard? he wasn’t prepared to lose his job.

you whined at the emptiness when you felt him remove his gloved fingers, eyes that were once closed in pure ecstasy now wide open; staring at the doctor with a look of betrayal.

“i’m sorry miss y/n, but this really isn’t professional-” he voiced, removing his gloves as he stood up and shook his head repeatedly in disappointment.

moving to sit up quickly, you grabbed ahold of his wrist once again and pulled him back towards you like the first time; positioning his hand against your slick cunt again.

his hand stayed straight as you rubbed it up and down, fingers not automatically entering themselves into your dripping hole like you had hoped for.

he gave you an eerie look, his head tilting slightly as he opened his mouth to protest once more.

“please doc,” you begged quietly, gliding his tense hand in an effort to get his fingers to slip inside. “i’m almost there.. it’ll fit soon- i know it will.” you insisted, referring to the tool from earlier; the soul reason why he even agreed to do this in the first place.

though, maybe, you might have been thinking about something else.

and you might have succeeded in fooling him earlier, but he knew what you were up to now.

you watched his chest pump out dramatically, hearing him inhale sharply before finally letting his now ungloved fingers dip into your begging pussy—earning a groan from the both of you at the new feeling.

“god—you’re so fucking wet.” he mumbled quietly as he dug his fingers deeper, body inching even closer when he placed his other hand on the cushion underneath your thigh and rested his weight on it; a shaky breath fanning against your face from the close proximity.

his words made your core pulse, squeezing against his digits and holding them still for a second before his steady pace continued. now that he was standing and you sitting on the examination chair, his clothed cock was positioned perfectly in front of you.

he noticed the way you looked at down at it intently, letting his eyes follow yours to see the growing tent in his pants.

he hadn’t even noticed he was hard.

“thought you could get away with it, huh?” he questioned slyly, thumb moving up to draw circles on your clit as he pushed his fingers back and forth, eyes staring hazily into yours. “using me to get off.” he finished.

you whimpered loudly, hand pulling away from his to glide it up his muscled arm as you slowly shook your head no. you couldn’t really focus on what he was saying when you were so close.

that was what? the third lie of the day?

gojo laughed bitterly, a cry escaping from your mouth when he pulled his hand out unannounced to grab ahold of your arm, pushing you to lay back down on the chair; your legs snapping closed in front of you to trap what warm remanence of his fingers were left.

you felt his arms come up from under your thighs, pulling you forward so you hung right on the edge; only letting go soon after to reach for his buckle, impatiently undoing it so he could get to his pants next.

“if you wanted to cum so bad-” he began smugly, followed by the sound of the belt dropping to the floor—and his zipper coming undone. “you could have just asked.”

[ayyunah]

Odd one out at the gallery, wake up

[lazy-ahh]

A BEAUTIFUL, MONSTROUS THING

pairing sinister! mark grayson x (superhero) male reader

they call him a monster. you call him yours. (and when he smiles at you—all sharp teeth and ruined cities—you don’t flinch. you smile back.)

you always knew something was wrong with you. you never felt it before, not like this. the blood, the gore, the guts, the screaming—it never bothered you. or rather, you never bothered with it. it just… was. but now, with so much of it around you, splattered at your feet, clinging to your skin, how could you not notice? how could you not think about it?

you knew it was supposed to be wrong. when teachers talked about wars in history class, when news anchors whispered about innocents slaughtered by villains, you’d nod along. that’s not right, you’d say. and then? nothing. no lingering horror, no sleepless nights. just empty agreement before moving on.

you always thought it was odd. not the lack of feeling—but the way you could mimic it so well. in discussions, you’d frown at the right moments, sigh when others did. no one ever looked at you sideways. in fact, they looked at you with awe. you were a hero, after all. you pulled survivors from rubble, handed out soup at shelters, smiled for cameras when they asked why you did it.

"to help people," you said, voice steady, eyes warm. "what could be any better reason than that?"

to impress him, you thought.

mark grayson had always loved superheroes. of course he did—his dad was one. he’d ramble for hours about powers, about saving the world, about standing side by side with the greats. and you? you listened. you dreamed, too. not of justice, not of glory. just… him.

you’d close your eyes and see it—the two of you, flying side by side, fists covered in the same blood, grinning at grateful crowds. you’d look at him, your best friend, your something more, and—

then you’d wake up.

you were just as excited as he was for his powers to come in.

so imagine your shock (well, not really—somehow, you’d always known, hadn’t you? lurking in the back of your mind like a half-remembered dream, the certainty that of course it would end like this, of course he’d choose this, of course he’d be magnificent at it) when you finally found him.

mark hovered above the ruins of a skyscraper, the city below him a jagged wound of fire and twisted metal. his suit—once bright, now painted in slick, dripping red—clung to him like a second skin. his face was streaked with it, blood drying at the corners of his mouth where his grin split too wide, too sharp. his father loomed beside him, a monstrous shadow, but your eyes didn’t waver from him. from the way his chest rose and fell with exhilaration, the way his fingers flexed, still warm from the crush of bone.

you’d been sent by cecil to stop them. or, more accurately, to delay—because what were you, really, against the might of omni-man? against mark, who moved like a storm given flesh? you were a distraction. a stalling tactic. a sacrifice wrapped in spandex.

you flew toward him anyway, your mouth already forming words you didn’t mean. "mark, this isn’t you—" isn’t that funny? like you were scolding a child for tracking mud inside, not staring at the aftermath of a genocide. your voice almost carried the right note of disappointment, the practiced heroism, the performance of horror—

then he turned.

and you stopped.

because mark looked at you as he lifted his boot from the ruin of a man’s skull, the last wet crack still echoing in the air between you. his eyes were dark, endless, alight with something that made your breath hitch. his smirk curled, challenging, like he knew what you were. what you really were.

your hand flew to your chest.

your heart—

did it just stutter?

yes.

yes.

because oh—

oh.

there was something beautiful in the way he ruined things. in the way the fire painted his silhouette in gold and shadow. in the way his laughter rang, bright and unhinged, as the city burned beneath him. in the way he didn’t apologize. in the way he wouldn’t.

your eyes snap to nolan—his massive frame already turning toward you, shoulders squared, fists clenched in that way that means meat is about to become paste. the air around him hums with violence, the kind that flattens cities. the kind that ended cities, just minutes ago.

but before you can so much as tense, mark’s voice cuts through the smoke, lazy and dripping with amusement.

"it’s fine, dad. he’s not gonna do anything."

his tone is smug, unbearably so, like he’s sharing a private joke with the universe. and when you look at him—really look—he’s already staring back, head tilted just slightly, his smirk a razor’s edge of playful cruelty. blood is drying in his eyelashes. you wonder if he even notices.

you raise an eyebrow at him, lips pressed into that familiar, practiced line of defiance. the hero’s frown. the "this isn’t right" expression you’ve worn a thousand times before.

"oh? and why’s that?" you ask, voice steady.

mark’s grin widens.

because he knows.

he knows you’re not going to ball up your fists. he knows your pulse is racing for all the wrong reasons. he knows you’ve always been a liar.

and worst of all?

he knows.

he knows you like it - the way your breath catches when his fist sinks into concrete and flesh alike, how your traitorous heart pounds not in horror but in something far more damning. he knows how your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and trace the blood splattered across his cheekbone like war paint.

he knows that if you weren't pretending to be the hero right now, you'd simply float there, suspended in the carnage, drinking in the way the firelight dances across his sweat-slick skin. how you'd commit every detail to memory - the way his chest heaves with exhilaration, how his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes when the killing gets good.

he knows you'd admire it all - the broken bodies, the screaming, the destruction. but most of all, he knows you'd admire him - your beautiful, monstrous mark - as he remakes the world in his father's image, and you'd think, with terrifying certainty:

"yes. this is how a god should look."

mark’s grin widens—slow, like blood seeping through fabric. he drifts closer, close enough that the heat of his body mingles with the acrid smoke clinging to your suit. when he speaks, his voice is a velvet-wrapped razor, meant just for you:

"because you’ve never stopped me before."

his thumb brushes your chin, smearing a streak of blood—his? someone else’s?—across your jaw. "not when we were kids and i shoved that bully through the cafeteria window. not when i ‘accidentally’ snapped that villain’s spine last month." his fingers curl around the back of your neck, possessive, knowing. "and definitely not now, when you’re looking at me like this."

his other hand gestures to your face—your real face, the one you never let the cameras see. the one where your lips part too eagerly, your pupils swallow all the light, your chest rises with the kind of breathless anticipation usually reserved for altars.

"admit it," he murmurs, nose brushing yours, "you’ve always wanted to see how far i’d go."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

and god, how far he’d gone.

mark isn’t good. you know this. you’ve memorized the way blood spatters his lashes when he laughs mid-kill, how his shadow stretches long and monstrous across entire city blocks. it’s been weeks since chicago fell, since he and nolan painted the sky with fire and turned streets into open graves—and now every city after wears his fingerprints, cracked pavement still warm where he pressed his palms and pushed.

but you don’t care. you don’t want to.

you want to lick the rust from his knuckles, suck the violence from his fingertips. want to whisper "again, again" against his mouth when he comes home stinking of gasoline and regret. his cruelty is a living thing, coiled under his skin, and you love the way it bites—love the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he wouldn’t ruin (wouldn’t let him ruin).

he’s possessive. he’s cruel. he’s everything they warned you about.

you worship him for it.

"you’re mine," he snarls one night, fingers bruising your hips hard enough to stain your skin purple for days. you don’t mind. you crave it—the way he’ll spend those same days apologizing with his mouth, pressing tender, open-mouthed kisses over each mark as he looks up at you through dark lashes. his eyes are soft brown in the low light, honey-sweet if you ignore the vicious storm churning behind them, the way his pupils swallow all the warmth when your fingers tighten in his hair.

his teeth drag along your pulse, sharp enough to tease, to make your breath hitch—but he doesn’t bite. not yet. never where it’ll show. never where the cameras could catch it, where some hero might glance at the column of your throat and know. (but you wish he would. god, you wish he’d brand you right there, where everyone could see.)

"was there ever any doubt?" you gasp, arching into him like a prayer, like your body knows no other language but his. your fingers knot in his hair, yanking until his groan vibrates against your throat, until his hips jerk forward and the hard line of him presses against you, desperate. you can feel his smile, all feral edges, as you drag him closer—close enough to taste the copper on his tongue, the iron-sharp tang of someone else’s blood still clinging to his lips. he smells like burning buildings and something unforgivable, like gasoline and the ozone-crack of his own power, and you breathe him in like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

he kisses you like he’s carving his name into your ribs, like he wants to rewrite your DNA with his teeth. and you let him. he kisses you like he's starving, and you let him devour you whole. let him ruin you in all the ways that matter, let him peel you apart with every slick slide of his tongue. let him swallow every moan, every broken "yes, yes, mark—" like it’s the only word you remember, the only one that ever mattered.

(and maybe it is. maybe you forgot your own name weeks ago, lost somewhere between his teeth and the wreckage he calls love. maybe you don’t care. maybe you’d let him ruin cities just to keep his hands right here, right now, mapping your skin like he owns it—

because he does.

he always has.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"hey, can we talk?"

the voice cuts through the dim hum of the underground bunker, too gentle for a world ending above you. you turn slowly, arms crossed tight over your chest - the perfect picture of a weary hero barely holding it together. the concrete walls feel like they're pressing in, the stale air thick with the scent of sweat and desperation. you'd rather be anywhere but here.

anywhere but here means tangled in bloodstained sheets with the boy who lit the sky on fire.

eve stands beside you, her once-lustrous red hair now gone as she pulls down her hood, revealing her buzz cut. the girl who used to laugh while flying through clouds now carries shadows under her eyes deep enough to drown in. you keep playing your part, even now. no one knows about the nights you spend curled against mark's chest, tracing the scars on his knuckles while cities burn.

"yes, of course. what do you need, eve?" you uncross your arms, letting your expression soften into something resembling concern. your voice is all practiced warmth, the kind that used to comfort civilians after villain attacks. the irony tastes sweet on your tongue.

eve fidgets, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "well... it's just..." she looks away, toward the flickering emergency lights. "this sounds ridiculous, and i'm sorry but... are you... okay?"

the question hangs between you, almost funny in its innocence. because you've never been better. mark's hands in your hair last night, his teeth at your shoulder this morning, the way he whispers "mine" like it's the only truth left in the world -

"yeah... yeah, i guess i'm doing fine. better than last week, at least." you let your voice crack just right, tilting your head down so she can't see the way your lips threaten to curve. the exhaustion in your tone is a masterpiece, honed through weeks of performance.

eve reaches out, her hand warm on your shoulder. "hey, it's okay," she says, and god, she means it. her kindness is a physical thing, radiating through her touch. "i know it feels impossible right now, but we'll get through this. together." her thumb rubs small circles against your jacket. "you're not alone in this, okay? we're all struggling, but we've got each other."

for a moment - just a moment - you feel it. the guilt, sharp as a knife between your ribs. she's so good, so earnest, standing in the ruins of everything and still trying to comfort you.

but then you remember mark's laugh against your skin, the way the flames reflected in his eyes when he told you "this is just the beginning", and the guilt melts like wax under a match.

you cover her hand with yours, squeezing gently. "thanks, eve. that... that means a lot."

(she'll be dead in a minute. along with everyone else here. you won't warn her.

some loves are worth more than the world.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

people call you crazy for loving him. maybe you are. but when he comes home with blood crusted under his fingernails and the scent of burning flesh clinging to his clothes, you don't flinch. you just card your fingers through his hair - matted with someone else's life - and whisper "beautiful" against his temple like it's a prayer.

"you're fucked up," he murmurs into the hollow of your throat, voice ragged with something between reverence and hunger. his hands are still warm from the carnage, leaving smudges of red on your hips as he pulls you closer.

"takes one to know one," you breathe back, laughing when he nips at your jaw in retaliation, all sharp teeth and darker promises. the sound catches in your throat when a wet, choked sob cuts through the moment.

eve.

she's sprawled on the rubble-strewn floor like a broken doll, her body paralyzed but her eyes burning with betrayal. tears carve clean streaks through the dust on her face, her glare so full of hate it almost makes you shiver. almost.

the memory of your last conversation with her plays behind your ribs like a favorite song:

"is it wrong that i still love him?" you'd asked, letting the mask slip just enough to watch her squirm. your head tilted, the picture of innocent curiosity even as your fingers twitched with the urge to hurt.

eve's face had cycled through shock, confusion, then dawning horror. "how could you still love him after... after all this?" her voice cracked like the foundations above you.

you'd made a show of considering it, humming while tapping a finger against your lips. "give me one good reason why i shouldn't."

"he's murdered thousands of people-"

"i said a good reason, eve." your interruption came with a smile, cold and knife-sharp. the way her breath hitched when understanding crashed over her sent a thrill down your spine.

"wait... the survivors in your group. you didn't... you didn't kill them, did you? you lied about them getting killed by omni-man. you said you had barely managed to get out." her voice trembled, the pieces slotting together too late. "why would you-"

the ceiling exploded before she could finish.

concrete rained down on screaming survivors as mark descended through the dust like some wrathful god, nolan standing beside him. your heart had leapt at the sight - at the way mark's eyes found you first, always you, even amidst the chaos.

"told you we were close," nolan said to mark before the carnage began.

"you did a good job, gorgeous. loved the way you caught them for me." mark presses a tender kiss on your cheek. he'd purred later, licking the blood from your knuckles with a devotion that bordered on worship.

now, watching eve's tears mix with the debris, you feel nothing but the press of mark's lips against your pulse and the sweet, certain knowledge:

you'd burn the world a thousand times over just to keep his hands this warm.

2.8k words of sinister mark and his equally deranged partner—congrats, you’ve stumbled into the toxic love story of your dreams! kidding! this is for my fellow dark romance people, the ones who like their kisses bloody and their devotion downright blasphemous. hope i did our favorite unhinged viltrumite justice (and that i’ve successfully dragged you into this invincible variants hole that i'm in). enjoy, you beautiful bozos—teehee <3

[dellamortte]

i was curious what lucanis looks like when he’s been captured by ghilan’nain and it turns out he is actually looking directly at rook as they are fighting to free him 😭

[hootyhoowoo]

A little 15 min doodle but first post of the year has to be Bingqiu!

[satsuha]

hairstyle 🔄

[zimish0scar]

I Don’t Know What To Label This

I thought since I’ve (kind of) figured out how to draw some of The Venture Bros characters in their original style recently that I’d try and use that to figure out a better way to draw Dib,, and it worked so here’s a collection of doodles I did in school today of me abusing that power. Quite a few of the doodles are a bit messy and wonky though, sorry about that.

[cheekylittlepupp]

what do you think a vampire spawn tastes like?

[atheistcake]

What a day, huh

[kindaasrikal]

Glow little glow worm glow

[dreamsy990]

TELEMACHUS AND ANTINOUS. FINALLY

[lazy-ahh]

THE CROWBAR WASN'T THE WORST OF IT (WATCHING YOU FORGET HOW TO SMILE IS)

pairing arkham knight! jason todd x (vigilante) male reader

you'd recognize him anywhere—even through the armor, even through the years. the arkham knight moves like a ghost, but you know the weight of his footsteps, the hitch in his breath when he lies. and when he saves you from a bat to the skull, you do the one thing that might break you both: you pretend not to know him, the boy under the armor who still wears your old hoodie beneath his kevlar.

the night is thick with the scent of rain and blood, the alleyway slick under your boots as you drive another fist into a henchman’s jaw. his head snaps back with a wet crack, teeth scattering across the pavement like broken glass. you don’t stop—can’t stop. not when every punch is another scream silenced, another debt paid in the name of the boy you lost.

there are too many of them. twelve, maybe fifteen, all armed, all desperate. one swings a knife at your ribs—you twist, catching his wrist and snapping it backward until the bone juts white through skin. he howls, but the sound is cut short when you slam his face into the brick wall. another charges, crowbar raised; you duck, driving your elbow into his gut before kneeing him in the chin. blood sprays from his mouth as he crumples.

you’re faster, angrier, but exhaustion claws at your muscles, your breaths ragged. your knuckles are split, your ribs scream with every movement, but you don’t care. pain is just another reminder that you’re still alive when he isn’t.

a fist clips your temple—stars burst behind your eyes. you stagger, tasting copper, but lash out blindly. your fingers find a throat, squeeze until the man gurgles, his face purpling. you drop him like trash.

you don’t see the one behind you.

the glint of a bat swings toward your skull—

a gunshot rings out.

the henchman drops before the bat can connect, his body slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. your head whips toward the rooftop where the shot came from—just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the darkness. the figure moves with lethal grace, dropping down in front of you with a heavy thud that sends cracks spiderwebbing through the pavement. the dim glow of the streetlight catches on his armor, painting the edges of his helmet in flickering blue.

the arkham knight.

your body screams at you to move, to fight, but exhaustion weighs your limbs down like lead. instead, you shift into a defensive stance—not aggressive, but wary. this man just saved you, after all. you’ve heard the whispers about him. a ghost in armor. a mercenary with no master. but the way he stands, the tilt of his head, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly to the left—just like he used to.

and then he speaks.

“you’re reckless.”

his voice is distorted by the modulator, mechanical and cold, but beneath it—beneath it—there’s a cadence you’d recognize in your sleep. the way the words curl at the edges, the faintest hint of a growl that used to tease you, scold you, laugh with you.

your heart stutters.

no. no, it can’t be. god, please don't give me hope. i don't think i'll be able to recover if this isn't him-

but then he shifts again, and the scent of gunpowder and leather hits you—buried under the sharp tang of metal and sweat, but there. it’s the same smell that used to cling to his jacket when he’d sling it over your shoulders after patrol. the same smell that lingered in your apartment long after he’d left.

and his breathing—even through the helmet, you can hear it. steady. controlled. the same rhythm you used to match when you’d lie beside him under the stars, counting each inhale like a prayer.

your throat tightens.

it’s him.

you know it’s him.

the lump in your throat feels like a stone, heavy and suffocating, but you force your voice steady anyway. “thanks for the save.” the words come out quieter than you meant, almost lost in the ringing silence after the gunfire.

he doesn’t answer. just turns smoothly—too smoothly, the way only someone trained by the bat could move—and fires two more shots. the bullets hit their marks with brutal precision, dropping the last fleeing henchmen before they even make it three steps. the alley falls deathly still, the only sound the distant scream of sirens and the drip of blood from your split knuckles onto the pavement.

“you should leave,” he says, still refusing to look at you. his voice is flat, controlled, but you hear the tension underneath. like he’s holding himself back. “cops’ll be here soon.”

you don’t move. can’t. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to grab the edge of that helmet, to rip it off and see for yourself if his eyes are still the same stormy green that used to roll at your bad jokes. but you don’t. you play the game—just like old times, when one of you was being dramatic and the other had to pretend not to notice. back when things were easy. back when he was alive.

“you’re not sticking around?” you ask, tilting your head the way you know would’ve made him smirk.

he hesitates. just a fraction of a second, but you catch it. “...not my style.”

“then why help me?”

this time, the pause stretches longer. you can practically hear him weighing his words, calculating how much to give away. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, the modulator struggling to hide the roughness underneath. “...you fight like you’ve got something to prove.”

you almost laugh. you have no idea.

instead, you shrug, flexing your aching fingers. “maybe i do.”

he watches you—you can feel the weight of his gaze even through the mask, familiar and intense—before jerking his chin toward the fire escape. “come on. unless you wanna explain this to gordon.”

you follow. like you always would have. like you should have. like part of you never stopped.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the rooftops hold their breath between you, the city sprawled beneath like a bleeding masterpiece—neon smears of violet and gold reflected in rain puddles, shadows stretching like fresh bruises across alleyways. he stands apart, but not far enough that you can't see how the armor clings to him, how it sculpts the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the stubborn set of his jaw even beneath the helmet. his arms are crossed, but you remember how they felt wrapped around you once, all lean muscle and warmth, and now they're corded with new strength, thicker with the weight of whatever hell he's survived. his fingers press into his own biceps hard enough to dent flesh, like he's physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

you pretend not to notice the way his chest rises just a little too fast under the plating. pretend not to trace the lines of him with your eyes, relearning what time and pain have reshaped. he's taller now, broader, a weapon honed sharp where he used to be all reckless angles and grinning bravado. but he still carries himself the same—like the world is something to be challenged, like he's bracing for impact.

"so," you begin, letting your legs swing over the drop like you're dangling over the edge of everything you've lost and everything that's just been given back. the wind claws at your clothes, impatient. "you just make a habit of saving random vigilantes?"

"you're not random." the words tear free like they've been ripped from him, raw at the edges, and his whole body goes rigid after, shoulders hiking like he can choke them back down.

your lips twist into something that might pass for a smile if it didn't feel like your chest was cracking open. "oh? you know me?"

"i know of you." each syllable is measured, careful, like he's walking a tightrope over an abyss. "you've been... active."

active. such a small word for the carnage you've carved into gotham's bones. you've painted the streets in the language of your grief—knuckles split on teeth that will never say his name, ribs bruised against pavement as you chased the ghost of a laugh you'll never hear. every fracture you've dealt, every scream you've pulled from the dark—love letters written in violence to a ghost who was never really dead.

"someone's gotta clean up the trash," you mutter, watching a distant police siren bleed red across the skyline. your fingers skim the rough edge of the rooftop, where concrete crumbles into nothing. just like the edge you've been balancing on since they handed you a closed casket and a lie.

now you know.

now you see.

the silence stretches between you, thick enough to choke on. the city's distant hum fades into nothing, until all you can hear is the ragged rhythm of your own breathing and the quiet creak of his armored gloves tightening into fists. then, barely louder than the wind—

"what made you start?"

the question lands like a punch to the ribs. you stare down at your hands, at the blood crusted in the grooves of your knuckles, at the fresh crimson welling up from split skin. each scar, each bruise—a confession written in violence.

"lost someone," you murmur, and the words taste like rotten milk.

"...who?"

you close your eyes. the image comes unbidden—wild dark hair, that stupid half-smirk, green eyes bright with mischief. you. i lost you. i lost you and it broke me.

"a friend," you force out instead, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "he was... good. too good for this fucked-up city. better than any of us deserved."

the arkham knight goes statue-still. even the subtle whir of his armor seems to freeze.

"what happened to him?"

"joker happened." the name sears your tongue, venomous and vile. your hands shake. you clench them. "he was robin. the second one. jason todd." his name—his real name—shatters between you like glass.

you hear it—the sharp, aborted inhale. see the way his fists clench so tight the armor groans in protest.

you can't stop now. the words are clawing their way up your throat like they've been waiting years to be free. "he was brave in that stupid way that made your heart stop. reckless like he had something to prove to the whole damn world." your breath hitches, the night air suddenly too thick. "stubborn as hell—once he got an idea in his head, nothing could shake it loose." the ghost of his grin flickers behind your eyelids, that infuriating, beautiful smirk that always meant trouble. a wet, broken laugh escapes you, tasting like salt and regret. "god, he pissed off all the right people. had a mouth on him that could start fights in an empty room and a laugh that could make you forgive him for it instantly."

your voice cracks like thin ice under the weight of memory. "he was my best friend. my—" the truth burns behind your teeth, everything. he was my sunrise and my last good night's sleep. the reason i breathed easier and the reason my hands won't stop shaking now. "and i didn't save him." the admission carves through you, fresh as the day they told you. "i should've been there. should've ignored the rules, should've followed him that night, should've—" your fists clench, blood welling in crescent moons where your nails meet flesh. "i should've died with him if i couldn't save him. anything would've been better than this." the words hang between you, raw and bleeding, all the things you've never said aloud finally given voice in the shadow of the boy they belong to.

the air between you shatters like thin ice underfoot, the pieces glinting dangerously in the dim light. the arkham knight jerks away as if burned, his armored shoulders curling inward like he's trying to fold himself into nothing. the weight of his name—his real name—and your confession hangs between you like a noose, and for a breathless moment, you swear you can hear his heart pounding through the armor.

"you cared about him." his voice is scraped raw, the modulator struggling to contain the tremor beneath. it's not a question—it's an accusation, a plea, a prayer.

"more than anything," you whisper, and the words taste like blood in your mouth. like the last confession of a dying man.

he doesn't move. doesn't breathe. for one terrifying second, you think he might actually crumble under the weight of it all. then, with a shuddering exhale, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—fingers grazing the edge of his helmet like he's testing the temperature of a flame.

your lungs seize. please. please—

but he stops. his hand falls back to his side like a dead weight, fingers twitching once before curling into a fist. the silence that follows is deafening.

"he'd hate what you're doing," he grinds out, voice cracking under the strain. "the way you're—" a sharp inhale. "throwing yourself into fights like you've got nothing left to lose. he wouldn't—" the modulator glitches, betraying him. "he wouldn't want you to get hurt."

you smile, but it's a brittle thing, all sharp edges and broken promises. "yeah," you agree softly, your thumb brushing absently over a fresh cut on your knuckles. "he was always like that. protective to a fault." your eyes flick up to where his visor gleams in the low light. "guess some things never change."

the arkham knight goes statue-still. not even the subtle whir of his armor dares to break the silence. you can feel the war raging inside him—the desperate need to reach for you battling against the fear of what comes after. the distance between you has never felt so vast, even though you could reach out and touch him if you tried.

(you don't try.)

the moment stretches between you, trembling like a bowstring pulled too tight. you watch the way his armored fingers twitch—reaching, hesitating, pulling back—a dance of want and fear played out in micro-movements.

"he'd want you to be safe," he says finally, voice so low the modulator nearly swallows the words whole. the way he says it—like he's pleading, like he's begging you to understand something—makes your chest ache.

you huff a laugh, kicking a loose pebble off the roof's edge. "he'd want a lot of things." the pebble disappears into the darkness below. "world peace. better pizza. for me to stop stealing his hoodies." you don't miss the way his breath catches at that. "but we don't always get what we want, do we?"

his helmet tilts just slightly, that familiar considering angle you'd know anywhere. "you kept them." it's not a question. "his things."

"like a damn shrine," you admit, rubbing your thumb over a fresh cut on your knuckles. "his favorite mug still sits by my coffee maker. his stupid dinosaur-print socks are in my top drawer." your voice drops to a whisper. "i couldn't let go. not of any of it."

the armor creaks as he shifts his weight, that old nervous habit he never shook. "that's... fucked up." but there's no heat in it—just something painfully close to wonder.

"tell me about it." you lean back on your hands, staring up at the smog-choked stars. "you ever love someone so much it ruins you?"

the silence that follows is answer enough. when he finally speaks, his voice is raw. "he'd hate seeing you like this. all... broken."

"maybe." you turn to look at him, at the way the city lights reflect off that damned helmet. "but he's not here to see it, is he?"

the sharp intake of breath tells you that landed exactly where you meant it to. you watch his chest rise and fall too fast, watch the way his hands flex like he wants to strangle something—maybe you, maybe himself.

"you're an asshole," he grinds out, but there's no real anger behind it. just pain. just longing.

you smile, soft and sad. "yeah. he used to say that too."

the space between your hands feels charged, like the quiet before a lightning strike. you watch his gloved fingers twitch—once, twice—before they finally move. his touch is featherlight, just the barest brush of his knuckles against yours, but it sends a shockwave through your entire body. it’s him. that same hesitant, half-awkward way he’d always reached for you, like he was never quite sure he was allowed to.

your breath catches.

he pulls back like he’s been burned, the armor plating of his forearm scraping against yours as he jerks away. but the ghost of his touch lingers, burning brighter than any wound you’ve ever earned in battle.

"stay," you murmur, still staring at the space where his hand had been. the word comes out cracked, desperate in a way you haven’t let yourself sound in years.

he goes utterly still. you can hear the ragged hitch of his breath through the modulator, can see the way his shoulders tense like he’s fighting against himself.

"you don't even know who i am," he grinds out, voice scraping through the modulator like gravel over glass. it's meant to sound mocking, but the way it fractures halfway through betrays him—there's something shattered beneath that armored exterior, something raw and wounded that no amount of mechanical distortion can hide.

you smile, slow and aching, the expression pulling at the split in your lip. "you're the arkham knight," you murmur, tipping your head back to stare at the smog-choked sky. your voice is calm, too calm, like the eerie stillness before a storm. as if that title explains why his gloved fingers linger near yours, why the space between you feels charged with something electric and ancient. as if you haven't memorized the exact way he holds himself, haven't spent years dreaming of that familiar silhouette against gotham's skyline.

the silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. the city pulses below like a living thing—car horns blaring in the distance, a siren wailing its mournful song, the ever-present hum of neon signs flickering against the darkness. all of it indifferent to the way your heart pounds against your ribs, to the way your pulse jumps when his armored knee brushes against yours. accidental, maybe, but he doesn't pull away. doesn't even pretend to.

you don't either. you can't. not when this is the closest you've been to him in years, not when every fiber of your being screams to reach out and—

the night stretches on around you, heavy with unsaid words and half-remembered promises. the air tastes like rain and gunpowder and something bittersweet you can't name. not yet. but soon.

(soon.)

3k words worth of angst and AHHH MY POOR BOY JASON I'M SORRYYYYY

[mochi-shortcake]

"You know I'm the only one who'll love your sins, Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin"