detectivesparrow

[detectivesparrow]

Caleb has a panic attack after your wedding

[detectivesparrow]

I LOVE THEM!!!

[detectivesparrow]

suna rintarou x f!reader — 18+, period sex, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, blood, and they were roommates

roommate!suna who never fails to notice when you’re upset. who’s all snark and flirting until the moment that the downturn of your mouth seems genuine.

who hates the dickhead you’ve been sleeping with.

who hates him even more when you try to wipe away the fresh sheen of tears that coats your cheeks when you quietly slip in the door just past midnight.

who doesn’t even have it in him to make a teasing remark about your late night booty call not even letting you sleep over, not when you collapse on the couch beside him in a heap of sniffles. not when he recognizes the sweatshirt you’re wearing as his.

and when suna asks what’s wrong, you find that you’re too tired, too annoyed, too flustered to make up any excuse other than telling him what really happened—you got your period, and he thought it was gross. gross enough to make it abundantly clear he didn’t want you spending the night in his bed, either.

and because it’s suna and the boundaries of conversation between the two of you are nonexistent on a good day anyway, you dig your hole even deeper as you pathetically lament into a throw pillow, “i’ve been so horny all week and my vibrator broke and i kind of feel like i’m losing my mind so now i’m going to have to go use the shower head so i don’t make a gross mess—“

maybe it’s just because you’re exhausted.

maybe it’s because you know the guy you’ve been hooking up with hates suna just as much as suna hates him.

maybe it’s because the ache between your thighs has reached a maddening fever pitch.

“—i have a better idea.”

maybe it’s because you’ve been fumbling beneath a suffocating blanket of sexual tension with suna for years.

whatever it is, when suna interrupts you, your mouth snaps shut, and you tilt your head with interest.

he huffs out a quiet laugh at the way you perk up, thumb wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. “you’ve just got to trust me.”

trusting him, as it turns out, looks like you sitting on top of a towel on the couch with your legs spread, suna kneeling on the floor in front of you. and you don’t even have time to feel yourself burn with embarrassment over the mess he’s looking at, not when suna outright groans as he sinks a long finger into your soaked folds.

“stop covering your face,” suna murmurs, his gaze boring a hole into your own when he starts pumping two fingers in and out of your wet hole, every thrust met by the filthy squelch of blood and arousal.

you let your hands drop back down to your sides, head falling against the back of the sofa as he curls his fingers inside of you and strokes your swollen clit with his thumb.

“and don’t ever let anyone tell you this is gross,” he breathes out, free hand caressing your inner thigh as your blood coats his fingers.

“isn’t it, though?” you exhale, hips twitching as pleasure ricochets through your nerves, the coil in your gut winding tighter as you feel the towel beneath your ass grow wetter by the minute.

suna breathes out through his nose, an amused exhale, and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of the smear of blood that’s dripped all over it. “do you know how hard i am right now?”

you inhale sharply at the implication, and suna grins, pumping your soaked, filthy cunt even faster.

“if anything, you’ll think i’m the gross one for what else i wanna do,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin.

something bright and hot slides down your spine, and you swallow hard. “show me.”

if suna’s fingers in your blood-soaked pussy had you squirming, his tongue has you on the verge of sobbing, desperate tears clinging to the corners of your eyes as his name tumbles from your throat in gasping, hiccuping breaths.

fingers buried in his dark hair, suna moans as he eats you out, one hand clearly palming his dick through his shorts as he laves at your wet slit, sucks on your throbbing clit, and thrusts his tongue into your tight hole.

you think you’re begging for something, anything. you don’t even know what at this point. suna sounds just as wrecked as you feel, your blood smeared all over his lips and chin as he fucks you relentlessly with his tongue like he’s trying to devour your pleasure whole.

your orgasm tears through you, shoving a scream of pleasure past your lips while suna thrusts two fingers back inside of you and laps at your clit until you’re shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation.

—but it’s not enough, somehow.

not when you see the sticky, red mess all over his face and hands.

not when you watch him lick one of his fingers clean.

not when you see the wet spot of precum that stains the front of his shorts, his erection still straining against the material.

suna seems genuinely surprised when you rise from the couch and push him to the floor, eyebrows shooting up as you pull down his shorts and boxers and let his flushed cock spring free.

you stare down at him for a moment, the unspoken words written clearly across your face—but will you think i’m gross for what else i want to do?

suna smiles, hands sliding over your thighs as you straddle him, and he mouths, show me.

it’s filthy—the way you slide your soaked folds up and down the length of his cock. the blood and arousal that soaks his dick as you tease him until he’s gasping.

until he’s groaning your name and panting as you ease his thick cock into your aching pussy, his hips twitching with each wet, sticky inch.

you ride suna until you come all over his cock, until the feeling of your tight cunt contracting desperately on his length is what finally sends him over the edge, stuffing you deep as he fucks his cum up into you with sloppy, jerking thrusts.

you’re both a mess when it’s over, blood and cum sliding down his dick and dripping from between your thighs, the carpet somehow spared from it all as you reach behind you for the towel.

“shower?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

you raise a brow, “now you think i’m gross?”

“no,” suna smirks. “i was just hoping you’d show me how you were planning on using our showerhead.”

[detectivesparrow]

Brant sketch I’ve been holding on to

[detectivesparrow]

matsukawa issei x f!reader x semi eita — 18+, band au, fooling around in a hot tub, dry humping, handjob, fingering, (continued from)

“what do you think of the new song?”

matsukawa’s voice is low and smooth, and you have to lean in just a bit to hear him over the steady gurgling of the hot tub jets. his dark waves are damp from the rising steam, and the golden glow of the string lights that dot semi’s backyard reflects in his eyes as he looks at you. 

before you can fumble for an answer, semi leans his chin on your shoulder and smirks, “oh, she’s a big fan.”

you elbow him underwater, which doesn’t do you much good, considering you’re sitting in his lap. 

mattsun catches the movement, watching the two of you with open curiosity. “are you dating?” he asks curiously. 

a huff of amusement leaves semi’s lips, because he’s your best friend. and the two of you have fooled around plenty. you’ll probably sleep in his bed tonight, after all.

but semi wants you to fuck matsukawa.

he likes when he’s hanging out with seijoh and texts you some covert picture of matsukawa leaning against a wall wearing sunglasses and all black from head to toe, a cigarette hanging between his lips. and all you can reply back with is a string of unintelligible letters.

semi likes when he’s fucking you, when he asks if you touched yourself looking at the picture that he sent you, when he tells you that you’re definitely matsukawa’s type and feels you gasp and clench down on him.

“no,” semi tells him plainly, nose brushing against your cheek. “but the answer to your next question would still be yes, even if we were.”

the corner of matsukawa’s mouth twitches, and he meets your gaze. because it’s your answer he needs. “would it?”

you smile at him then. “depends on what your next question was.”

matsukawa laughs.

you’re thankful the party’s long-since died down when you find yourself in matsukawa’s lap, his mouth on yours. semi’s pressed up against your back, fingers stroking your sensitive, pebbled nipples through your swimsuit top.

you gasp against mattsun’s lips when semi pinches down, hot water splashing out over the side of the hot tub as you arch your back at the sharp sensation. matsukawa hushes you with his mouth, tongue sliding along the seam of your lips to deepen the kiss. your whine reverberates in his throat when semi undoes the knot from your top and exposes your bare, wet tits to the cool night air, fingers quick to take the place of the dripping material. 

arousal and need pulse between your thighs as you feel the outline of matsukawa’s dick pressed up against you, already growing dizzy at the promise of its length.

semi’s hand comes up to caress your jaw, his mouth ghosting matsukawa’s as he leans in to kiss you. 

“she likes it like this,” semi tells him, his hands wrapping around your waist and guiding you back and forth in the cradle of mattsun’s lap.

part of you wants to make a joke about dry humping.

about how like is a mild way to put it. about how you and semi have come in your pants more times than you can count like this on the couch. when a lazy makeout session turns into needy grinding and taking off your clothes comes secondary to the sensation of your soaking wet underwear sliding against your puffy folds while you rock over the outline of his cock—

about how there’s absolutely nothing dry about this at all right now.

but you don’t get a chance to, not when every last word dies in your throat as matsukawa splays a large palm flat against the dip of your lower back and pulls you in just as he rocks his hips upward.

“oh,” you moan, pleasure dancing white-hot over your nerves as you feel every last inch of matsukawa’s dick while he drags your cunt along the length of it.

“i like this, too,” matsukawa tells you, thumb stroking your chin as his other hand slips down into your bathing suit bottoms, long fingers cupping your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. “but i have a better idea.”

water sloshes as he turns you around, hooking your legs around the outside of his thighs so you’re spread open wide and facing semi. 

semi wastes no time in leaning in, mouth closing over your tits before he begins to suck. his tongue is hot as it laves over your sensitive nipple, and you keen, fingers tangling in his hair. he moans when you tug on it, sucking harder, free hand grasping the erection tented heavily at the front of his swim shorts. matsukawa’s dick is thick and hard where it rests between your ass cheeks.

long digits slide over your hip and tug aside your swimsuit bottoms, just enough for a middle finger to sink into your tight hole knuckle-deep. matsukawa groans when he feels how wet you are, slick and dripping with sticky arousal even in the hot tub, cunt fluttering around his touch and not to subtly begging for more as you buck your hips into it.

a sound of amusement rumbles in his throat, and his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “how about this then?”

your fingers wrap around semi’s cock, and his forehead falls against yours as he pants into your mouth. matsukawa’s other hand strokes your sensitive nipples, thumb rolling around each of the peaked buds like he's stroking a pick over the strings of his guitar.

semi takes your bottom lip between his teeth as matsukawa’s tongue presses hotly into the tender spot behind your earlobe, as he adds a second finger and stuffs both into your aching hole to the last knuckle. 

“yes,” you tell him, voice breaking on a whine. 

a third finger slides in, this one belonging to semi, their hands joining as one while they pump in and out of your cunt. and there's something wholly filthy about this that leaves you drunk on the feeling, that has drool pooling in the back of your mouth and a heady, untamed feeling unravelling in your gut.

(that has you on the verge of begging for more.)

(and isn't that funny, how greedy you can be, even with the long, dexterous fingers of two handsome guitarists stuffed inside of you at once.)

“so pretty like this, baby,” semi murmurs against your mouth, rutting his cock into your tight fist. “so fucking pretty.”

matsukawa hums in agreement, nose brushing against your cheek. “he’s right.”

something in your chest dips and swoops, licking its way down each notch of your spine before settling hot and sticky in your belly. 

you’re wholly bucking into semi and mattsun’s thrusts now as they fuck their fingers into you, ass dragging repeatedly over mattsun’s cock while you continue to pump semi’s with just as much fervor. 

and when your orgasm hits you, it’s enough to punch the air out of your lungs, pleasure cresting over your limbs in dripping, hot waves between murmurs of “that’s it” and “so goddamn pretty” and “good girl" while you moan and shake and choke out a sob.

semi follows right after, sinking somewhere between your lap and mattsun’s once his spent dick goes limp.

and for all that you’re prepared to indulge yourself in the mouth-watering urge to suck matsukawa’s cock, he doesn’t seem the least bit sorry to have come from rutting against the globes of your ass.

"the song sounds great, by the way," you eventually say while you're catching your breath. "both of you together is like a dream."

semi snorts.

mattsun raises his eyebrows. "oh?"

you drag a hand over your face, somehow embarassed even now while matsukawa's gently massaging your slick, oversensitive folds with one finger and semi's kissing your shoulder.

"singing together."

"uh huh," semi replies.

"just singing?" mattsun asks, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.

[detectivesparrow]

Redrew the Gojo/Jogo fight but with Caleb and Viper

[detectivesparrow]

Title: The Fight Drive.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 2k.

TW: Fem!Reader, Mentions of Kidnapping + Prolonged Captivity, Mentions of Past Assault, Sleep Deprivation, Implied Food + Water Deprivation, Obsessive Behavior, Non-Graphic Violence, and Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Finale]

On your way out, you stole Jason’s bike for good measure. You’d never been on a motorcycle without him before, but you couldn’t really bring yourself to care about crashing, and you’d picked up a few things in those long, boring days you were forced to pass watching the Wayne family live their short, dangerous lives. Either way, you’d pretty much gotten the hang of it by the time you crossed the state border.

You couldn’t afford to waste time on sleep. Energy drinks and coffee were enough to keep you awake on an empty stomach. You traded the bike for an ancient junker as you passed through Maryland and again in Washington DC, to a woman you met in a diner named Selina. She was laughing as she handed over the keys to a car nicer than you deserved. Exhausted, starving, and paranoid, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to ask what she found so funny.

Keeping track of Bruce wasn’t hard. Even in the most rural areas, tabloids reported sightings of his private jet religiously, and more reputable magazines stolen off convenience store racks kept you updated on his business trips, in-person deals, and charity events. Batman’s activity lulled, growing sporadic as a laundry list of his b-rated sidekicks attempted to fill the void. You’d give it about a month, maybe two before Gotham devolved violently enough for him to call off the search. It left a bitter taste in your mouth – knowing how willing he was to put the safety of his city aside when it was his peace of mind in danger.

The trip took longer than it had to, mostly because of your stubborn refusal to use any road they so much as might be able to track you on. You spent Jason’s money on gas when you could, food when you had to, and motels when your body threatened to break down if not properly rested. The only time you stopped for longer than a few minutes, it was in a by-the-hour inn on the outskirts of a larger city. You made the mistake of using your real name, of forgetting to barricade your door before collapsing into the creaking, yellowed mattress.

By the time you rolled over, Cassandra was perched on the foot of your bed.

You managed to pretend you were asleep for all of a second before Cassandra turned her head a little too quickly, a little too smoothly, and you were falling out of bed, scrambling to the far wall just to put that much more distance between you and her.

Like an idiot, you’d left your gun in your car. Defenseless and paralyzed, it was all you could do to meet her eyes as she stared you down.

“Is Bruce—”

“In Montreal. Tim thought you might try to cross the border.” Her tone was impassive, and the darkness hid most of her expression. She’d made it here before sunrise, meaning it was still the best time of day to drag someone unwilling back to somewhere they didn’t want to be. “Not happy. Jason is…”

She trailed off. You tried to fill in the gaps. “Jason is alive?”

The beat of silence that followed made it clear that wouldn’t have been her choice of words. Still, she nodded. “Alive. Angry. Dick, too.”

Your mind was a haven for contradictory thoughts. That was terrible. That was great. The guilt was practically eating you alive. You hope they both spent the rest of their lives as miserable as they made you.

“Do you hate us?”

Last time she’d asked, Stephanie had been there to answer for you, to smooth over any worries with chirped platitudes and easy humor. Now, the question hung in the air. You let your gaze fall to the ground.

“I can’t go back.” Your voice sounded hollow. “I can’t be forced to do something that’ll break me, again and again. I won’t let myself live like that.”

Cassandra hummed. You heard the mattress creak, her feet pad against the carpeted floor. “You should leave. Dick will be here in…” She paused. “Soon. He’ll be here soon.”

You didn’t bother responding. It took you long, precious second to skirt around the edges of the room, careful never to get within arm’s reach of her. You were behind the wheel before the adrenaline faded. Cassandra watched from the doorway, her eyes locked on your vehicle until you were too far to track.

~

You arrived in Kanas not long after. The farmhouse wasn’t hard to find, if a little out of your way. You only had to knock twice before a tall man opened the door, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

He smiled when he saw you – that softened, sympathetic type of smile you might pull out when you find an abandoned kitten or a stray dog. You could understand why. You looked like shit. The motel room had been your last stop. That was two days ago, now.

“Sorry to bother you,” you offered, clinging to your last few scraps of decency. “Are you Superman?”

“Clark,” he corrected hastily. Didn’t deny it, though. “And you’re Bruce’s…?”

Your abject horror must’ve been apparent. He rushed to apologize. “Sorry, sorry, I—uh, I recognize your heartbeat. He used to tap it out during League meetings.”

If you’d had anything in your stomach, you might’ve felt sick. “Is your wife home?”

“We were just about to sit down for dinner.” And then, all Southern manners and country charm, “Care to join us?”

You gave yourself thirty minutes. Fifteen to eat, ten to show their youngest son (and, by association, the grumpy teenager pretending not to watch) a magic trick you’d learned in college, and five to pull Lois aside and recite all the Wayne Enterprise passwords, back-doors, and poorly encrypted private forums you knew. You tried to make a hasty escape, but Clark caught you by the shoulder, asked about the rest of your trip, mentioned that their guestroom could use some company. It didn’t seem like he was willing to take no for an answer.

For the first time since leaving Jason’s apartment, you got eight beautiful, heavenly, uninterrupted hours of dreamless sleep. The Kents’ shower was similarly orgasmic, and you savored every second you spent under the scalding hot water, secure in the knowledge that the only door was well and truly locked.

All good things had to come to an end eventually, though. You should’ve known that by now.

Your paradise cracked and broke open the moment you stepped out of the bathroom. Leaning against the bedroom door, jaw set and eyes narrowed, was Dick.

In hindsight, you could only be thankful he was alone.

He was blocking the only exit – obviously, obviously. Screaming never occurred to you. Instead, you lunged for the gun on your bedside table, and he let you, never once moving to get in your way. It was until you had a finger on the trigger that he stepped toward you, closing the distance before you could think to shoot.

“Do it.” A fist curled around the barrel, a tug forward. He pressed the muzzle to his chest, and you felt your hands begin to shake. “You left Jason with lead under his skin. You gave him something to remember you by. Were the rest of us not worth it? Was he the only one you could stand to have thinking about you?”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone.” It was true. You still didn’t, if you were being honest. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your life living under the weight of one more thing Bruce and his fucked-up family pushed you to. “Please, let—”

“You think this doesn’t fucking hurt?” He was raising his voice, now. Cassandra was right. You’d never seen him angrier. “We were going to get married, sweetheart. We were going to leave together. Now Bruce doesn’t want us so much as saying your name and you—” He stopped suddenly, shaking his head. “No, no, that’s not your fault. None of this is. You were scared, right? Jason scared you. You felt like it wasn’t safe to wait for me, and—”

“Dick,” you cut in, tone warning. “I left because I had to. And you need to—”

“—take you home, I know.” His hand flexed around your gun. The ghost of a smile passed over his blank expression, but it wasn’t enough to dull his anger. “Where the others can’t bother us. But they’re going to come looking, aren’t they? We’ll need something to keep them away, to show them we’re in love.”

His hand dropped lower, the other darting up. He cupped your hands in his over the grip, hold tight enough to bruise. “Let’s have a—”

There was a blur of movement, then the sound of something blunt hitting something solid. One second, Dick stood in front of you, and the next, he was crumpled on the ground, unconscious and hair matted with blood. The grumpy teenager, Conner, stood in his place, fist still raised just above where Dick’s head would’ve been.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. There’s a change of clothes for you in the kitchen – Lois’ stuff. Clark managed to get the tracker off of your car, too. Along with most of the rear bumper.” His attention fell back to Dick. “What a freak. Want me to…?”

He made a vague gesture, something involving his eyes and Dick’s crotch. You considered it for a second, but shook your head. “No, I just—I just need a couple more days to get where I’m going. Do you think you can keep him here, or… I don’t know, send him in the wrong direction?”

Conner grinned. “Oh, I can make sure he stays put.”

He threw you a two-finger salute, and you returned the gesture. A few miles down the road, you changed into Lois’ hand-me-downs, throwing out the clothes from Bruce’s wardrobe in a gas-station dumpster. You felt lighter, like you’d gotten rid of the last remnants of him. You felt more like yourself.

You felt better.

~

You didn’t stop again until you reached California. You ditched your car in a public parking lot and spent the rest of Jason’s cash on a train into Gateway City.

The air smelled like rain, salt, and fresh paint. You walked the streets for hours before you found the apartment complex you were looking for, and lingered in the lobby for another forty-five minutes before you saw her – black hair, blue eyes, weathered tan. She looked like she had someplace to be, all neutral focus and quiet intensity, but she paused when she saw you tentatively approaching.

She waited for you to speak, despite how long it took you to swallow your nerves. “Dr. Diana Prince?” She nodded curtly, and you tried not to choke on your own relief. “I’m from Gotham. Wayne Manor, specifically.”

“I know. Kent called ahead.”

How he’d known to, you couldn’t imagine. You’d told him you were going to the North Pole. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk. Privately. I have something I’d like to ask you for.”

Something flashed across her expression. Curiosity, maybe. Interest. “It’ll have be quick. I have to be at the docks in a few minutes.”

You couldn’t bite back your smile. “Trying something new?”

“Heading home, actually.” She turned to face you properly. “It’s a quaint little island. They’re very welcoming to travelers, but compared to someplace like Gotham, I’m afraid you won’t find much to do.”

“I think I’ve had enough of Gotham, for a while.” You were beaming, now. You dug your teeth into your cheek, doing your best to keep your cool. “That is, if you’re willing to put up with a guest?”

For the first time, she returned your smile. You did your best to be objective, to be wary, to be careful, but if there were any fangs behind her lips, any desire to make you into anything you weren’t in her eyes, you couldn’t find it.

Honestly, when you looked at her, all you could seem to feel was safe.

“It would be my pleasure.”

[detectivesparrow]

May i interest you in some wriothesley

[detectivesparrow]

Anything you can do...

And what's so special about Satoru Gojo anyways? The way Satoru sees it, there's nothing the original can do that he can't. You shouldn't care about him anymore. You shouldn't care about anything but him.

This work is a part of a series! Read the first part here!

tw: explicit content. dubcon. drugging, captivity. selfcest. feet. yanderes all around. non-consensual cloning.

Gojo has one mission when he gets to you:

Clear his good name and prove to you that the "Satoru Gojo" who'd fooled you was actually a fraud.

Sure, you probably should have known from the beginning, being as obsessed with him as you were, but he had rejected you, and fixations can turn people to dark places.

It was probably all too easy for this phony to march into your life and convince you that all of your dreams had come true; Satoru Gojo loved you after all.

In a way, he feels kind of sorry for you. Really, he was about to break your heart for a second time. It's not even your fault! He himself could admit, the fake is shockingly compelling.

But you'd be devastated, truly. What a shame. To learn that all that love you received was from some stranger, a liar. That the man you desperately adored didn't really want you back.

Man, that's gonna suck for you! He tilts his head back, whistling as the car drives along.

Though he's still not really relationship material, he could probably stick around for that pity fuck. After all, you hadn't been ignoring him on purpose.

No; the reason you were ignoring him was because "he" was telling you to!

It was the perfect cover! If this guy was going to steal his identity, the number one threat to that was him - the real Gojo.

He'd probably intentionally told you to send those videos, only to laugh when you showed him the replies, and then explained that wasn't the "real" him.

The little faker must have even convinced you to keep sending them as a joke.

Then, if Gojo tried to tell you the truth, you'd just brush it off. And if he got pissed off from your messages, he might refuse to tell you at all - a win-win for the fake.

Smart. Of course, he'd probably have to be a little smart to fool you in the first place; his intelligence was one of his best traits. No way you'd mistake someone for him without it.

The car rolls up to your weirdly secluded, distant home. Kinda a pain to get to, honestly.

But it's worth it. Because if Gojo knows anything about that fake... he's probably watching right now. Who wouldn't, when Satoru Gojo was involved?

He steps out, taking time to stretch, let out a deep breath. A wide smile on his face as he stalks forward.

This is going to be fun.

What the fuck was this clown doing on your doorstep?

Satoru squints at the porch camera. Mostly just in annoyance, because he doesn't need to squint - six eyes and all.

Even then, it's hard to believe.

Not that Gojo was jealous and wanted a piece of you, now that he realized that he was missing out. That went without saying.

No, Satoru is shocked that he has the audacity to show up on your doorstep after turning you away. Rejecting you. Like he was drowning in genuine human connections and could afford to toss one out... ugh.

Even thinking about this guy feels gross.

"Go away."

The PA system is talking... in his voice. Which could be the phony, but also, you were probably obsessed with him enough to make a PA system that spoke exclusively in his voice.

Heh. You probably had it talk you through touching yourself, too, at least before the faker came around -

"So you're deaf, but I know you're not blind. DOOR IS CLOSED. GO AWAY."

A frown. "Well, that's not very nice of you."

"Oh, so you can speak? Well, shut up and leave. Loser."

Wait, no. No way this creep is calling him a loser.

"You want me gone that bad, huh?" Gojo slinks up to the doorway carelessly, ready to blast the handle open, "Gosh, must have something you reeeeaaaaally wanna hide, huh?"

"Typical." The PA system complains while he busts the door down, "Self-centered asshole doesn't know when he's not wanted. But that's just another day for you, isn't it?"

He pauses. "Wow. You know a lot about me. I didn't know I had two stalkers on board~"

There's an audible snort. "This is why you have no friends."

"I have tons of friends!" Comes Gojo's protest as he glances around the living room.

"Your students aren't friends, and they don't like you."

"Yuji likes me," Gojo strides quickly down the hallway, glaring with his six eyes for signs of life in the building, cursed energy.

"Yuji likes everyone. You also have no life."

The grin on his face turns sharp, wicked. "I have more of a life than you do. Taking on someone else's identity. Pretty scummy way of getting a girl's heart, don't you think?"

There's a pause - it's good to know he's shocked the phony into silence.

"You..."

Closer, now. He can see it! The cursed energy is concentrated, just inside this room -

And it's -

It's -

Him.

It's him. It's - it's Satoru Gojo, staring right back at him. The six eyes in the mirror. Only it's not a mirror, but a real, living person.

This is where Gojo decides he must be in a dream. Or a domain. Maybe you activated a secret curse technique? And this is a manifestation of your desire for him?

"...even hear me. Hello? HELLO? Stop staring and get the hell out of here. You'll wake her up."

Huh.

It's like he's talking to himself. It's him.

"How are you..." He trails off, tugging down the blindfold as he gesturing to the man across from him, "Your eyes. You have my eyes."

"You have my eyes, actually," Satoru answers without missing a beat, "I was here first."

Of course, he absolutely was not, but Gojo doesn't know that.

Gojo is pretty sure this guy is lying.

"Here first? Like, born first?" He glances down, catching you on the sofa, laying down, head in the other-Satoru's lap. "I got a twin brother I don't know about?"

No way the Gojo clan would be able to shut up and keep a secret like that to themselves. And even if they could, Gojo wouldn't be a little brother. He'd be the older one.

"Sure," Satoru says, in a hushed tone, with marked annoyance, "Now shut up and get out of your big brother's room. She's sleeping."

And you are. But from what he can see inside your brain activity, it's not normal sleep.

"Yeah, sure. Sleeping." His voice lowers. Cools. "Are you that desperate for my leftovers? Leave her alone."

And it is piercing, the glare that hits him. Six eyes going straight through him like an icicle. His own face twisted in an anger he doesn't think he's ever seen -

It's hot. Super hot. And unsettling, and strange, and he is so, so hard right now.

"Why don't you leave her alone?" Satoru hisses as you stir, "You're so jealous you had to come here?"

"Mmm..." Your eyes flick open, and Satoru's attention is immediately ripped off him.

He brushes your hair away from your eyes, leaning in to kiss your temple with a quiet, soothing hum.

Gojo's lips purse. All those videos; this guy fucking you, eating you out, ravishing you like a starving monster, using you like a fleshlight - and none of it had made him feel like this.

Something churns in his stomach. "Answer the question. What did you do to her? What did you tell her?"

"I love you," Satoru says, still staring at your sleepy-eyed face, and Gojo feels his stomach twist.

He stares, frozen in place. Satoru doesn't even look up at him.

"...Sa...toru...?" You mumble weakly, head falling to the side as if just that phrase was too taxing for you.

"Mmm-hmm, it's me!" Satoru smiles, a warm, fond look that goes all the way to his eyes. "I'm right here, love."

Creepy. The way he strokes your hair, holds you, dotes on you like you're some kind of pet. You're barely dressed, but not in anything erotic - just a large T-shirt. Probably one of his.

It's nauseating. Intimate. Domestic.

He's throbbing.

The worst part is, Gojo doesn't know if he's jealous of him - or you.

Because fuck, that smile looks good on his face. Features soft, glowing like a sunset, faint pink dusting his cheeks. Even the six eyes look like an ocean of warmth, affection, dripping down onto you. Those hands are fine, and cupping your face like that makes them appear even larger. Makes you look smaller.

And you're so cute like this. All tiny, curled up underneath him. He'd seen you commanding, cool, demanding, in the throes of pleasure, and unraveling; delicious, every time.

Not like this. Curled up and docile, nuzzling into his touch like a sleepy kitten. Leaning into him like an anchor, seeking out contact as naturally as you breathe. He feels sick with want.

"What did you do to her?" He says. The words sound out of place in this room, unwelcome in this sanctuary, "Drugs? Cursed energy?"

"Eh. Little bit of column A, little bit of column B. What's it to you?" Those eyes gleam quickly up at him, "This is your leftovers, right?"

"Please. She's clearly not over me if she's sending me your little sex tapes." Gojo takes a step closer, pulse soaring in his ears. "And you didn't answer my other question. What did you tell her?"

Satoru glares. "So you are deaf. You were right there when I said it. I love you."

It's so strange. His chest twists, hearing the words in his voice.

...he's never heard those words in his voice, has he?

"Not what I meant," Gojo skips over the issue entirely, "Did she find out that you're not me? Is that why you had to drug her?"

Satoru blinks his big blue eyes.

Silence.

He blinks again.

"You think-" A hand reaches up to Satoru's shirt, tugging, and he's looking down again, "Awh, what is it, sweetie?"

"Would you answer the damn-"

"Shut up!" Satoru snaps, pulling you carefully to sit up on his lap.

You fall against his chest limply, secured by an arm around your waist. Head tucked under his chin.

"You thirsty? Hungry? Wanna cum, baby? Just say the word." Satoru isn't even looking at him.

It's just - it's so annoying. This little shit sitting here like nothing's wrong, like he hasn't stolen Gojo's entire appearance and identity just to get with you.

He's got the fucking six eyes, and he can heal other people with reverse curse technique, and this is what he does? Fusses over you like a mother hen? Like you're the center of his world?

"You're disgusting," Gojo spits, surprised by his own vehemence. "Let her go."

You whimper and Satoru squeezes you.

Gojo watches; in horror, fascination, frozen to his spot as he watches Satoru's arm reach down, rolling up your shirt -

You're not wearing anything under there.

"Mmmhm..." You moan, lashes fluttering. Reaching up to grasp Satoru's muscled arm, weaky, while you writhe.

The sound sends tremors down his back, heat pooling in his gut.

Satoru meets his gaze with a low, knowing smirk. "Don't think she wants me to."

Gojo's feet take him another step closer. He's maybe one step away from you; two, max.

"And for the record, she's completely over you. I thought the videos would be evidence enough of that," Satoru shifts you in his lap, tugging your shirt up enough to bare your breasts, your cunt.

His hands roam your chest - they look so big on you, so wide, grasping, groping playfully over your torso, your breasts, drawing little noises out from you as you squirm fruitlessly in his lap.

His legs keep yours open. Wide.

It's dripping. Right in front of him. He feels like a deer in headlights, pinned in place at the sight of his own longer fingers plunging into your wet -

"But if you needed to see it in person so badly," Satoru drawls, and because he's closer, it's louder, lower, "Knock yourself out."

Those eyes meet him - his eyes - deep blue, intent, full of challenge -

Gojo lunges, driving his lips against Satoru's, shoving him against the sofa. You yelp, pinned between them, before Satoru pulls you closer with a hiss as he pulls away.

"The fuck are you doing?!" He glares - but his cheeks are dusted pink.

You squirm deliciously, and Gojo catches Satoru shifting behind you.

Straddling you, shamelessly, he grinds his bulge right up against you, and you moan, clenching on Satoru's fingers. He brushes Satoru's arm with his dick, too - heh. Let him see what he's packing.

Gojo doesn't tear his eyes away from Satoru's as he closes in on you, kissing at your cheek softly, "Is that true, baby?" He murmurs, sneaking a hand up along your torso to squeeze an exposed breast, "You're over me?"

Satoru's arm - the one that isn't fingering you - shoves at him, but Gojo doesn't budge.

"Come oooooon," He croons, nuzzling into your cheek as he holds his gaze, "You're not afraid of a little healthy competition. Are you?"

Close, closer - until their noses nearly touch. Until Satoru can see his eyes glitter with challenge.

"As if," Satoru rises to the bait, just like he would in his place. "I'm worried you don't know how to touch a woman. Seriously, not sure if you ever have."

He doesn't hesitate. He reaches straight for Satoru's dick - oh, it's long, hard, just as proud and pretty as in all the videos.

Just like his. Twitching as he tightens his grip.

The grunt he makes, face wincing in pleasure-pain; it's a familiar feeling to him, too.

"Awh, worried about little old me?" His smile bares teeth, "You're too kind."

He squeezes, drawing his hand up along Satoru's dick, watching his own handsome reflection tense in what he knows is mounting pleasure, a heady throb in his gut that always surges as he squeezes tighter at the shaft.

"Straight for the dick? Guess that's the only thing straight about you. Or maybe you're just that self-obsessed," Satoru taunts, as if his own dick isn't pulsing at a touch so like his own. "Just keep your hands off her."

And that last demand sends his gut churning. Something in him is enflamed.

He burns for it, for Satoru in front of him, possessive and beautiful, for you, delicate and treasured, for this thing between the two of you that magnetizes Satoru to your side and turns you to putty in his arms.

He wants. He wants he wants he wants and Satoru Gojo is not a man accustomed to being denied.

"Nah," Gojo nuzzles into your neck, sucking, nipping, watching Satoru's eyes linger hatefully on the mark he leaves, "I don't think I will."

After all, he's got to prove him wrong, right?

You're barely conscious most times Satoru wakes you.

It's not bad. At least you don't think it is, with your limited capacity to think.

The feeling is similar to being very sleepy, or very drunk. Half-stuck in a dream, only vaguely aware of your surroundings and what's going on.

But it doesn't matter, because Satoru is a diligent nursemaid. When he wants to be, anyways. When you need him to.

He brings you food, water. Feeds you, helps you sit up and drink. Distantly, you realize everything is probably laced, but it's all properly dosed, you're sure.

Otherwise you wouldn't be able to think this much. In these hazy moments when you can recognize what's happening.

So when you see another Satoru in the room, despite the warm body against your own, the breath on your neck, the arm around your waist - you aren't immediately worried.

Now, though?

Now you're a little bit worried.

"Who..." Your question falls seemingly on deaf ears as Gojo tilts your head to the side, sucking a mark into your neck.

It doesn't hurt, but Satoru's fingers curl tight inside you, his thumb brushing your clit, and you whine.

"Shhh, baby," Satoru murmurs from behind you, into your ear, "You worry too much. Don't worry, just sit back and enjoy."

"Oh, so now she's your pillow princess?" Gojo hums, "Big change from being her little slut locked up in a cock cage."

A scoff, cool against the saliva-slick skin on your neck, "Jealous much? I have someone who wants to make me feel good."

Satoru's fingers slip out of you, and you let out a breath, reaching up with your arms against the chest in front of you.

"Bet she wants to make me feel good, too," Pressing closer to you, "Bet she couldn't even tell the difference."

His chest is large, firm against your hands. The muscles are more defined, larger - even with the same genetics, Satoru doesn't get the exercise Gojo does - but you barely notice.

"Course she can't. She could hardly tell you her own name - not that you deserve to say it." And then a groan, "F-fuck. Let go of my dick already, you creep."

"Why, so you can fuck her?" A snicker, "You act so sweet on her, but you're really just using her to get off, yeah?"

"The fuck would you know about acting sweet? Have you ever told anyone you love them?"

There's a pause, there, where you feel the heat growing restlessly around you. Dazed, heated.

"Satoru...?" You mumble, head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing into the familiar cloud of white hair.

"...See? No difference." Gojo lifts his head, handsome face coming up to meet yours, "I'm just as good as him, right baby?"

His words are lost on you. All you can do is lean in for a kiss, lashes lowered, and feel his lips move against yours.

"Like I said," Arms, tighten around you, "Doesn't mean anything. You couldn't give her what she needed, and now you're nursing your wounded ego because I came around and did it better."

"You think?" All you catch is the sparkle of those crystal blue eyes.

He pulls away, tongue sticking out, lips still slick with saliva threading between your mouths.

Gojo's eyes catch Satoru's. "Bet I can make her cum with my mouth before you can with your dick."

"Sure, give yourself the biggest advantage," Satoru sneers, "Should I give you a ten minute head start, too, so you can find the clit first?"

Gojo slinks backwards, falling to his knees.

From your perspective, all you see is Satoru backing away from you - you whimper, reaching out weakly, voice low and longing.

It feels like a knife to his chest, looking at your face. The naked despair, the raw desire to have him back in your arms -

But it's only a moment before Satoru reassures you, kisses your cheek. Melting into his embrace comes naturally, relaxing as soon as you know your love has not left you.

It's as if you have to be touching him at all times. Like you need him the way you need air. It's cringey, codependent, but Gojo supposes that's the kind of sappy unrealistic stuff you're into.

He puts a hand on either of Satoru's knees, spreading his legs and yours.

"Up you go, baby," Satoru hums as he lifts you, and your feel his cock slip underneath your ass as he pulls you flush against his chest.

He bites his lip as Gojo snatches his cock without hesitation, guiding the head of it to slip past your entrance with a smirk.

"Could do both of you at once," He crows, "Your dick sure wasn't complaining about my touch."

And he knows exactly how to touch - to trace that weeping head with his thumb to get precum pearling at the tip, all mottled red and purple as it throbs in his hand.

"What can I say," Satoru shoots back, "You're obviously an expert. You and your hand must be so happy together."

Gojo fists his hand around his dick with a mean smile, clenching hard as he smirks up at him. Satoru bites his lip and holds you tighter.

"Baby," Satoru whispers, tilting your face to look back at him, "Cum with me, yeah? I'll tell you when, and you just gotta let go then."

"Oh, now you think she's gonna be the trained whore?" Gojo drawls, pressing Satoru's dick against your cunt. Still not inside, but enough to make you moan while Satoru hisses.

"Like you can say that," He grinds out, "You don't know anything about her."

"I saw your little videos," His eyes twinkle from between Satoru's legs; how he hates that face... but fuck if he's gorgeous, "You spoil her. Greedy little thing. She's used to getting whatever she wants from you."

Gojo's face slides up, up your thigh.

"Yeah she is, I do it on purpose. Cause I can." Satoru sticks his tongue out, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Unlike you."

Closing in on your cunt, on his cock, Gojo licks a line up Satoru's dick, enough to make him tense behind you.

"Yeah? You think so?" He suckles briefly at the trickle of cum at the head of Satoru's cock, making eye contact while he does. Unfliching.

And fuck, he looks good sucking dick. Satoru kinda wishes you had one, now... ooooh. Maybe a strap-on? Even more fun.

A slap on your thigh tugs his attention right back to the matter at hand.

"Don't make her wait any longer," Satoru lays a kiss by your temple, and you hum, "Or you can disappoint her with your shitty head game, and then put it in. Up to you, I guess."

"Shitty head game?" Hands guide his dick towards your entrance, as if he'd been waiting for the challenge.

A strangled moan escapes him as he slips into you, rutting his hips up. Open, shameless, because you're just that good. All wet and hot and clenching around him like your cunt can't stand to see him go.

It feels like he just belongs inside you. His hands reflexively trace over your cunt, your clit, where Gojo slaps them away.

"Hey, hey, no sabotage." If nothing else, Gojo does have sharp eyes.

He darts to the crest of your folds, right where Satoru's fingers had traced, opening his mouth over it.

At first he drools, taking in your scent. Those videos - the ones of your pet lookalike eating you out for hours, a hand in his hair like a leash.

Lapping, whining, drooling over you like a trained dog. Just the memory makes his dick throb. Mouth water.

Gojo spreads his mouth wide like he's seen, drawing his tongue over Satoru's plunging cock, up towards the swollen bud that seems to pulse against his teeth.

Careful, boy. Don't bite. The memory sends his hands clenching at your thighs as he devours you.

His mouth is so wet and warm it feels like it's melting over you, candle wax pressing hot into your clit as your walls stretch and stretch.

Dizzying. It's all so much, all heat swirling around you, inside you. Pleasure roils heavy, weighted, dragging you along in the surge of sensation.

He licks at your clit, all soft and perfect and it just swells like water against a dam, cresting to meet the tip of his tongue pressing into you-

"Shh, baby, not yet," Hands on your jaw, large, gentle, turning your head, "Look at me, hm?"

You do, helplessly, with a whimper, bucking into the mouth and the cock that have your insides churning.

Eyes. Pretty, pretty, the bluest eyes. "S-sa- ah - Satoru?" It comes out as a whimper, or maybe a plea, as you stare, enraptured.

He smiles and it's an instant reaction, a flutter in your chest that makes you squeeze around him.

Whatever he wanted to say is lost to a gasp, to the overwhelming embrace of your walls against him.

Satoru groans, and then he feels a wet, burning line trail up his dick as he pulls it out to drive into you again. Fuck, he's close.

"Lost all your endurance already, huh?" Gojo says, casually, mouth right next to Satoru's dick like he's having a fucking conversation with it. "Loser. It hasn't been long and you're about to bust a nut already."

And damn, he might be. There's something enrapturing about seeing his own face flushed and smug and nuzzling up to his cock like a hungry slut.

He clutches you like a living, breathing lifeline, nuzzles into your neck like it can protect him from the nasty whore's mean words.

"Didn't take long, did it? You lost all the patience she painstakingly trained into you as soon as you got the chance to stick it in whenever."

Satoru must have something in common with the dirty, filthy slut he was clone from, because those teasing words has his cock pulsing, heat building as he plunges back into the safe haven of your cunt.

Gojo watches from below, mouth gaping wide open over Satoru's cock as it drives in, out, in, out again. Breath hot over your clit, nudging it with his nose until you whine again.

Your eyes flick away from Satoru - and over to him - the same face.

You reach out a hand to pet his hair. Soft, fluffy; he rubs his head into your touch. Breath hot on where your bodies join.

"Hnnngh," His cock is straining, throbbing against the front of his pants; Gojo pulls away, lips still sticky.

Resting his head on your knee, he looks up at you - both of you - with big, wide eyes. A pout on his lip.

"Come oooon," He holds your leg, "Help a guy out, yeah?"

"You still haven't made her cum yet. Do you really wanna make it harder for yourself?"

His grin bares teeth. "Yup."

Somehow, though, he stares a moment too long into Gojo's eyes, into that flushed and fiendish face looking back up with him with barely contained need and hunger.

Satoru shifts your leg, "Come on, baby, like this-"

And soon he's groaning, his tall, lanky form jerking as your foot presses against the bulge in his pants. Satoru's foot guides yours down, down, where he grinds against it.

Gojo falls back into your joined sexes, moaning, panting, slobbering all over you both.

The original Satoru Gojo sure was a fucking whore. No wonder you were so anxious; this guy had no sense of shame, and probably no loyalty, either.

Your hands are still buried in his hair as he ravages your sex. It's so stimulating; the press of your foot down on his screaming erection, the salt of your slick on his tongue, the delicious friction of Satoru's dick pumping in and out - faster, now.

He widens his mouth to cover where his dick slides into you, sucking at the heated shaft as he purses his lips over your poor, tender bud.

"F-fuck," Your voice is broken in your throat, heart racing, it just feels so good, pleasure surging from your tightly wound core, "S-satoru-"

Satoru feels you clenching and squeezes for dear life, "Come on - you can hold - hold it-"

But the words escape him; as he, too, winces, choking on his own pleasure. Muscled abs clench behind you as he finally thrusts home, burying his face in your neck and biting down.

Liquid heat surges inside you and you wail; you feel yourself clamp down, waves of pleasure rushing in as you milk him.

Fingers dig into Gojo's hair and then the pressure on his dick increases. It's so fucking hard, swollen, pulsing against the force against it until it -

"Hnnngh," The sigh escapes him, ghosting over the burning, slick skin of your cunt and the dick embedded in it.

He mouths over it lazily. Tasting your shared cum as the afterglow bubbles through him.

You're glassy-eyed, panting; Gojo watches the mesmerizing rise and fall of your bared breasts. They're marked red, but he can't tell his handprints from Satoru's.

Fuck, you really are pretty. A vision, really, in this state.

Satoru behind you is no less so, all pink and flushed and lovestruck in the comedown. His eyes haven't left you for the last few minutes, but they dart towards Gojo has he slowly begins to recover. As brilliant and blue as his own.

He could almost get hard again just at the sight. If the stupid body double starts mouthing off again, he may anyways.

"That was totally me, by the way." Eh. Never mind.

When he looks up again, he sees your neck, bruised up where he'd sucked a mark earlier. It's darker, now. Heavier.

"You're crazy," He lays a hand on your thigh, shaking gently, "I was the one who got her off. Here, we'll even ask her."

"Mmm..." You stir, slumping back onto Satoru, whose arms wrap around your chest and tug you flush against him.

"Ignore him, baby," Satoru kisses up the other side of your neck, sucking a hickey or two as he goes, "You don't need that stupid prick."

"Lucky her," Gojo hums, "I'm here anyways. I didn't see you complaining either, when I had my mouth on you."

A kick of his foot - and Satoru discovers the bulge just underneath his foot had softened. When Gojo pulls away, there's a wet stain on the front of his pants. Satoru snorts.

"You seriously just got off to sucking us both off?"

"Like you wouldn't have gotten off to the same thing."

"Yeah, but only cause of her."

Discreetly, Gojo gives your leg another shake. Your straighten, slightly, and look over at him.

"Satoru?" Your voice is clearer, now, recognition lighting up in your eyes.

"A little familiar, but I guess I did have my mouth on your pussy just a couple minutes ago," He smiles that charming smile you love so much.

But the feeling of warmth, of security, the fine muscled form behind you, the soft hair against your cheek and the mouth that sucks and gnaws mindlessly at your neck; it's unmistakably your Satoru.

There's... only one other person it can be.

"Gojo?" You squint, and he laughs.

"Bingo!" He flops down on the couch, laying his head comfortably in your lap.

Satoru groans, half-heartedly shoving him away, but Gojo's already snuggling up to you.

You stare at Gojo silently, unblinking. He catches your gaze, smiling back, winking, even, despite your expression not changing.

"Aren't you... angry with me?" You say, slowly, as the pounding in your head recedes.

Gojo tilts his head to the side. "Why would I be angry? You weren't the one sending the videos?"

"What videos?" You frown, "And no, I mean... you know." You gesture to Satoru. "The clone."

"The videos of you and - the CLONE?!"

[detectivesparrow]

to be desired, to be sought, to be cut, to be sold — that is the fate of a gem.

[detectivesparrow]

cuteness aggression w/ alhaitham

taglist:

@moristhesecond @hunnieknight @haithxm-main

@mikoochaan

@greyrain23 @reideneris @bro-im-just-playing @teabutmakeitazure @meimeimeirin

@psychopomp-enthusiast @jade1605 @mochinon-yah @eussstasss @lillieofth3valley

@ichikanu @harmonysanreads @yellowelectroslime @miraclecherryblossomsblog @rossithepixie

@schoenpepper @cadesthings @creationsabyss @hirotasama @jth12

@alhaithams-malewife @oliaxter @angeveins @sakisud @xhongshan

@materlux @lost-in-the-night-skiess @shinha @m1kuz0ne @vashyuu

@n0rmalsimp @biytdtdatmirsmlys @mad-girlfan @wriomii @fyodorssimp1

[detectivesparrow]

We as a society moved on from Maskjo too fast...

[detectivesparrow]

I've always wantedd to draw caleb :>>>>

[detectivesparrow]

Helloo~

"Moments of Weakness" as in the reader taking L's left and right by being uncooperative with the yanderes. This idea was cooking up in my mind for a long time, and then I got heavily inspired by @thehatboxwitch for the post, specifically this one. I ate that up, such a good piece, mwah (づ ̄ ³ ̄)づ

The Amphoreus men and Jiaoqiu? Yes, I know, odd combo. I was done with the first three but then I got an insane inspo surge to write for the fox man as well, and thus this piece was born. I haven't really written short-form content ever, so this is like a test run for me. Let me know if you vibe with it!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Characters include: Mydei, Anaxa, Phainon and Jiaoqiu

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Yandere content (ALTHOUGH this is not on the heavy end of the spectrum. It's kind of fluffy), cisfem!Reader, unwanted touching, manipulation, the JQ one has periods and a vague mention of sexual stuff (but nothing explicit).

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post.

˗ˏˋ ★ Mydei

You wake up on the cold, hard floor of your room in the high tower of Castrum Kremnos. Judging from the limited view you have of the sky through the window, the time must be somewhere between midnight and the early hours of the morning. 

You’ve barely been able to get any sleep at all, truth to be told. The piece of clothing you gathered into a ball hardly served as a substitute for a pillow, and your neck has gone painfully stiff from the odd position you have rested in. Your back aches, and a faint rash has formed on one of your shoulders where it has been pressed against the coarse ground. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows. In the darkness, you’re only able to make out the silhouette of the man lying on the bed. Mydei’s back is turned to you, and his body steadily heaves up and down in the rhythm of his breathing. He seems to be fast asleep. 

The soft, plump mattress has never looked as tempting as it does now. Your shared comforter is partially hanging off the side of the bed, drooping just out of your reach. 

In hindsight, the obstinacy you demonstrated earlier tonight by demanding to sleep on the floor was beyond ridiculous. Mydei let you know that then, telling you how childish you were being, but your pride got the best of you. Though, as you recall his harsh words and the dour clicks of his tongue, you’re still of the opinion that your reaction was at least somewhat justified. 

You rub your hands up and down your arms in an attempt to warm yourself up. Not having been granted the luxury of a blanket on the floor, your extremities have gone cold and numb. Shivers of nightly fatigue rake your skin. You huff to yourself.

Mydei’s form stirs. He lets out a rough exhale before turning over on the bed to face you. His piercing gaze fixates on your pitiful form. 

”Stubborn woman”, he derides you in a groggy voice, propping his head up to rest it against his palm. ”You prefer to suffer rather than swallow your pride?”

”Shut up”, you answer with equal spite. 

”Get in the bed and rest your night peacefully”, he then commands, sweeping his fingers over the empty spot next to him. 

”I said shut up, Mydei.” 

You fluff up your make-shift pillow and settle back down on the ground, turning your back to the man. Despite the way the reddened patch on your shoulder aches, you simply tug your sleeve over it and call it a day. 

Mydei scoffs at you before rolling back over. You silently celebrate the small win, but you can’t deny the way your fatigue-struck mind weeps when you peek at him and come to find that he has pulled the comforter further away from you. The action is deliberate on his end, no doubt, and you can’t help but clench your teeth in bitterness. 

You’re so tired. You’re so fucking tired, but there’s no way you’re going to let him have what he wants. Mydei truly excels at bringing out your mean side: Pleasing him is the last thing you want to do, and if that comes at the cost of sleeping on the ground, so be it. You settle your head on the clump of cloth and close your eyes. 

But there’s no chance you’re going to get any sleep as you are. The truth is quite apparent, and it stings, but the sheer exhaustion you feel is dulling out the little wrath that remains in your being. 

Not even a minute after, you slowly push yourself off the floor, careful not to make any sound. Not that you actually succeed in the latter — Mydei could probably even hear your heartbeat from where he’s lying if he tried hard enough — but it’s more for your own sake than his, anyway. 

Judging from how he has gone back to resting, he’s probably weary enough not to get mean. You cautiously rise on your toes to peek over him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but you’re unable to determine if his eyes are open or not. 

The mattress dips as you set your weight on it. You stifle a sigh of relief as you finally get to bury your head in the thick cushions, to pull the covers over your freezing form and soon allow yourself to drift into a deep slumber. Though, a wrench is thrown in your plans as you’re only able to get the comforter halfway across your body: The thing is stuck under Mydei’s broad back. 

He doesn’t move an inch as you wordlessly tug on the blanket. It’s quite obvious that he’s being difficult on purpose, that he wants to make his point as much as you want to make yours, and damn is it getting to you. 

”Mydei”, you hiss out his name. 

He doesn’t react. If you didn’t know better, you would think that he has fallen asleep again, but taking the context into account, you’re a hair’s breadth away from snapping at him. 

”Mydei!” you repeat a little louder, smacking your hand against the pillows, right next to his head. No response. 

”Mydei, for fuck’s sake-!”

Your sentence is cut short as the man suddenly lunges at you, catching you completely off guard. The strained yelp you let out is muffled by his bare chest as he pulls your body flush against his. In a split second, his arms wrap around your back, effectively trapping you in place. 

His skin is searing hot against yours. The hem of your shirt is dragged up as he plants the palm of his hand on your upper back. For good measure, he swings one of his legs over yours to keep you still. All of it happens in a single moment, and he doesn’t grant you the time to do anything about it. 

You consider protesting. There’s no escaping Mydei’s squeeze; his hold is much too tight, but he might give up the fight if you put up enough resistance. You could scratch at him, you could start screeching at the bottom of your lungs, and eventually, he would be bound to become irritated enough to let you sleep on your own. 

But the warmth. The heat that emanates from his form is nearly blissful. It seeps into your frigid limbs, lulling your sleep-deprived mind into the comfort that is his protective embrace. Your body turns against you. 

You allow your shoulders to fall lax. Slowly, your hands pull back from where they were shoving against Mydei’s ribs mere moments ago. In response to your new-found obedience, he strokes his thumb along the curve of your shoulder blade, further encouraging you to relax against him. He lets out a content exhale against the crown of your head. 

In the back of your mind, your ego is sobbing at the loss of yet another battle against your captor. Nevertheless, you let yourself sink into the comfort of the bed, deciding to save the fight for when the morning arrives. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Phainon

There’s something off about his usual smile today. The way he’s looking at you from where he leans against the wall with his arms leisurely crossed, there’s something off. His gaze is fixed directly on you, keenly following your every movement as if he’s expecting something of you. 

”... What?” you ask him, peering at his form, though your words come out as more of a comment than a question. 

”Hm?” he tilts his head to the side with a tad bit too much excitement in his expression. ”What’s up?”

Your brows knit together. Doubting his sincerity, you’re almost scared to turn your back to him as you scan the room with your eyes. Although, after a quick look, nothing too obvious seems to have changed: You let your gaze wander over the couch, the bed, the door, the-

”Phainon, what happened to the chairs?” you point at the vacant spot under the table. 

”Ah, those!” Phainon pushes himself off the wall and walks over to the bed, sitting down with one leg propped atop the other. ”I put them in the kitchen.”

You squint your eyes at the man. 

”And why would you do that?” you gesture at the now empty floor. 

”Mm, no reason.”

Phainon shrugs in a rather innocent manner, but the smile on his features tells an entirely different story. So, you continue scrutinizing your surroundings, carefully looking over each and every piece of furniture until your eyes land on the nightstand beside the bed. 

”The book?” you turn your attention back to the man. ”Where did you put the book?”

”Oh, I put it up there”, Phainon responds, nudging his head towards the bookshelf beside the door. 

You follow his gaze all the way up the highest ledge on the shelf, and there, you spot the familiar piece of Okheman literature you’ve been invested in for the past couple of days. As you put the puzzle pieces together, Phainon’s scheme becomes quite apparent to you. 

”... Really?” you ask him, spreading your arms in disbelief. 

”Hey, don’t be like that”, Phainon gives you a sympathetic look. ”Do you need help reaching it?”

You let your hands fall back to your sides. Then, you close your eyes and take in a deep breath to calm the exasperation that threatens to boil over inside you. Instead of lashing out, you silently make your way over to the shelf and pick out a random piece. 

”I’m good, thanks”, you tell Phainon in a dry tone. 

”Oh, alright”, he gives you a smile in response. ”Let me know if you change your mind.”

You roll your eyes at him. Making your way over to the couch, you plop down on the cushions and open the book on the first page. 

It’s in a completely foreign language. You don’t understand a single word plastered on the paper, but it’s much too late to put the thing back on the shelf now. Even without looking, you know that Phainon’s attention is on you, and you don’t dare to even glance at him to make sure in case he gets any ideas. You wonder what Aeon you have angered to have been granted such rotten luck when it comes to standing your ground: It seems that no matter what you do, he always gets his way. 

You don’t even know if you’re holding the book the right way up. The symbols are all squiggly, and you don’t have as much as an educated guess on what the text is about. A sigh makes it past your lips. If there’s anything positive to be found in the situation, though, it’s that most likely, Phainon is none the wiser about it. Why he even has a book like this in his home, you don’t have the slightest clue. Moreover, he doesn’t seem like the type to read in his free time, either, so the chances of him recognizing the cover are quite low — at least you hope so. 

You make the mistake of peeking at him. Sure enough, the couple of bright blue eyes are eagerly observing you from where the guy is sitting on the sheets. His gaze doesn’t fail to meet yours for a brief moment just as you turn your head away. 

Time has never moved at such a slow speed. The seconds drag on and on as you pretend to be invested in the intelligible story in your hands. You let your eyes travel over the rows of characters as if you were actually reading, but you can’t help the way your attention strays to the sight of your original novel sitting at the top shelf, far out of your reach. With each moment passing, the little patience you have left drains out of your body until you have none left. 

You smack the book down on the couch with a huff. Phainon visibly perks up, and you can almost imagine a fluffy tail wagging wildly against his back. 

”I changed my mind”, you speak out, standing up from your spot and walking over to the shelf. ”Help me get the book.”

”Sure thing”, Phainon is quick to rush to your side. ”I thought Kremnoan poems might not be to your taste, heh.”

You bite the inside of your lip and pray to whatever deity is watching over you that the blush isn’t visible on your cheeks.

”This one, right?” Phainon rises on his toes to pick the familiar hardcover from the top ledge before handing it to you. ”There you go. What do we say?” 

”I’m not gonna thank you for that”, you snap at him, snatching the thing off his hand and pulling it to your chest.

”Too much?” Phainon answers the show of defiance with a smile. ”Heh, you’re so cute.”

You flinch a little as his hand lands on the top of your head, ruffling your hair until it resembles a bird’s nest. His touch then trails lower to your cheek where he strokes his knuckles along the bone. 

”My pretty thing”, he sighs with contentment. 

˗ˏˋ ★ Anaxa

Never in your life have you had to fight this hard to stay awake. Not once, at any point, have you been this determined not to let your lashes fall shut as you listen to Anaxa yap on and on about some academic discovery he made a year or two ago. Truth to be told, you haven’t been listening to a single word, and you don’t have the faintest idea on what he’s going on about. 

Your train of thought is so sluggish that you’re barely aware of your surroundings, and your head is throbbing hot. In contrast, the rest of your body is shivering, practically trembling from the cold. It doesn’t seem to be the room, though: Anaxa doesn’t appear to be the least bit bothered by the temperature, having stripped himself of the cloak he usually wears. You would like nothing more than to burrow under the blankets on your shared bed and sleep for the next three days. 

But you have to stay awake. He promised that if you were to stay up until 10, the two of you could go for a quick walk in the Grove. He hasn’t ”had time” to take you outside in nearly a week now, and you’re not about to miss a chance like this. Being trapped in a small space and forced to endure the man’s presence is a challenge in a league of its own, and if you were a person of any weaker resolve, you would’ve gone insane ages ago. 

”— and that would be the reason why”, he concludes.

The last two minutes of his monologue could as well have been spoken to a wall. It’s difficult to concentrate on his words through the haze that drowns out your senses. Your muscles ache terribly, and your entire body is drenched in clammy sweat. You feel so miserable that the thought of giving up the fight seems almost euphoric, but you’re not about to back down now that you’re mere moments away from the clock striking the next hour. The victory is so close that you can almost feel the fresh, crisp outside air on your skin. It’s only a few more minutes away; a few more minutes of holding out against falling off your chair. 

Anaxa’s hand enters your field of view where you’ve been blankly staring at the table for the past half an hour. He taps his index finger against the wood to catch your attention, and it takes you a good few seconds to even register the action. You raise your gaze, slowly blinking a couple of times before your eyes land on his form.

”Can we go now...?” you ask him. As desperately as you’re trying to hide it, your voice tells on your fatigue as you speak. 

”We agreed on 10 PM, did we not?” Anaxa tilts his head to the side, towards the clock on the wall. 

You don’t have the energy to talk back to him. He’s so infuriatingly punctual when it comes to just about anything that you wonder how the pink-haired priestess is able to stand his company for more than a minute. You only give him a half-hearted, joyless smile in response before going back to staring. He sighs. 

Anaxa’s chair creaks as he stands up, walking out of your sight. You pull your knees up on your seat, pressing yourself into a little ball in order to preserve the little warmth you have left in your body. You don’t dare to close your eyes even for a moment in case the fatigue were to catch up with you. Instead, you remain in your spot, as still as a statue and barely conscious.

A cold hand comes to touch your shoulder from behind. You’re much too slow to turn around before your vision is obscured as he reaches for your face. Gently, he gathers your hair off your forehead and presses his fingers against your heated skin. 

”How long were you planning on keeping this facade of yours up?” he then asks, his hand moving a little lower in favour of checking both sides of your cheeks as well. 

You don’t respond to him. Instead, you only let out a quiet sigh.

It’s obvious; you’re running a sky-high fever. There’s no way of getting around it — the best remedy to a sickness such as this is rest — however, your desire to go outside is much greater than any flu you have caught. 

”I’m feeling okay”, you lie through your teeth, bending forward in order to rid yourself of his touch. 

”Preposterous”, Anaxa comments in his usual, stark tone of voice. Not paying mind to how you’re clearly trying to withdraw from him, he moves the collar of your shirt aside in favour of pressing his hand against the back of your neck, feeling for the temperature. ”One such as you ought to know better than this, no?”

”I can wait until 10”, you insist. 

”Is that so?” 

He pulls away from you. You follow him with your eyes, watching as he makes his way to the door in quick strides. 

”Well, then”, he beckons you towards him with his fingers. ”Let’s be on our way.”

You grasp the back of your chair with both hands, summoning up the strength to see the endeavour through. Your entire body trembles as you begin pushing yourself off the seat. 

Anaxa observes with curious eyes as you manage to balance yourself on your wobbly legs. For a moment, he can see the way your face lights up at the success, but your joy is short-lived: He merely quirks his brow when one of your knees gives out, and you topple down on the floor a mere meter away from the table. 

He lets out a mix of a huff and a laugh. You’re quick to scramble back up, trying your absolute best to find your footing, but the sight of him is spinning, and your limbs have gone numb. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for you to slump back down on the ground, defeated. 

You don’t do as much as raise your head when you hear the clack of his heels approaching you. Instead, you only listen to your own, rapid heartbeat rushing in your ears as Anaxa crouches down beside you and sets his hand on your waist. Carefully, he helps your limp form off the ground and snakes his arm under your own.

”The walk shall have to wait, it seems”, he says, failing to do a very good job at concealing his glee. 

”But you-, you promised that we could...”, you protest, wearily turning your head towards the clock on the wall. It’s a minute past 10. 

”Do you truly think you’re in any state to even entertain that idea?” Anaxa scoffs at your words. ”Go on, then.”

He loosens his hold on you, and you immediately reel to the side. Just to make his point even more clear, he lets you attempt to find your balance, but it’s a futile effort. You end up clinging to his shoulder for dear life. A mocking chuckle slips out of his mouth. 

”I thought as much”, he says. 

You really want to bite back, to go through with the plan, to go walk a single circle around the house even if it lands you in the bed for the next month. You need to, for once, prove him wrong, but alas, it seems that he has won this round. You swallow down the lump in your throat. 

”Help me”, you whisper out, hanging your head low. 

”This once”, he responds.

˗ˏˋ ★ Jiaoqiu

You’re balled up on the bathroom floor, clutching your arms around your stomach. Beads of sweat adorn your forehead, and despite your efforts, you’re hardly able to control the rhythm of your breathing. The time of the month has rolled around yet again, and for the past two hours, you’ve been battling perhaps the worst period cramps of your entire life. 

You’re aware that if you so wished, the relief to the pain would be a single question away. Jiaoqiu is just on the other side of the door, working on some herbs or something, you’re not really sure. Considering his Foxian blood, he most likely knows of what’s going on, but the damned man won’t do anything about it, of course. Not unless you walk up to him yourself and ask for his help, anyway. 

Another cramp takes over. You stifle a groan and lean forward, planting your forehead against the cold floor tiles. In the awkward position, you rock your body back and forth until the pain diminishes to a little less excruciating level. 

It’s quite obvious that you can’t go on much longer like this. As much as you detest the idea of leaning on your captor for help, he’s the only one who can aid you. You wonder if he has hidden the painkillers from you for this exact purpose: The man is as sly as, well, a fox, and no trick is too cheap for him when it comes to getting you where he wants you. He’s beyond unfair. 

You blurt out a hushed curse word as you rise from the ground, hunched over and still holding your abdomen. Taking a peek at the mirror, you come to find that your face has lost its colour, and you look like you haven’t rested in a week. The latter is no wonder, though, since you weren’t able to get much sleep last night due to the present problem. 

Being as quiet as you’re able, you press your ear against the door. There isn’t much to be heard on the other side of the wall, but you can make out the faint clinking of dishes touching against each other. Jiaoqiu has been busy conducting the same task the entire morning, and it seems that he’s still occupied with it. Dread brews in your stomach as you consider the possibility that he’ll outright refuse to help you: Considering his personality, it’s not above him, and it wouldn’t be the first time he weaponized matters out of your control.

”Aren’t you making this unnecessarily difficult for yourself?” 

Your heart jumps at the sound of his voice from behind the door. How he could have heard you, you don’t know, but then again, his kin is known for their keen ears. Moreover, you realize that there’s no hiding your current condition from him: Your options are either-or, and the responsibility of taking the initiative seems to have landed in your arms. 

Yet another cramp strains your body. You clench your teeth and endure the pain, but at the same time, your hand reaches up for the door handle. Deciding that enough is enough, you push yourself out of the bathroom. 

”Oh, there you are”, Jiaoqiu comments at the sight of you faltering out of your retreat. He can’t actually see you, of course, but his head still turns towards you as if he did. 

”Give me something”, you beg through pursed lips as you fold in half over the threshold. ”Please give me something for this.”

Jiaoqiu’s expression turns into that of compassion, although you can’t say for sure if it’s genuine. 

”One moment, please”, he says, setting the mortar and pestle in his hands on the tabletop.

He opens one of the cabinets above the counter and reaches for something in the back. Carefully, he pulls out a small bowl from between a row of bottles. By tilting the dish from side to side, he stirs the concoction until a few darker specks appear on the liquid’s surface. Then, he brings his hand over it, and in a flash, the thing lights up in flames. However, just as quickly, the fire disappears, and he’s left with a cup of steaming hot soup. 

”I tried to go easy on the spice”, he says as he fans his fingers over the bowl. ”It’s quite warm, be careful not to burn your tongue.”

He makes his way over to where you’re balled up on the ground. With a gentle touch, he coaxes you to raise your head enough for him to place the dish against your lips before tilting the cup. 

It’s good. The rich liquid flows down your throat as you drink it with greed, paying very little mind to how the heat scorches your mouth. He didn’t lie about being mindful of the seasoning — it’s much less spicy than what you’re usually forced to endure — but your taste buds are still left begging for mercy. Nonetheless, you couldn’t care less, and the soup is gone in a matter of seconds. 

”It should only take a few minutes to kick in”, Jiaoqiu says as he pulls the now empty bowl away from your lips. ”How are you feeling?” 

Bad, terrible, deplorable, godawful, but you don’t tell him that. Instead, you only let out a shaky exhale as you slump back down on the ground. 

You feel Jiaoqiu’s fingers creep along the waistline of your bottoms. For a brief, horrific moment, you think he’s about to initiate the carnal, but instead of slipping his hand further down, he lets it rest over your lower abdomen. 

”Is it in the middle or more towards one side?” he asks as he tenderly presses his palm against your stomach, warm and pleasant. 

”Hey, don’t-, don’t...”, you’re about to start protesting, but the complaint dies on your tongue as the man’s touch dulls down the worst of the ache. 

He seems pleased at your compliance, and he rewards you by caressing the back of your head with his free hand. For once, his closeness doesn’t feel completely intolerable.

[detectivesparrow]

You really do think Caleb was a dog in his past life.

Here you are, on your bed dying from the most excruciating period cramps you think you've ever had in your entire life and Caleb has his head on your uterus.

It's honestly your fault for saying the hot water bottle wasn't hot enough, and… probably yelling at him too in the process. He panicked, you could see the gears turn in his head before he made you lay down on the bed and then planted his head on your stomach. “There!” He said triumphantly, if he had a tail you're sure he'd be wagging it, he looks so stupidly proud of himself as he nuzzles into lower abdomen. “You always say ‘I'm so insufferably hot’ when we cuddle at night, so I'm your hot water bottle now.”

You sigh and Caleb's head rises and falls with your breath, you can't be mad at him, not when he's giving you those big puppy dog eyes. “If it gets uncomfortable, I'm banishing you to the couch." You mumble, relenting finally. Caleb's eyes light up and he nods into your stomach. "I'll be gentle, I promise.” Your hand runs through his hair as he places a kiss on your tummy letting out a boyish giggle. He's far too pleased with himself. You can practically hear his phantom tail smacking against the bed from how happy he was to be helping, and being this close to you.

...

Yeah you're sure Caleb was a dog in a past life.

[detectivesparrow]

RISING SUN

Waking up with Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, and Tim Drake.

TRIGGER WARNINGS : Soft Yandere themes, possessiveness, mild psychological instability, psychological dependence, implied reader is kept in captivity.

A/N : wrote one for Tim and thought I might as well do some more,, god you can tell who my favourite is. Feeling very soft yandere today so that’s what were going with INTERACTIONS AND REBLOGS ENCOURAGED!

DICK GRAYSON

Night and morning alike, Dick Grayson clings to you with unabashed devotion, his presence a constant warmth against your skin. His hair brushes your cheek, his limbs curl possessively around yours, and his very being seems moulded to fit you. His warmth bleeds into your bones, his breath fans against your neck as his limbs stay tangled with yours. There’s no hesitation in his affection—he touches with desperation, holds with fervour, and grants you his full, undivided attention whether dreaming or wide awake.

He doesn’t just sleep beside you. He envelops you. Even unconscious, his body knows where you are. The moment you shift, even slightly, his grip tightens. A leg drapes heavier over your hips. An arm coils more firmly around your waist. His lips brush your shoulder in a ghost of a kiss, a soft murmur escaping like a warning—or a plea.

"Stay."

Even in sleep, his body refuses to part from yours. His subconscious is a lover all its own, denying you escape, drawing you closer the moment you try to slip away. One slight movement and his leg hooks tighter around your waist, a soft, unconscious whimper spilling from his lips, as if the idea of separation wounds him. His lips bruhs your shoulder in a ghost of a kiss, a soft murmur escaping like a warning– or a plea.

When daylight finally spills through the curtains in thin golden strands, and the room blinks into morning, the cycle begins anew—a ritual of affection so natural, so constant, it feels like breathing. The morning doesn’t change him. If anything, it makes him worse– needed, more intense. As long as it’s your hands brushing against him, your voice whispering his name, Dick greets the morning with a smile that tugs gently at the corner of his mouth, dreamy and content. The sunlight trickles through the curtains, catching in his lashes as it illuminates the room. And when you try to pull back or sit up, he frowns—just slightly—but it’s enough to freeze you in place. You know that frown.

That look in his eyes—not sorrow, but something sharper, hotter. A flicker of irritation darkens his gaze, the kind that simmers just beneath the surface, anger carefully caged behind clenched teeth and a tight swallow. He doesn’t speak it, doesn’t let it spill, but it’s there—waiting, restrained only by the thinnest thread of control.

“Don’t go,” he whispers. “You know I don’t like when you leave me.”

A day without your kiss is not just unpleasant to him—it’s unthinkable. A punishment. A betrayal. And when he finally kisses you, it’s slow, deep, and possessive, like he's trying to taste every reason you might have for leaving and erase it from your mind.

And your scent—God, your scent. It’s carved into him. The softness of your shampoo, the unique rhythm of your breath, the velvet timbre of your voice—they anchor him to reality. Or maybe to the dream he refuses to wake from. Because if this is a dream, he’ll do anything to stay in it.

When you nod—because what else can you do with his arms so tightly around you, his love so fierce it threatens to drown you—he smiles again.

Content. For now.

JASON TODD

The first thing you notice is the heat—Jason sleeps warm. Like a furnace beneath the sheets, all hard muscle and calloused hands. His arm is slung lazily across your waist, fingers curled into the fabric of your sleep shirt like he might accidentally lose you if he loosens his grip.

He breathes deeply, chest rising and falling against your back in a slow, grounding rhythm. For a few moments, you lie still, savoring the quiet and the rare stillness of him—Jason, who rarely rests, rarely softens, rarely lets down his guard.

The faintest shift in the sheets, the whisper of breath too close to his ear, and his eyes flutter open on instinct alone. Muscle memory honed by years of living in the shadows. He’s trained to wake the moment the world changes around him—even in the middle of a dream. But in sleep, stripped of his armor and edge, Jason is oddly vulnerable. And when he first blinks awake—still half-lost between dreams and reality—his face is painted with a dazed, unfocused confusion. His brows furrow. His lips part. It’s an expression so deeply uncharacteristic of the man you know— Red Hood —that if this was under other circumstances, you might’ve not been able to help but smile. It's absurd. Endearing, even. Almost boyish.

It was easier this way.

Easier to let yourself believe in the quiet illusion, to drink in the morning stillness like it wouldn’t eventually shatter. Whatever made the steak taste better—whatever dulled the sharp edge of reality, if only for a while—was worth indulging. Moments like this made it almost effortless to pretend. And it isn’t just watching. It’s etching.You're trying to carve the image of him into your mind with such precision it could survive fire and time. The same way he's already burned you into his.

Because even in sleep, even with his guard down and the morning light spilling gold across the bed, there’s a kind of claiming in the way he holds you. The way his fingers curl possessively at your hip. The way his breath ghosts over your collarbone like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear.

Even after countless mornings tangled together beneath the sheets, his gaze still flickers with disbelief when it lands on you. Like he doesn’t quite trust that you’re real. That you haven’t vanished in the night. That this life, this moment, you, haven’t all been conjured by his desperate need for something soft in a world of violence.

You reach out, fingertips brushing across his cheek in a featherlight caress, brushing a strand of dark hair back from his brow. And for a breathless second—just one—his body stiffens.

It happens in an instant.

His eyes snap open—vivid blue and sharp—and his arm tightens around you with a sudden, trained instinct. His hand catches your wrist midair, hovering over your cheek like a soldier bracing for a hit, confusion flashing in his gaze. Because even in half-sleep, Jason Todd doesn’t expect kindness. He expects threats. Ghosts. Loss.

But then he sees your eyes—warm, patient, full of love—and that familiar flicker of recognition washes over him like the tide.

His fingers relax. Your hand settles again on his cheek, warm against scarred skin. He leans into the touch like a man starved. Then, he kisses your palm—a slow, reverent press of his lips, as if anchoring himself with the taste of your skin.

His thumb traces the bones of your hand with gentle strokes. You feel his breath steady. His hold loosens from survivalist grip to something more human.

“Don’t ever leave me like that,” he mumbles.

“I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“You moved,” he says, accusatory, but tired. “Thought you were gone.”

There’s a pause. You don’t answer. Instead, you lean in and brush a kiss over the scar near the edge of his mouth, then another across his jaw. He exhales again, this time through a smile, and drags you flush against him with a heavy arm.

There’s something sacred in these seconds—this fragile peace he carves out of a lifetime of chaos. He knows better than most how fleeting normalcy can be, how easily it can be taken, burned, or bled dry. He doesn’t trust the world to let him keep anything good.

And yet, as he pulls himself from bed, still blinking away sleep, the scent of your skin still clinging to his hoodie, he lets himself believe in it—for now. And as he watches you hum to yourself in the golden morning light, hair brush in hand, Jason finds himself clenching his fists just a little tighter.

Because if the world ever tries to take this from him—

He doesn’t care who he has to become again.

He’ll make sure he never wakes up alone.

TIM DRAKE

You wake up slowly, like someone rising from the depths of a dream, suffocating in something warm.

Your brain takes a moment to process what you’re feeling: heat. Breath against your neck. Arms wrapped around your waist. A weight draped over your legs. Something clinging to your shirt—no, someone.

Tim.

Your body is plastered against his. He’s wrapped around you like a living straitjacket, chest to your back, nose tucked beneath your ear, one of his legs slotted between yours. One of his arms is curled under your neck, the other across your waist, hand fisted in the fabric of your sleep shirt like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, clutching you with an almost feverish need, even in his dreams. His grip is tight–too tight– not frantic, but possessive, like a child clutching onto their favourite toy.

You could’ve sworn you had fallen asleep on your bed, how you’ve ended up on the floor in the living room is beyond you. His tendency to nap at any hour - anywhere, included dragging you along with him. Unfortunately , more often than not you ended up awkwardly cradled against the windowsill or god forbid limbs tangled on top of the kitchen counter.

Tim naps where exhaustion claims him–without warning, without concern–and if you’re with him, which is becoming increasingly consistent with how you’ve practically moved into his apartment, you become apart of that ritual.

You try to shift slightly.

Bad idea.

He lets out a soft sound, almost a whimper, and tightens his grip. His whole body moves with yours like you’re tethered together. You feel his breath hitch, his hand pressing firmer against your stomach. He’s not awake—but his body knows. You sigh softly.

The sun’s barely peeking through the blinds of his apartment. You’re supposed to be up early today. Shower, groceries, maybe coffee with a friend if you get there in time. But—

A heartbeat later, his voice rumbles against your skin.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

It’s barely a whisper, hoarse and sleep-rough, but it freezes you. Mornings with Tim are not gentle. Tim Clings. He burrows. He pulls you back into bed– or whatever surface you’ve both collapsed on–with a quiet desperation borders on instinct.

He will not let you leave easily.

You glance over your shoulder. His eyes are still closed. Maybe if you persist– if you whisper his name gently, trace your fingertips down the length of his spine– he may finally open one eye, begrudgingly surrendering to consciousness. But only on his terms.

“Tim?” you murmur.

"Stay five more minutes," he murmurs, half-lost in a haze of sleep. And by five, he means forever.

A/N: pick your poison,, which one would yall rather be stuck with? personally id go with tim but thats just bias speaking, idk if id be able to deal with waking up on the floor when i was sleeping previously in my bed

[detectivesparrow]

he was used to getting you flowers.

be it a bouquet of your favorite flower, a delicate blossom tucked into your hair with reverence, a pink camelia in your favorite vase whenever you got sick— or a forget me not awaiting you on your shared bedside table whenever you needed some time to yourself, as if to say, take your time. i love you and i'm not going anywhere.

he may or may not have ended up investing in flower language solely for you. it was another way of expressing his love for you in that quiet, tender way— yet no less devoted.

but never in a million years had he imagined that he'd be standing before you after returning home—his beloved wife—one day, presenting a single flower to him after a sweet greeting, the petals adorning his favorite shade, all while looking up at him with a playful smile but affectionate gaze—the soft light of the living room adding a gentle glow to your features.

for a moment he was… stunned. unmoving— struggling to find the right words.

“for… me?” he asked at last, voice quieter than he intended for it to be.

you clutched the flower to your chest, mock-hurt. “what, don't tell me you don't like it? that's a shame..”

he exhaled in what could've almost been a chuckle, the corners of his lips unmistakably twitching.

“...but why? you didn't have to.”

you shook your head in disapproval. “don't be silly, baby. guys deserve flowers every once in a while, too, y’know.” you grinned up at him, taking his hand in your own before placing the flower on his palm, gently closing his fingers around it with your own. “it's yours now.”

he stared at you for a moment before his gaze dropped down to your hand clasped around his, the flower resting in between.

perhaps he shouldn't have been this surprised over receiving a flower. it wasn't a concept he'd ever thought of applying to himself, and yet here you were, giving him a flower like it was the most natural and obvious thing to do.

“that thought never crossed my mind, but.. thank you, love.”

he took the hand you were holding his with and lifted it to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. you laughed softly, leaning up to place a kiss on his cheek in return before ushering him inside for dinner, all while the flower stayed in his grasp. gentle and reverent.

it was light in weight, yet heavy in its meaning.

he'd placed the flower in a vase on top of his desk, serving as a constant reminder of you whenever he was working. he'd find himself spacing off while staring at it, his lips subconsciously curving into a soft smile when he recalled the ghost of your warmth lingering on his skin from the night you placed the flower in his palm. it continued—until he noticed that it was starting to wilt.

and he simply couldn't let that happen. not when you were the one who gave it to him.

so one night, when you'd already gone to bed, he found himself carefully pressing the petals to his journal— where your reminder would lie within, safely tucked away with care.

and you had no clue about it until one day, you saw a petal peeking out from his journal while he was writing down on it with those familiar, elegant strokes.

“wait… is that—”

his movements stilled.

he didn't say anything.

just cleared his throat, lowered his head just a bit more and continued writing all while the tips of his ears turned a delightful shade of red.

because what could he say?

yes, he did keep it. because anything from you was meant to be treasured.

♡ zayne, sylus, xavier, nanami kento, geto suguru, diluc, neuvillette, wriothesley, calcharo, jiyan, uchiha itachi, hyuga neji, ishida ryuken, kuchiki byakuya, jugram haschwalth, ishida uryuu, tomioka giyuu, tsugikuni yoriichi, lucifer, barbatos, your favorite.