#But also not that sorry

[remotewatch]

nothing but a sentence 🩸

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 1.8k wc

summary: period sex with jack for anon ‼️ hope you enjoy lovely 🤍

cw: period sex, period head, certified boyfriend material jack, domestic bliss, whereee did all this fluff come from, sacrilege if you squint, messy eating, unprotected sex (VOTE IF YOU WANNA RECREATE ETC ETC), shoutout to my darling editor Sabrina @mystardustmelodyyy for saving this from limbo 🙏

minors dni get off my lawn

At this point in the relationship, Jack manages your period more than you do. You tend to forget that it requires actually going out and purchasing supplies unless he calls you from the pharmacy to complain.

“Why would they stop carrying ultras? That’s so fucked up! And the boxes are getting smaller, it’s sick what they’re doing to you guys!” It’s too easy to picture him waltzing around with three cases of san pellegrino under one arm and an overflowing snack basket in the other, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder while he yaps about pink taxes.

“Do you want canned or fresh lychee? Never mind, I’ll get both.” he decides before you can respond. “Did you want anything else?”

“I want to sleep,” you mumble. You were currently being throttled on two fronts by nauseating cramps and a vicious migraine, leaving no energy left to manage his shopping list. It was hard enough just to reach and grab the ibuprofen without alerting your uterus that you had moved, yet he’s still talking as you doze off:

“We’ve got edibles and melatonin in the cabinet, but I’ll get some mag glycinate, and are you SURE you don’t need…”

“Dealer’s choice, I trust your judgement,” you murmur. “When will you be home?”

“Alright, fair enough. I’ll be back around 6.”

“See you then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He finds you wrapped in two heating pads, face pressed into the couch, full water glass in the same spot he left it on the coffee table.

“I feel like I just died,” you groan, rubbing your eyes and tentatively stretching your legs.

“Come on, you gotta hydrate,” Jack rustles through the grocery bags looking for a loose water bottle with a sport cap before pressing it against your mouth. He frowns and doesn’t take it out when you try to move away.

“At least half a glass, come on. I’m following orders here.” He’s very gentle not to flood your mouth and make you cough, but you can see his eyes flicker down to watch your lips wrap around the cap (he’s only human, after all).

“Thank you,” you croak when he finally sets it down, voice slightly less raspy than before.

“Do you want a tea? I’m making you a tea.”

He’s off rustling through the kitchen for the ginger lemon amid the boxes of just ginger or just lemon, but despite his best efforts, the noise is killing you. Every shut drawer sounds like a door slamming with this headache, and Jack sounds like he’s still speaking into your ear even though he’s mainly talking to himself.

“And I’ll get started on dinner-what would you like? I’ll figure something out, don’t worry. Oh, also! I got those vaseline body balm rollers you like.”

Your eyes shoot wide open and light up as he trots over to hand you your treat.

“Oh my god, and you found the cocoa butter kind! You’re the best!”

The rich, nutty scent of the balm floods the room when you unscrew the top and gives you a second wind. This and a shower will fix you for sure, just as soon as you can make your way to the bathroom.

Jack fills in the blanks as soon as you look back up at him apprehensively and start with the vague gesturing and “would you mind…”

“Of course not. There’s no need for you be walking right now, that would be crazy!” If you weren’t in so much pain, you’d be swooning at the way he effortlessly scoops you up and walks over to set you down on the glossy teak shower stool (a million percent worthwhile at times like this).

“Do you want any more help in there?” It sounds like a joke, but you know he’d wash you in a heartbeat if you asked. You can’t help matching his smile.

“I think I’ve got it handled.”

“I’ll put dinner on, then.”

When you emerge, your headache has all but subsided, and while you’re still pretty out of it, the heat has done wonders for your cramps and stiffness. You can’t be bothered to do anything but throw on a pair of thinx and flop down onto the bed, slathering on more of your new balm just to keep smelling it.

Jack knocks at the open bedroom door with your tea and a fresh glass of water.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were baking in here,” he teases as sets them on the nightstand. “Dinner is on in 30 by the way.”

The idea of leaving your bed right now sounds about as appealing as getting all your teeth pulled, but you’d never dream of eating on the scrumptious new Matouk linens; the utter disrespect!

“Can you just put me back to sleep instead?”

“Sure, of course. You want a gummy or-“

“Jack!”

“Right, got it!” And he’s skittering off to grab a vibe and towel while you untangle yourself from heating pad cords.

Jack is nearly skipping coming back from the hallway closet with a fistful of toys before rolling you as little as possible to tuck the towel under your lower half. As soon as he’s back within reach, you grab a handful of his hair and drag him down to kneel next to you. He nods at the pile of silicone on the nightstand as he playfully snaps at your elastic: “Are we feeling manual or automatic?”, but you’re already bucking your hips up to shove the underwear down your thighs and wincing at the sudden movement.

“You ok?” He drops the playful tone immediately and furrows his brow in concern. You throw your arm out to grab a toy at random, landing on a satisfier. Perfect.

“Ask me again in ten minutes,” you sigh dramatically to lighten the mood, but you’re still not feeling great.

“Roger that,” Jack bites back a smug grin -as if he’s ever needed all ten- and crawls gingerly into bed to snake one arm under your waist and accept the toy with the other.

It has to be some sort of sick joke how you’re this unbelievably sensitive when you still feel so shitty. Every single nerve ending in your clit is humming in tandem with the pulses of the satisfier; the delicious sensations ricochet up and down your body enough that even your eye sockets feel tingly.

He’s entirely absorbed in making you cum and tuned into every move you make, still glancing up now and then to check for any hint of discomfort. As much as he’s committed to pleasing you, he can’t conceal the blush creeping up his neck and down from his temples, nor his ragged breathing. There’s barely enough time to acclimate and enjoy it before you feel yourself getting drawn right over the edge.

“You’ve got it-don’t fucking move-so good to me, Jack, fuck-thank you,”

You screw your eyes shut on pure instinct while your orgasm rolls through; one of your hands fumbles for purchase in his curls as he mouths sloppily over your breasts. When you manage to take another peek at him, his eyes are all crinkled up like he’s smiling while his mouth remains focused on the task at hand. A little tug on his hair and he’s cheerily licking his way down your abdomen, really letting his tongue drag so he has more time to grind against your thigh. You can already feel the wet spot forming on his boxer briefs, such a romantic!

“Having fun down there?” you purr. Jack jerks his head up, revealing a red splotch on the point of his chin.

“God, yes. Can I lick you? Please?” You’d think he’s the one who’d just came from how breathy he sounds. You cross your ankles between his shoulder blades and readjust your grip on his hair.

“Always.”

For once, Jack shows some restraint eating you. It’s all broad, slow licks in time with your heartbeat; he falls right into a natural rhythm that reminds you of crashing waves. His fingers lace together across your stomach like he’s praying, and each adoring exhale only adds to the effect. Every time he dives back in after catching his breath, a new drip flows out hot and coppery to coat him from the nose down. It’s such a perfect mess; the harsh-edged, gleaming paint job stretching ear to ear and the little smear between his eyebrows make him look like he’s been baptized in your blood.

It’s a wonder he can even hear your faint whispers of “Jack, just-just fuck me, please,” over how shamelessly he’s dragging his face through you, but he’s always been something of a miracle worker.

There’s a long, indulgent slurp like a bathtub finishing draining that makes your thoughts blur around the edges before he allows you to pull him off you and slide your feet languidly under his shorts. You’re way too sleepy to be of much help, but he’s happy to shove the waistband low enough to tuck under his balls and half wipe his mouth with the back of his hand as he crawls back up to you.

The blood pools sluggishly towards the high points of Jack’s face, and a drop splatters onto your cheek before he can stop it. Without hesitation, he swoops down to lap it up and kiss a fainter mark in its place. Barely audible, you somehow remember to pant a reminder into his ear.

“You just gotta be careful right now, my cervix is like-”

“-right up front, I remember. I gotcha, no worries,” he presses another sticky kiss to your temple as he pushes halfway in, abs clenching to keep from slipping too deep. He’s delightful as always, but each thrust is winding your nerves tighter, making your clit ache just as much as the rest of you. Fumbling once again at the nightstand, you find another vibe designed to rest snugly between you two so he’s got both hands free to rest his chin on, just rocking away while he watches you drift off. When he hits at just the right angle, you back bows up hard enough to audibly crack in relief. Those waves of relaxation mixing with the constant rumbling from the toy overwhelm you once again, dissolving what’s left of your discomfort and tugging you towards unconsciousness.

Jack can’t hold himself back when he feels you practically sucking him back in on every outstroke, and a brazen whine bursts from his throat as he pulls out, freeing a gush of pink tinged cum. It only feels natural to lean up to kiss him and lap the residual streaks from around his lips.

“Feel better?” he sighs against you, grinning so wide the drier patches on his dimples crack and start to flake off onto the towel.

“So much better,” your words slur together, and the rest of your thoughts scatter once your heads falls back onto the pillow

“You want a hot washcloth?”

“Mmmm,” It takes you a second to piece the simple sentence together; you’re still blinking away the residual stars from your vision.

“In ten minutes?”

[avocado-writing]

notes: okay. this is the double ball gag fic. it also has crowley & aziraphale manifesting vaginas but still being male presenting bc nonbinary angels/demons can do what they want. everyone has sex very gender nonconformingly.

pairing: crowley x reader x aziraphale. Dom!Reader, Sub!Crowley/Aziraphale

words: 1.6k

rating: E, minors DNI (dom/sub; shibari; overstimulation; aftercare)

if you like my work here’s my kofi!

Outside of Aziraphale’s bookshop London is busy. People walk with purpose and without care, bumping shoulders and swapping unpleasantries. Outside they’re human: crass, bitter, small. 

That’s only if you’re being damning though. They’re also wonderful, bright, and marvellous. Something you’ve not quite reconciled within yourself. You’ve lived longer than any of them, so you’re not exactly a human, but neither are you like your lovers: able to change your body with just a thought and a click. Sometimes you wish you had what Aziraphale and Crowley had. Other times, you resign yourself to what you are, and be glad they can make up the other pieces. 

The tea brews, and you think about the first time you saw both of them with vulvas. 

For Crowley, it was quite soon after the three of you found each other again. Aziraphale was off on business and, given that you were still in the honeymoon decade, you and Crowley couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. You had him in bed, pulling off his doublet and hose, unwrapping him like a present that was still a surprise even when you knew what the contents were. 

Only that time it was a surprise, because instead of a cock between his legs, you found a willing and wet cunt. 

“Oh!”

“Oh?” Crowley had asked, then seemed to remember and looked down. “Oh, yes. I felt like it today. Is that a problem?”

“Never,” you’d said, and slipped your fingers inside of him. 

Aziraphale changed himself around in that manner less than Crowley did. He was a creature of habit and more importantly a creature of comfort, if he was happy in how he looked it wasn’t often he’d alter it. But you remember, in seventeen-fifty, the day he — she — had walked down the stairs in her rococo dress with its risqué neckline, gorgeous blonde hair in tight curls around her heart-shaped face. She had taken your breath away. 

“Aziraphale, you’re beautiful.”

She lit up like the sun on a clear day. 

That night you’d both taken her to bed and found her pretty pussy in her fair nest of hairs. She’d cried out as Crowley sheathed himself inside her, and afterwards as you covered her opening with your mouth to taste what Crowley had left. 

Yes. You’d learned not to expect anything when it came to getting them into bed. But, usually, when you propose an idea to them, they’re more than happy to indulge in it. Especially when you use that voice. That voice which promises they’re going to be shaking messes by the time you’re done with them. 

Your timer beeps and you jump. Half an hour. It’s probably been long enough. You take the tray of tea and head upstairs. 

They’re in the bedroom, exactly where you left them, which is good - it means they didn’t try to miracle out of their bindings. Which you told them, if they did, they’d be in trouble for. And not the fun kind of trouble either, with the whipped cream. 

The bench only comes out on special occasions but you’ve had it for years. Leather, very easily wiped clean. Which is good especially for where you’ve got them at the moment. 

What a pretty scene: they’re strapped to it, both of them, bodies pressed uncomfortably close together. There are three things preventing them from moving apart. One: the way you’ve bound their ankles and hands behind them to the bench effectively sealing them in place with the shibari rope; two: the fact the nipple clamps you’ve put on them are threaded together and to pull only leads to tugging; and three: the fact you’ve got them strapped to either side of a double ball gag. 

As they hear you enter the room their eyes turn to you desperately. You take a moment to sear the filthy picture into your mind. Two of them trapped in a faux kiss, spit escaping their mouths and dripping down between them. And, between their legs, you can hear the humming of the hitachi wands you rigged to press mercilessly into both their clits. 

Half an hour they’ve been here for. You��ve tried this before in the early noughties back when they both had cocks. They’d both tapped out though (and you let them, you weren’t heartless). It was just too sensitive. A cunt, though? That can take a pounding and keep on going. 

Yes. Half an hour. You’ve left them for half an hour with no other instructions than “keep track of how many times the other one comes.”

You’d whipped Crowley’s glasses off first, though, just to make sure he didn’t try to hide anything. And that makes him look more naked than the fact he doesn’t have a shred of clothing on. You put down the tea and approach them. You can hear the harmony of their laboured breathing; inhalations they don’t need to take but do so anyway to calm themselves through the overstimulation. Crowley’s let loose a couple of tears but Aziraphale is a mess, pink and flushed, crying hard, hair stuck slick to his forehead. You tenderly wipe it free for him. 

“Aziraphale, you’re beautiful,” you whisper. Even strung out on pleasure and with his mouth stopped by rubber Crowley manages a harrumph. You roll your eyes affectionately. 

“Yes, you are too, big boy.”

You pull back and cross your arms, switching back to business. 

“Alright. One at a time I’m going to ask you to blink how many times you saw the other one come. You first, Crowley.”

Crowley looks you dead in the eyes and blinks five times. You make a mental note and turn to your angel. 

“Go on now, your turn.”

Through the tears Aziraphale gives you seven blinks. Your eyebrows raise. 

“Incredible. You must be sore, Crowley.”

Crowley makes a little noise in the back of his throat. You reach down between Aziraphale’s legs and turn off the vibrator. He chokes against the gag in relief, sucking in a deep, calming breath through his nose. Crowley looks hopeful but you make no move to do the same for him. 

Carefully you remove the ball from their mouths, undo the clamps. You listen to them both groan and stretch their jaws to get the feeling back. You undo some of Aziraphale’s ropes to allow him a little more slack and comfort, but most importantly so that he’s able to lie backwards. 

They’re messes. Spit soaks their chest having dripped down from the gag, forcibly smeared between them due to their proximity. You turn to Crowley. 

“Alright now, darling. Clean him up.”

He looks confused, dazed, all of his attention still on his cunt. He wiggles his hands only to find them still trapped. You reach out and open his mouth for him, pressing your thumb between his lips. 

“With your tongue, darling. Go on. Be a good boy, and I’ll turn it off.”

“Fuck,” Crowley manages, before reaching over to Aziraphale. You watch him work him over, licking him clean from the mixture of sweat and spit, enjoying the way the angel’s eyes roll back in his head at the feeling of his husband’s tongue. When you believe Crowley has done a thorough enough job you manoeuvre Aziraphale down even further, supporting him as he lies on his back and spreads his legs. His pussy is a puffy pink and glistening with come. You nod the demon towards it. 

“Little more, Crowley.”

He finds just enough room in his binds to lean forward and press his mouth to Aziraphale’s entrance, his tongue licking careful stripes over the angel’s lips. Aziraphale cries out as his poor cunt is once again wracked with pleasure, and you undo his ropes to allow for him to slip one hand free and bury it in your clothes for support. His chest hitches beautiful, back a gorgeous arch. 

You hold him, gripping him through it, until Crowley is done. 

“You’re so good for me,” you whisper to him, sliding your finger into his red locks and pulling his head back gently to face you. His eyes are wide and exhausted, but full of satisfaction as you finally turn his hitachi off. You kiss him, long and slow, touching your tongue against his and tasting Aziraphale off his lips.

Finally done, finally spent, you begin to dismantle the set-up. Yes, they could miracle themselves free, but that takes away from the intimacy of it. The care. They collapse in your arms as you undo the ropes and you help them over to the bed, massaging the feeling back into their limbs. All the while you pepper them with kisses and praises both, telling them how well they did, how good they are. 

“Tea or water?” you ask them both. The unanimous response is ‘tea’, so you bring it over to them from your tray. As they drink it down — well, what you’ve made them do is thirsty work — you head into the en-suite and grab a wet flannel. They nuzzle into each other as you begin to wipe them down, clear the sweat and stickiness from their bodies. When you reach between Crowley’s legs he hisses and you stop. 

“Sore?”

“Mmm.”

“I'm sorry darling. But was it good?”

He nods enthusiastically, pressing his face into the soft space between Aziraphale’s neck and shoulder. 

Later, you’ll run them a bath, take your time washing them down with the nice body soak. You’ll discuss the whole scene and hear with enthusiasm that it’s something they’d like to do again; Crowley’s pretty sure he can last longer next time. You’ll take them downstairs and make dinner and collapse into a cuddly pile on the sofa, watching that show you all like from the eighties. 

But for now you let them rest, sitting at the head of the bed to stroke their hair, and being there if they need anything in the world. 

[oh-mydarling]

Idc if it’s annoying sending asks is a hobby

[thecatspasta]

This took longer than it should've.

They dated when jon was at uni.

They are also bitter exes who still keep in touch and try to spite each other and are also best friends while also trying to tear the other down. (also known as Gerry showing up where Jon works and exposing anything they did in uni)

Also YES Jon is trans (i will not get off my bullshit) and also dyed his hair in uni.

Gerry also taught Jon about the fears early because they kept getting themself involved.

[voiddemon]

hacks this garbage up

[captainjonnitkessler]

Sometimes I wish we would start calling out the performative radicalism on this site for the poser bullshit it is. "Remember, it's always morally correct to kill a cop!" "Don't forget to firebomb your local government office!" "Wow, it sure would be a shame if these instructions on how to make a molotov cocktail got spread around!"

Okay. But you're not killing cops or firebombing government offices. You are posting on a dying microblogging website to a carefully-curated echo chamber that has radicalized itself into thinking that taking the absolute most extreme position on any subject is praxis but that anyone discussing the most practical way to effect actual change is your sworn enemy. You do not have the street cred OR the activist cred to be talking about killing cops, babe.

[amygdalae]

kind of hate my stupid caustic pussy for dissolving my underwear over time but it's kind of cool, like, scientifically

[youthofpandas]

What’s up with how the dunmeshi fandom just lies about this kind of stuff all the time. It is easily confirmable information that it was a monthly series, something incredibly common in the industry.

A not weekly magazine schedule is literally common !! Especially in the seinen shoujo and josei demographics, sometimes monthly, sometimes biweekly, sometimes every two months, sometimes seasonal! Please stop lying about how Dunmeshi was some special unique creation that defies all standards of manga just to hype it up because it is so clear that every single one of these comparisons is centered around Weekly Shonen Jump (and understand that SJ has many magazines under its brand that are monthly or semimonthly). Not everything is WSJ and it needs to stop being the only point of reference in conversations like this 🤧

[a-drama-addict]

not caring too much about a fandom’s favourite guy is the worst. you’ll think “oh i’ll look into the tag see if anything new and cool’s there” and it’s just that fucking guy again

[daftmooncretin]

spock’s room decor is actually fucking bonkers. The weapons??? the big red velvet curtain??? like ok phantom of the opera go crazy.

for reference jim’s room has some photos and a plant so we can surmise this is uniquely a spock being a dramatic weirdo thing

[atissi]

i don't really like when people say dungeon meshi is accidentally good autistic representation, because while i understand not wanting to make conclusions without explicit confirmation from the author, there's always the weird assumption that non-western authors somehow don't know about things like neurodivergency/queerness/etc. (on top of the assumptions that east asian authors are somehow more naive or oblivious to "western" social issues).

given that dungeon meshi started being published in 2014, it's not really a "work belonging to its times"—it's as contemporary as any other media we discuss on this site, which means it should be fair to assume it engages with contemporary topics (and at the very least, you shouldn't say that the representation is accidental with so much confidence)

but anyways, the chapter "perfect communication" in ryoko kui's "terrarium in a drawer" is some of the most straightforward autistic representation I've seen, and from now on I'm going to assume that laios's character writing is absolutely intentional in that regard:

[goldiipond]

Top 5 women?

bro i can't even top one woman ha ha h[two drums and a cymbal fall from the ceiling killing me instantly

[minjimunji]

bi 4 bi percabeth,,,,, 👉👈

[seagiri]

when did this happen???

[chessb0r3d]

Analysis so bad you don't even know what it's talking about anymore.

[horrorlesbians]

sorry I liked your post a second after you posted it I don’t have a life