#spray machine shop

[victorluvsalice]

-->And then it was time for everyone to converge on the greenhouse and help out Victor – specifically, by doing some targeted harvesting while he finished up his tending! I had Alice return to normal and rush in there to pick the coconuts, the pineapples, the soy and black beans (and evolve a couple of plants while she was at it), while Smiler picked a bunch of their herbalism stuff (with a focus on stuff like the noxious elderberries and poison fireleaf I didn’t have before). Smiler then dusted Victor’s bees with mite treatment, fertilized their noxious elderberries so they could evolve them up to nice level, and headed upstairs to have a nice bath –

-->And Alice got sent to the kitchen to make some more food for the food stand, using her new appliances! :D Because if we’re going to have a food sale, we need to have food to sell! She’d already made a garden pizza last playsession while at the store, which was already in the stand – I thus had her make a fresh batch of dough in the stand mixer, then bake up some banana split waffles, a loaf of artful focaccia, some minty mocha cupcakes (in the oven! :D), and a pineapple pizza! Yes, I was thinking a bit about food that Smiler would probably like, as they were the one who was going to be running the stand – sometimes I regret that they’re a vampire who can’t eat regular food in this save, as I know any human Smilers would be all over banana split waffles and pineapple pizza. In another save, Smiler, I promise! I’ll fudge things a bit in my potential future Valicer In The Dark save! XD

-->While Alice was getting her cooking on, Victor and Smiler were keeping busy with the last of the farm chores (while the chickens were keeping busy with a fox – I gotta get some more livestock upgrade parts). Victor FINALLY finished the tending (and deactivated poor Elmer to stop the bot from constantly trying to weed a glitched plant) and got the initial batch of super-selling done, then left Smiler to finish off selling everything while he cleared out the cow shed (and once again dropped the results on the ground next to said cow shed – I just had him put the trash in his inventory for later recycling). Smiler got Gardening skill 9 from all the super-selling (and harvesting the lemon tree in the corner that had gotten skipped in all the super-sell batching), which pleased me greatly –

And then I realized “wait a minute. Isn’t it supposed to be New Skill Day? Where’s the holiday thing?” Concerned, I checked the calendar, and confirmed that it was indeed a holiday – but that I didn’t have the overlay for it in the corner of my screen. Uh-oh. That DEFINITELY seemed like a sign the save file was on its way out. I decided not to worry TOO much about it at the moment, as New Skill Day is just a pop-up holiday, and not a particularly important one, and instead Alice box up the final pizza, slapped all the food in the foot stand, and had Smiler grab said food stand and gather everyone up to bring them to the Brindleton Bay Pawspital –

[lastoneout]

tbh I do not understand people who use chatGPT to get recipes and shopping lists that thing makes shit up all the time and with cooking you can really fuck up or hurt yourself if the recipe is inaccurate or missing info, once a recipe written by a human resulted in me essentially pepper spraying myself, I'm not trusting the lie machine to tell me how to boil water forget make actual food

[somanyideassolittletime]

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who forgets that you know him better than he knows himself. 

Standing in line inside your usual smoothie shop, looking at the menu, his hand resting on your waist, whispering to you, “Which one is your favorite?” 

You point at the berry option, “berry blast, but it��s too sour for you, you won’t like it.” 

He scoffs, “Yeah? Which one do you think I like then?” 

you ponder, scanning the practically memorized options available by now. “The chocolate banana one,” 

“That doesn’t look like something I’ll order,” he says, still stubbornly ordering the berry blast. Missing the eye roll you give him. 

You know him too well that he won’t like what he ordered, so when it’s your turn to order, you order the one that Jack will like, dismissing his side glance at you in front of the cashier. 

Both of you sat down, he took a sip, trying hard to control his face over the taste, but you know him inside out, it’s too damn sour for him. So you push your smoothie his way, “try this,” 

He looked at the smoothie way too long before caving in, finally taking a sip. “It’s good, alright.” pushing back the smoothie at you. 

You held back a laugh, looking at him still trying to pretend he enjoys his choice. But when he puts down the cup, you switch yours wordlessly, because frankly, you like every option the store has to offer, so anything’s fine with you. 

He looks at you, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to put an offended face, “I was enjoying that.” 

You roll your eyes, playing the bit, “wanna switch back?” 

He seems to contemplate before shaking his head softly, muttering “no.” You smirk at him, now enjoying your actual favorite drink. 

It takes him a few big sips, actually enjoying his drink, before he whispers softly, “Thank you.” 

“We’re way past that, hon,” 

“Still. I’m the man, I should be the one who makes sacrifices for you,” he explains, though he knows you both don’t actually care about those kinds of things. 

You laugh at him, “drama queen,” earning a laugh from him. 

“How you’re never wrong at this kind of stuff for me freaks me out,” he grumbles just enough for you to hear him. 

“Eh. I know you.” You shrugged, not even thinking about it too much. 

Which then leads to Jack asking you to pick his order every time you try out new places, because deep down, he know that you’ll never do him wrong, and he damn love you for that. 

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who doesn’t care about what people think of him because the only opinion he cares about is yours.

One time, Jack came to work smelling like a vanilla garden, earning a double check from Walsh, who walked past him. 

Jack sucked at long distance, a fact you both already established way too long ago, and now you’re away from him. 

He misses you like hell, he can’t sleep without your body warmth beside him, he can’t sleep without seeing you before bed, and seeing your perfume just sitting there taunts him. 

So instead of spraying your perfume into your side of the bed like most people do (though he also did that, but it wasn’t close enough for him), he chose to use your perfume the entire time you’re away. 

You teased him about it when you get back. You were about to do your laundry when you spotted Jack’s last worn clothes, picking them up to put them with the rest of your clothes inside the machine, when you smelled your perfume. 

You walk to him, his clothes in hand, “You like me that much, you wanna be me, abbot?” 

He groans, walking to you, hugging you tightly, putting his face in your neck, “I missed you like crazy, hon.”

You chuckled, kissing his shoulder nonetheless, “Most people sprayed it on the pillows, you know, not actually wear it.” 

He leans back, looking at you, you know that look, “no, don’t tell me,” you pull away from him, running to the bedroom to sniff at the pillows. 

He stands by the door, looking bashful. “Walsh told me I smell like a cake,” 

Instead of teasing him, you walk over to him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss him on the lips, one he returns passionately. You pull away, putting your head in his chest, “ugh. You’re so sweet sometimes.” 

“Like your perfume?” 

“Even sweeter,” you say, giving him another kiss, not caring about the dirty laundry anymore. 

The next day, he went to work, back to wearing his slightly musky ozonic cologne, Robby smirked at him, “Take it the wife’s back?” Jack nods, smiling to himself, “yeah, fuckin’ finally,” 

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who always takes photos of things that remind him of you.

Strolling inside a toy slash trinkets store with Robby looking for a gift to give to Langdon’s son, debating what to get him with Robby, when he suddenly stops. Looking at the ugly plushie, he knows you will say cute instead. y/n will like this. 

He took out his phone, opening the camera app, quickly taking a snap of said plushie before sending it to you. 

| Jack: (image sent) 

| Jack: You want? 

He waited for your reply, smiling to himself when you did reply, almost immediately. 

| You: OH MY GOD SO UGLY I LOVE HIM 

| You: YES YES YES I WANT 

| You: thank youuuuu 

| Jack: No problem, wait for me, okay 

| You: yessir, thank you, love u 

“Yeah, I don’t think Langdon will approve that ugly thing, man.” Robby’s voice breaks him out of his daze, and Jack chuckles, “Yeah, for y/n. Said it’s so ugly it’s cute” 

When both men finally settled on something and finished paying, Jack proposed to take a walk for a bit before going home, and Robby, having nothing else to do, agreed. 

Robby kept it to himself, seeing Jack, who kept on stopping once in a while to take pictures with a small smile on his lips. He know Jack too well that he’s intending to show those pictures to you. 

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who hates his picture taken but loves taking pictures of you.

“What do you think?” he says, facing the phone screen away from him to show you the picture he just took of you, waiting for your approval. He knows it’s perfect, he’s even already made a mental note to change his lockscreen to this photo once he’s at home. But you’re picky about your pictures. 

He doesn’t even understand why you’re so picky over the smallest things. For him, every picture of you is perfect, but being the good husband that he is, he will always gladly retake it if it’s not up to your standards. 

“Oh my god, I think I trained you too hard, now you take pictures like a pro.” You take the phone from his hand, kissing his cheek before shoving him to your spot earlier. 

He looks at you stepping away, phone angling in your hand to take his pictures now. “Your turn,” 

He takes a step forward to protest, but the look you give him stops him, returning him to his earlier spot like a punished kid. 

You laugh behind the phone, making him smirk at you, perfect, you think, before snapping the photo. 

Truthfully? He doesn’t understand why you keep insisting on taking pictures of him; pictures of you are enough for him, he doesn’t need pictures of himself anyway. 

But the next time he sees your phone’s lock screen, and it's the picture you took of him, he can’t deny the swell of pride feeling his chest. 

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who’s too prideful to wear his glasses. 

You’re currently doing groceries with Jack, who purposefully forgets his glasses at home because he doesn’t want to wear them, saying he doesn’t need them. 

He’s trying hard to read the label at the back, eyes squinting slightly, trying to play it cool, but deep down he did regret not bringing his glasses because since when does the labels are so damn tiny??? 

You know that Jack will purposefully leave his glasses on the nightstand, you know that he’s too stubborn to admit that he actually needs them, that’s why you always do a one last sweep for his glasses every time both of you go out. 

Wordlessly, you stuck your hand inside your bag, looking for his glasses. Taking them out when your hand finally found them. Walking over to him, opening the glasses in your hand before perching them on his nose. 

He looks at you through his glasses, looking back at the now easy-to-read label. When he looks at you again, a small grateful smile on his lips, you could’ve sworn your breath hitched, he just looks so…you’re not even sure the word existed to explain how good Jack looked right now. 

“Thank you,” he says, kissing your hair. “Still feel weird with them on, hon.” 

You give him a peck on his lips, “hush. You look hot.” 

He smirks again, looking even more… again, the word didn’t exist just yet. “Yeah? Y'’ think so?” 

You nod at him, taking the box in his hand to toss into the cart before you initiate something close to a public indecency action. 

Thinking about Jack Abbot, who always kept notes about you. 

You found out one evening, currently watching a movie, that you suddenly ask him, “Jack. What’s your notes app look like?” 

“What do you mean?” he says, hands still wrapped on your shoulders. 

“They said that guys sometimes have weird notes,” you explain to him, feeling the rustle when his free hand tries to look for his phone. 

He hands his phone to you, still locked. “Go check it for yourself.” 

You look at him, shocked that he gives you access to his phone so easily, “Whoa, bad decision giving me your phone.” 

He scoffs, “You say that like you didn’t just ask me to look through your phone when you’re showering this morning.” 

“That’s different, I don’t have anything to hide.” 

“And you think I do?” he says exasperatedly. 

You sigh, realizing that he’s right, you’re both at a point where you don’t even care if he looks through your phone, it’s filled with him anyway, same goes for him. You put his phone in front of his face to unlock it, opening the notes app to see together. 

You scroll away, looking at some grocery list, medical stuff, until one title caught your eye, it was your name. You ask for his permission first, to which he replies with a hum. 

You clicked on the title, and your heart warmed upon looking at what’s inside. It’s literally about you. Unending pointers of things you liked, things you don’t, brands you prefer, up to the third alternative in case your preferred brand is out of stock. What shocked you the most was that he kept notes on things he noticed that made you happy and things he noticed that made you sad. 

“Jack,” you call to him, not knowing what to say. 

“It’s not too weird, is it?” he says. You shake your head. 

“You’re such a simp, it’s perfect.” You nudged his side with your elbow. 

“Just wanna be better for you,” he admits softly. 

“You missed one thing that makes me happy.” 

“Yeah? What’s that?” because he was damn sure the list is very up to date. 

You didn’t say anything, instead typing under the list. 

Jack. 

He didn’t say anything back, opting to just kiss you senseless instead. 

[2kidult]

✶ local girl shifts realities, finds god in a small town & lavender linen spray (storytime)

GUYS. GUYS. GUYS. I SHIFTED. I SHIFTED I SHIFTED I SHIFTED I SHIFTED I SHIFTEDDDDDDDD. i haven't had a successful shifting attempt in almost 2 years. TWO YEARS. i was starting to think it wasn't going to happen again??

i woke up in a bed that wasn't mine but also was. u know the type. perfectly rumpled, cloud-level soft, the kind of bed that has seen gentle mornings and lavender linen spray. sunlight pouring in through my window like god personally decided i deserved a cinematic morning. like okay??!!?? i stared at the ceiling like some idiot. and just. laid there. not thinking. not blinking. just existing. like some tragic victorian window except instead of mourning my dead husband i'm mourning clarity. or a single functional brain cell. for a second i thought i had died. it was too peaceful. too quiet. just birds and the soft sound of the curtain moving slightly in the breeze ❪ it also smelled like pines and clean laundry??? ❫

ANYWAY. i got out of bed like some dainty renaissance wife. the floors were wood, warm, and sort of creaky. i explored my very own apartment. because yes i have one. my very own. no parents. no siblings. just me. my kitchen had a espresso machine and a bowl of white peaches on the counter. there were books stacked on the windowsill, a vase with oriental lilies on the table, and a mug that looked like i had already made tea and forgotten about it.

it's above a bookstore. A BOOKSTORE!!!!! the kind with a crooked wooden sign out front and a little bell that jingles when the door opens. shelves that go all the way up to the ceiling. books in piles on the floor like no one had the heart to organize them. i went down just to look and somehow ended up talking to the shop owner about poetry for like. 40 minutes. i think i love her.

i made my way to the university i'm attending once the summer break is over. the campus is stupidly gorgeous. ivy on the walls, girls reading poetry under the trees, some guy with headphones on sketching something on a notepad under a gazebo. the buildings smelled like rain and old books and just the right amount of despair.

i didn't do much on the first day, i think i was just overwhelmed. i mostly just wandering around town with my hands shaking and my brain was switching between being too loud and too quiet.

and yes. i woke up in my cr and i think something inside of me has died. back where everything is too light and too bright and smells like bad decisions and capitalism. how do you return to normalcy after shifting? how do you go to your 8am classes and pretend nothing happened?

[digitald0rk]

TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core. 

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear. 

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop. 

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore �� you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

[loveanddeepsecrets]

Domestic + Intimate Headcanons Pt. II

An impromptu two parter of me just spitballing (Pt. I for reference). This started out as a cutesy mini headcanon post for Raf’s bday, but quickly grew into hyper specific romantic scenarios and wishful thinking. It’s still probably clear who my mains are 😭 but I did my best to showcase the humility in all LIs

⤠ Disclaimer: I’m quite happy with the intimate headcanons from my initial post and truthfully couldn’t expand too too much without basically repeating myself from last time. So with the exception of Caleb, there’s a bit less spicy bullets this go-round :/

⤠ Tags: 18+, MDNI, *slight spoilers depending on affinity level or personal progress in main story +myths, fluff, mostly gender neutral, but written with an afab + fem!reader in mind

⤠ Word count: 2.1k (mostly proofread)

Xavier

SFW

✧ Eats the raisins you pick out of the trail mix

✧ Always draws stars next to your name when writing you letters/cards

✧ Bookstore dates. At every visit, you pick one of your favourite books to read for each other

✧ After begging him tirelessly to teach you a song, *any song* on the piano, he mischievously chose ‘Heart & Soul’

✧ Saves every voicemail/voice note. He often replays them to stay sane on dangerous solo missions 

✧ On top of that, he made a bunny plushie version of you at one of those 'Build-A-Bear' type shops and used one of your voice notes . He sleeps with it on nights he can't sleep with you

✧ Sprays more cologne on his hoodies knowing you love the scent. He also thinks the extra spritz of fragrance will ward off other men since he knows you borrow his clothes. It’s his silent way of marking what’s his

✧ Loves making you blush. He didn't get enough time to court you in the past timeline on Philos, so he seizes every opportunity to (quite effortlessly) rizz you up to see your flushed expression

NSFW

✧ [canonically makes bolder moves to see how you’d react —secret times lvl 165]

✧ Game head. He gets a bit of an adrenaline rush if you do it while he’s online

✧ Doesn’t give not one shit about how loud you guys are. He probably prefers sex on the couch on the off chance Charlie might be passing through the hallway

✧ Though I still think he’s pretty quiet, he becomes a bit of a whiny mess when you’re edging him

✧ A gripper. Grabs on your ass during cowgirl, your chest during missionary, your hips/thighs during doggy, etc

✧ Sprained his neck from holding your hips down and guiding you when you sat on his face. It left him smirking throughout his recovery. Every painful twitch was a pleasant reminder of a job well done 

✧ Has the fastest pace ot5. He moves at lightning speed when batting wanderers, so he probably moves at a back breaking break neck speed while inside of you 

✧ After rewatching the 'No Restraint' card on YouTube… *sweats* he’s got magic fingers. I’ll put it like this and move on: firm, tiny circles 🫠

Caleb

SFW

✧ 10+ hours long face time calls

✧ Would actually be pretty decent at the claw machine if he wasn't such a massive cheater

✧ Utility man. He's your personal chauffer, home chef, alarm clock, umbrella, trainer, handyman, and so on. He strives to be the perfect emergency contact

✧ Has definitely seen those videos of couples trying to recreate yoga poses and had you try with him (would probably cheat using his evol)

✧ Bounces his leg if you scratch that one spot on his head when you play with his hair

✧ You always end up sitting on his lap when cuddling watching tv or reading peacefully together 

✧ Holds pinkies more often than holding hands

✧ Super athletic and adventurous dates i.e. zip lining, skydiving, paragliding, kayaking, hiking, etc. He’s patient, encouraging, and talks you through the scariest parts of the activity and rewards you with several kisses in between telling you how brave you were

NSFW

✧ Hands down has the roughest sex regularly ot5

✧ Mile high club

✧ Orgasm denial + overstimulation 

✧ LOUD, TALKATIVE, and MESSY 

✧ Sloppy eater

✧ He expects a sloppy eater in return. Is probably the type to grab your head and start guiding you when he’s close 

✧ Ik I said Xavier was bossy, but this man? His gravity evol? His colonel position? CONTROL FREAK

✧ Likely has the biggest “Sir” kink

✧ While I do think he aligns slightly more with booktok Sylus, I can’t see where degradation would fit with their dynamic. You’re the very thing he wants to shield and protect. Why would he degrade what he cherishes?

✧ On the softer side, he’s the type to melt into your touch. There’s true devotion in his eyes (and heart) when you’re making love

✧ On the days where he’s not rough, the sex is more sensual and almost tantric 

✧ Will always find a way to be physically closer to you during the act. Whether it’s putting his forehead on yours, burying his face in your neck, hugging your waist, or simply holding hands 

✧ You both probably cried (happy tears) after your first time. Being intimate felt like a confirmation from the universe that you knew each other more than words could express. There was no trial and error, you just knew 

Sylus

SFW

✧ Hot air balloon rides

✧ Monogram matching robes

✧ Secret fan of game shows. He thinks they’re hilarious— or in his words “highly amusing”

✧ Bought you a birdhouse + birdfeeder for your apartment after he noticed you birdwatching on the last date 

✧ Purposely chooses horror films on movie nights on the chance you’ll hold onto him and hide your face in his chest. He’ll laugh and make some remark about being hurt that you’d use him as a shield, but will hold you tighter and soothe you later in the night when you’re too scared to sleep

✧ Random slow dances. In the kitchen on the nights you make dinner together; in his study while music emits from his record player; in the bathroom, sleepily swaying side to side while lazily brushing your teeth 

✧ Whenever you're holding hands, he often aimlessly draws random shapes on your ring finger

✧ I think all the LADS men have a default position they fall into when getting close or snuggling up. For Sylus, it’s resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s the perfect place to capture your scent plus, he can hear and feel your heartbeat. Of course he’ll playful bite or nuzzle into your neck, but he rests his head there because it’s most familiar and comforting to him and his old dragon form

NSFW

✧ Road head 

✧ Mile high club

✧ Eye contact 

✧ Has a secluded sex dungeon even Luke & Kieran don’t know about

✧ Due to the nature of his job, I don’t think he’d engage in explicit sexting. Too many people on his case and has probably dealt with his fair share of hackers. If one of your messages/photos/videos leaked anywhere, it would be the end of the N109 zone and the world as we know it 

✧ That being said, if he wants to make home movies, it’s done with a vintage film camera to ensure the utmost privacy

✧ More of a grunter and groaner than a moaner. The few times he does moan, is when he’s buried between your legs

✧ I actually think he’d be into role play. He likes how you always keep him quick on his feet in your relationship, and will often humour and indulging in the change of pace. He’d like this even more in the bedroom

✧ Chuckles to himself and humours you whenever you suggest 69ing bc he knows you’ll inevitably just lay there with his dick idle in your hands, while you whimper on top of him

✧ Stamina coach. His methods for overstimulation are twofold. While he loves the state of you withering and coming completely undone, he also does this to help you expand your limitations and enjoy each other for as long as he can go. I already said he’s a pleasure dom, but he’s a pleasure dom with a purpose

Zayne

SFW

✧ Botanical garden tours

✧ Couples ice skating during the holiday season 

✧ Uses his surgical skills to patch up injured plushies [x] 

✧ He may or may not have added an extra rest day or two in your doctor’s note to Jenna so he can spend more time with you. He’ll deny it and insist you need the additional rest, and who better to take care of you other than your doctor?

✧ There’s something about the way he holds your hand that’s sickeningly sweet. Gentle, slightly cool to the touch that warms up quickly, with loving caresses

✧ Surprised you to a dessert degustation for your anniversary. Each dish is a highlight of the standout desserts you tried over the year

✧ Occasional late night strolls along the river. He passively recalls scenes from the western dramas you watch and (successfully) tries skipping rocks

✧ Enjoys exploring artistic outlets with you. Often suggests different workshops to try i.e. stained glass studios, culinary classes, candle making, terrarium building, etc

✧ A bit needy nowadays. To experience a love he never knew he could have, makes him hold your hand a little more tightly, hug you a few seconds longer and kiss you twice as many times as he did before

NSFW

✧ Much like Sylus, he’s also big on eye contact (when he’s in control)

✧ Literally the cutest thing ever when you go down on him. He’ll keep his composure, and lustfully tell you what he wants, but gets so flustered and stuttering as the pleasure builds and he gets close

✧ Truthfully, I don’t like to compare Zayne and Caleb all that much, but the love making between you two is also very tantric

✧ If you listen to the way he kisses you, it’s pretty similar to how he eats you. When completely drunk off your juices, it’s like he’s breathing you in. There’s a desperation to his licks and kisses, feening for the taste of your nectar

✧ He’s also the type to spell out his name with his tongue over and over again. Think of it as a spell. He needs to hear you call to him

✧ Incredibly patient. Foreplay isn’t some tit for tat curtesy thing, it’s important to him. He’s less of a tease and more methodical. "Relax into my arms. No, I'm not bullying you. I need you to come for me again. You should always warm up before stretching, and I don't want to hurt you so please, come for me love. Can you do that for me?"

✧ A stickler for clear communication. You must speak in full complete sentences. It’s not enough to say just say “Please.” What exactly are you pleading him to do?

✧ Slight exhibitionist. He’ll never allow you to get caught, but likes the challenge of finding the quickest ways to cover your mouth— using his hand, tie or lips to stifle your moans

Rafayel

SFW

✧ Hates going in hot springs, saunas, or jacuzzies. He’ll say he feels like a boiling crab

✧ Asked to keep your first completed sketchbook that are filled with many one on one art lessons with him

✧ Can’t sleep if some semblance of you isn’t with him. Will literally drag or carry you to the couch so he can take a nap. You don’t have to nap with him, just lay next to him and stroke his hair

✧ Apart from Moments, you’re the only one he’s following on all socials

✧ Always responds with a stream of texts in all caps and several emojis when you send him a selfie 

✧ His biggest artistic aspiration is to find just the right pigments/colours that encapsulates you. Next is finding a colour palette that encapsulates both of you 

✧ Used to think you were mocking him when you took him on aquarium dates

✧ Your pearl engagement ring was made from the tears he cried while drafting his proposal speech [x]

NSFW

✧ Next to Sylus, he’s a comfort king. Making sure you have enough pillows underneath you during missionary; repositioning you when he notices your head leaning off the edge of the bed; several consent check ins; "my hands aren't too cold, right?"; taking over when your legs start to tire out from riding him, etc

✧ Unpopular opinion, I think he’s the most into period sex out of the five. You really think a MERMAN is scared of the red sea???

✧ Speaking of which, he’s extra sensitive to your scent and the way you feel when you’re on your cycle. Though he won’t necessarily initiate anything 

✧ Has you take the week off for Ebb Day. You’ll need the extra down time and he’s more than happy to spend the rest the week caring for you till you're back in good health

✧ On particularly intense— passionate rounds, he starts swearing/speaking in Lumerian

✧ Pretty gentle with you when you go down on him. He’s usually holding your hair back, softly running his fingers through your strands or caressing the back of your neck 

✧ The biggest tease when he’s eating you out and MEAN about it too. Giggling when you mewl. That annoying "mmm?” when you start to get louder. "Speak up, cutie."

✧ Best stroke game. Ik I said this last time, but I’m dying on this hill. Dizzying backshots, frontshots, sideshots— literally whatever position you’re in, his hips are steady, fluid, and unrelenting

ꨄ︎ A/N: Thanks for reading 🤍 these lists were a bit harder to make this time ngl. Quite a few bullets from pt. I are now canon— which I’m happy about ofc, but it made it harder to bounce around new ideas since there’s fewer “what ifs”. It’s probably best to end this series here tbh. But I’m definitely open to different content suggestions to post next!

[x] - denotes credit for headcanon inspo.

⤠ dividers by saradika-graphics & anitalenia

[comatosebunny09]

and they were roommates | sylus

sum: sylus responds to an online ad for a roommate. you suddenly have this tall, well-spoken, handsome man living in the attic, playing classical music, tinkering with things he built, and humming off-key while he makes you pancakes in the morning before disappearing for weeks at a time. cw: modern au, roommate au, slice of life, mild language, mutual pining, reader is shorter than sylus, flirting, gendered terms (good girl), mild jealousy, 2.2k of self-indulgent dribble now playing: sweet time - raveena part 1 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

Coffee. 

Cuban, aromatic, sweet, bold. Nostalgic.

It’s the first thing to bring you to consciousness, followed by birds chirping outside, and the unbroken purr of a lawn mower.

You’re in your bed, swiping along the sheets in wide arcs as if chasing the remnants of sleep. Dreams of cerulean beach waves, sand caught in the interstices of your toes, the sun warming your cheeks.

Morning announces itself in the form of a golden strip cast over your eyes. 

You peek them open, throat dry, mouth sticky. A little sad to see you’re not at the beach, not tucked safe in your childhood home.

You push up with an unflattering yawn and crackling limbs. A glance at your phone reveals it’s a little past eight. It’s your day off. Still got some time to get ahead of the morning rush for grocery shopping.

The scent of coffee curls around you like a wispy shawl, and you’re warm inside. Smiling, lugging yourself off the bed to the window where you know he’ll be.

A glance outside and across the street reveals that familiar thatch of white, contrasting with the vibrant grass as Sylus pushes the lawn mower back and forth.

You’d almost forgotten he was back, kind of used to getting along without him. And of course, he’s up bright and early, helping your elderly neighbor tend to his yard. Made time to make you coffee on that expensive espresso machine he refuses to let you touch.

Funny. 

For someone who claims to abhor the sun, he’s best friends with it—the way it threads through his hair like he’s Atlas himself, bearing the sky on burly shoulders. How it highlights the rippling muscles in his back beneath a sweat-slicked tank, the tendons flexing in his legs as he works. 

You cross your arms and lean near the window, watching him push to a standstill when your neighbor approaches with water and a towel. Like clockwork, the old man draws him into conversation, nonsensical things in no particular order. And Sylus is always patient, letting your neighbor ramble like he’s got all the time in the world.

As if remembering yourself, you blink away your reverie. Shake it off. You sound like a lovesick fool. A secret admirer. Aren’t you? You’ve got better things to do than pine after your roomie.

So you strip down and crowd into the shower, the crisp spray a welcome reprieve for your stiff muscles. You slip into something that fits the heat—the kind that refracts light waves off the pavement, scorching enough to fry eggs outside and bring the mosquitoes out.

You sweep your hair into something passable, trotting down the stairs to the kitchen. The coffee’s still hot, warm in the mug between your palms and down your gullet. 

Not only is he a tolerable housemate, but he listens. Made it a point to stock your pantry with coffee that chased away your homesickness—imported—probably sick of you bitching about how much you missed it. Tired of asking why you’ll never go back.

A plate covered in a cheesecloth awaits you on the stove with a sad excuse for a cat scrawled onto a sticky note on top. You snort. Fish out a piece of bacon, pop a few blueberries strewn across your pancakes into your mouth. 

From the kitchen window, Sylus and your neighbor have moved to the old man’s porch. They’re seated on his rocking chairs, mouths moving, expressions easygoing beneath the flag fluttering in the balmy breeze. It’s infectious, that rare quirk to Sylus’ lips. Everything about him seems infectious these days. 

Swiping your keys from the counter and toeing on your sneakers, you push through the front door, and the humidity slaps you with zero remorse. 

Both men across the street perk up when you hit the remote start, your neighbor waving at you with a wrinkly, knowing smile.

You return his greeting, prickly when scarlet eyes track your every step as you round the car to the pooped-up trunk. 

You’re shuffling things around to make room for groceries when you feel him behind you—a tingly pressure between your shoulder blades, his shadow pressing into you and blotting out the sun.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, amused.

You jolt, a hand over your heart. You knew your roommate was back there, yet that voice is something lethal. Always manages to make you forget the world is a thing, breathing and thriving around you.

You turn, propping against the trunk’s edge, trying to play it cool over crossed arms. “God, warn me next time, will you? For your info, I’m going grocery shopping so my roomie doesn’t think I’m irresponsible and broke.”

There goes that lethal combo—that smirk, that chuckle. It’s not fair that he makes something as simple as roosting his hand on the edge of the trunk look cool, so close, you make out the veins and sinew jumping in his arm. Smell the sweat salting his skin, the grass staining his shorts.

“Irresponsible, yes.” Sylus pokes your forehead, and you sputter at how rough he pushes. “Broke, never. Not with me around.”

You huff, looking off to the side, pretending to be annoyed. Pretending like it wouldn’t take much to grab the front of his shirt and tug him down and—

Enough of that.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m assuming you’re done being a good Samaritan since you have time to talk.”

He straightens, that humor never leaving, that gaze sliding over you, stopping center mass, before finding your eyes again. He tugs on the towel around his neck, and you’re swallowing when his Adam’s apple bobs, chasing the sweat pouring down his throat. 

“Mostly. Want company?”

You jut your chin out defiantly, haughty, like you’re not giddy at the prospect of him tagging along. “Thought you didn’t like crowds.”

Something shifts in those lava fields. A glimmer of something burrowing deep before he’s back to his usual, smug self. Angles himself closer, making your heart skip a beat.

He’s all teeth when he says, “They’re bearable when I’m with you. Give me ten, and I’ll come with.”

You’re nodding like a lovelorn idiot, mouth halfway open, still processing what he said as he wanders into the house.

It’s hard to keep your walls up when he says shit like that. Chips away at those aged bricks you put up around your heart after you assumed he was seeing someone—the feminine name he’d say in hushed urgency, stepping out of earshot to take her call.

Whatever. 

It’s just a trip to the store. And he’s always been a tease. 

You brush it off, slamming the trunk shut, and slipping into the driver's seat to wait for this enigma of a man to clean up. 

—

Mornings have never been your forte. 

But you take advantage of them when it means getting a leg up on the housewives and boisterous teens who like to crowd the supermarket later on.

It’s eventless inside, a few customers scuttling about, music echoing from the speakers. The overhead lights compete with that of the sun bleeding through the windows, and your cart squeals and sticks.

One hand is tight around the buggy’s handle, the other pressing your phone to your chest. You’re tense, tight-lipped, pulse jackhammering in your throat. 

The source of your anxiety walks a comfortable distance behind and to the side, perusing the aisles with as much interest as someone out of their element. He’s not as close as he was before when he’d manipulated you into bringing him with you, but you’re still all prickly like he wrote sin into your bare skin with his fingers.

You always get like this when he’s gone for a while and comes back. Like meeting up with a stranger, sifting through the filing cabinet of your mind on what to say and how not to sound stupid saying it. 

You’re nestled between towering aisles of cereal when you glance over your shoulder, mouth moving, but nothing coming out. Sylus watches you, brow lifted, expectant. And your tongue’s suddenly too heavy for your mouth as you laugh it off, facing forward again.

You’ve never been this shy before. Never been this hesitant to fill the space between you with shit-talking and an interrogation on where he ran off to this time. Real estate conferences typically don’t last for most of the month. But you know your prodding won’t get you anywhere because he’s so good at diverting your questions and changing the subject.

“So,” you finally begin, attempting to break up the dense air between you. “We need milk, eggs, and bread. Maybe that bourgeois yogurt you like. Butter, oatmeal, and—ah, fuck. Forgot the plums.”

You stiffen, prepared to turn around, abandoning the cart in the middle of the aisle, but Sylus cuts you off. You almost run into him, that solid wall of strength, the heat of his skin overwhelming, the crisp notes of his cologne like chloroform. 

You look up to that knowing cant on his lips, and with a hand in his pocket, he tells you, “I’ll take care of it. You handle the rest.”

Nodding, you watch him walk off before venturing further down the aisle by yourself, grateful for the save.

At the end of the aisle, of course the oatmeal you want is on the top fucking shelf. And you’re straining on tippy-toe, fingers just barely grazing it. You purse your lips, contemplating stepping on the shelves for an assist, but it seems some higher being pities you today.

“I got you,” chimes a friendly voice from behind. 

His hand reaches over you before you put a face to a voice, plucking the tub of oats down for you. Almost close enough to crowd you against the shelves. You turn, following the stretch of his arm as he steps back, a nervous chuckle in your throat when he deposits the container into your hands.

“Hey, thanks,” you say, smile courteous, the container pressed to your bosom. “I owe you one.”

It’s awkward. Blinking. Staring. Averting your eyes. 

Your savior makes no move to leave, instead making himself comfortable, all teeth and confidence as he leans against a shelf. 

“Hard to believe a pretty thing like you shops all by herself. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in town. You live around here?”

You have this nasty habit of letting your face convey your emotions in place of your words. It’s instinctual. But this guy was nice enough to help, so you tamp down your discomfort, chuckling anxiously. Maybe if you entertain him a little, he’ll take the hint and leave you alone. 

“Um, yeah. Just out running errands. Trying to get my life together. You know.” 

Mr. Smug Smiles still doesn't budge, doesn’t pick up on your unease, instead taking you in like a starving wolf ogling skewered meat. 

“Maybe I could help you out. Grab anything else you can’t reach.” He steps closer, voice descending. “And maybe you could give me your number.”

Before you can work your mouth into a retort, you feel it—quiet, intimidating pressure behind you. Swallowing you whole, though the ire pouring off his skin isn’t directed at you. 

You nearly leap some fifty feet out of your body when a sizable hand falls to your back. The touch is light, but it’s hard not to sense the possessive flex of his fingers as he scorches you down to the bone.

You peer up as Sylus steps in, glare unrelenting on the man before you, and he drops a bag of plums into the cart like they’ve personally offended him. Your breath corks in your throat as his jaw pulls, the tendons in his throat twitching. If looks could kill, you’re sure he would’ve murdered this guy a thousand times over. It’s kind of…hot. And it convinces you just for a second that maybe your roomie’s into you, too.

Sylus’ demeanor shifts from murderous to sweet, giving you whiplash when he looks down at you. Asks, “Do you have everything you need, sweetheart?”

The way the name rolls off his tongue drips hot into your belly, and you’re nodding like a mindless little thing, lost in the soft stir of his irises. He reaches around you to grip the cart’s handle, trapping you between cool metal and sweltering strength. He turns you away from the sputtering man who had no idea you kept such company, walking you down the aisle into another.

Moments pass, and Sylus doesn’t let go. Doesn’t release you from the cage of his body, doesn’t loosen the clench of his jaw until you’re in the frozen section.

You start when he angles low, his hair tickling your neck, your cheek, lips a tease by your ear. It’s pleasant, satisfying, the way his voice drags like chalk against a smooth sidewalk, igniting a flurry of goosebumps across your skin.

“The next time you need assistance, don’t ask a stranger. Wait for me. Understood?”

You have this nagging feeling there’s more to his words than what’s at surface level. And you have half a mind to tell him you didn’t ask for anything. Yet you stutter out a quiet, “Ye-yeah,” absently nudging closer to his mouth.

You feel it curve against your ear—his sly smile. Watch his fingers tighten around the buggy’s handle, forearms just barely brushing your sides.

“Good girl.”

And you don’t realize you’re still clutching the damn oatmeal for dear life until you drop it on your foot.

tags: @pemhpredo, @bluesidez, @thirstblogforaparchedgirl, @freeprincesslove, @raginginferno267, @dyeinsomniadontwake

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

GOLDEN HOUR- D. GRAYSON

day nine of the june bug masterlist

pairing: dick grayson x florist! fem! reader (sex pollen)

word count: 4.1k

summary: a handsome stranger has captured your heart and affections, so its only natural you call for him when a mysterious plant sprays you in your flower shop, and you start to feel... rather funny.

warnings: SMUT, sex pollen used, riding dick grayson on the floor (hell yeah), heavy praise kink, lots of petnames, grinding/ dry humping, man handling, fluff and yearning, making out, swearing, slight masturbation

 “ baby, don't you know? that you're my golden hour, the color of my sky/ you set my world on fire, and i know, i know everything's gonna be alright”- golden hour, kacey musgraves 

The birds chirping in the morning was so peaceful it reminded you of heaven on earth.

Or at least- your version of it.

It reminded you of the soft countryside you called home, before you moved to the big scary city of Gotham. All you needed now was the soft hum of the lawnmowers from the neighbours, or the soft patter of rain that was an open invitation for you to go out in your bare feet, letting the morning dew tickle your toes as you searched for frogs in nothing but your nightgown.

But sadly, home was far away now- and so was the country.

It was a burning dream of yours to go back, to build or find a little cottage where you could grow all the flowers you wanted, having a little garden, filled with sweet delights like berries you could make into jam for your homemade sourdough.

With whoever tended to your dreams with you.

It was what you were working for. And if you found someone along the way, you supposed it would make the cloudy days a bit more comforting.

For now, the closest you could get was your little job at the local florist shop.

It brought you joy, especially on sunny days like today, where business was booming and you could meet lovely people of all ages. Either trying to get some tulip bulbs they could plant in their yard in the fall, or if they needed a bouquet for their loved ones.

The thought of your regular, a sweet older woman named Barbra made you smile at the idea she’d come in, grumbling as usual about the traffic or whatever it may be, just to burst into a smile as soon as she saw you tie a new bouquet together with pink ribbon.

You always snuck her a little flower, typically a baby's breath for her under the counter, to add to her collection of random florals.

You stretched, letting the rarity of sunlight in Gotham trickle through your window and onto your face, savouring the warmth of the summer months. Although you noticed it was a lot more sunny than you were told it would be, since moving here.

An odd fluke, you supposed.

Taking your time, as you always woke up early enough to savour the light of the day as if you were Snow White herself, you made your bed, sheets smelling of the lavender spray from the florals you’d collected yourself.

Next was the tea of course, herbals often woke you up. Letting the soft lace of your nightgown brush your thighs, you headed towards the kitchen towards the kettle, the fresh batch of scones you made the other night your next destination.

As you waited for the water to boil, you couldn't help but lean back against the counter, a soft smile on your face as you observed your indoor plants.

It wasn't the end goal, but it was a beautiful pit-stop along the way. And that, you could be happy with.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

Barbra’s presence could be felt before it could be heard.

You peered up at her little frame, slightly hunched over, but in working condition, nonetheless. You called her a well oiled machine. She called herself a grouchy piece of shit.

But today, something was different.

Was that… a smile on her face? Before she had come inside to greet you?

Odd.

You peered out the window, trying not to seem too obvious as you glanced outside, and saw her talking to… a man?

A beautiful man, at that. Tall, at least a foot or so taller than you, his  muscles practically bulging out of his little Black Canary Tour shirt.

You could tie a pretty pink ribbon around them just for it to snap the second he did so much as move his bicep.

But what really captivated you was the baby blues that gleamed at Barbra. The way his smile seemed to twinkle in the sun, real and genuine as he laughed. He was so animated, hands moving as he talked, before his fingers pointed to you.

You froze.

Quickly scurrying away, out of sight to make yourself busy, and to tend to your racing heart.

Soon, a little jingle of the shop bell rang out, and you poked your head out from the daisies, preparing for the worst.

“You’re smiling? Who are you, and what did you do with Barbra?” you teased, making her laugh.

“You got yourself a suitor out there eh? A handsome one at that.” Barbra smiled, wacking your arm gently with her newspaper. Your eyes widened.

“Suitor?”

“Yeah dolly he’s right into ya. I was about to go harass him, as he was staring at you a little too much for my liking, like some black cat on a windowsill. Spooked the damn boy, was about to give him hell until I saw the look in his eye.”

You raised your eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What look in his eye?”

“Love.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Love. Right.”

“You know better than to question me girl. I know best. I’ve lived a lot more lives than you, and I know what love looks like. That man is head over heels.”

Something like warmth bloomed in your chest at her words, and you couldn't help but hope it was true. He was so handsome, and if he could manage to make Barbra laugh, there must have been something about him that was special.

“I’m sure. In love with a nobody flower shop girl who clips flower stems in her free time.”

“The most beautiful girl in the city, who happens to clip flower stems in her free time. Now, shut up and give me some sunflowers dear. I’m on my way to bridge practice and I need to get these to my sister.”

You nodded, collecting her flowers and ignoring her payment.

“Well, get on then you grouch.”

She laughed, slipping you a twenty despite your protests, and was out the door before you could process the sneaky bill slip she performed and give it back to her.

For an older woman, she was fast.

The bell rang again, and you expected her to toss another comment about getting your head out of your ass, but you were royally surprised when the handsome stranger was there instead.

Sun shown from the back of his head, illuminating him like he was an angel, halo burning brightly. You urged yourself to not let his beauty consume you.

“Do you always just watch girls from outside their work, or is this special treatment?” you asked, leaning against the counter.

He smiled. “Only you. Isn't that so cheesy?”

“Or creepy, depending on how you look at it. But Barbra likes you. So I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you for your vigilante activities.”

His hand went to his heart, bowing his head almost in solitude.

“She really knows how to scare a man.”

“I heard one time she twisted a man's balls so hard he had to go to the hospital, because he thought they were going to fall off.”

You laughed at his shocked reaction, turning into an easy grin as he walked towards you, towering over you from behind the counter.

“Now, are you here to buy anything? Or just flirt with me?” you asked boldly.

“Both. Is that okay?”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks and you looked away quickly, shrugging.

“Suppose.”

“Y/N…” he read your delicate nametag, the writing in your own penmanship, swirly, girly font with a little blooming tulip next to it.

“Forgive me if this question sounds odd but… what's a pretty thing like you doing in Gotham? You’re the human form of the sun. You shine so brightly here it's almost blinding.”

You froze at his words, trying to not let them know how much they impact you.

You’re the human form of the sun.

No one, no man- had ever said anything so kind to you. So near and dear to your heart. It nearly caught you off guard. All you could do was smile at him softly, batting your lashes at him as you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting your bracelets jangle.

“I’m here to shine.” was all you said as you shrugged, turning your back to him to gather flowers that matched his energy.

You didn't even know what he was in here for. You were too flustered to ask.

Instead, you felt his eyes following your figure as you selected the blossoms, reaching up on your tiptoes to select some that were out of reach.

Soft blues and whites- blue stars, baby's breath, and columbines. You sprinkled in some soft yellows, buttercups and primroses. Tying it all together with a soft, pale baby blue ribbon, humming to yourself softly.

“For…?” you asked, pen hovering just above the little card.

“Dick. Dick Grayson.” You nodded, writing his name, and feeling even so bold as to even scratch your number just under it. Maybe your countryside future could be closer than you thought.

And by the look on his face as he saw your number on that very same tea stained card, he must have thought the same.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

You had fallen.

Hard.

And god, could anyone blame you?

God himself couldn't blame you, for all the time Richard Grayson had swirled through your mind, clouding your thoughts until they were sprinkles of pollen.

He was sweet, like the lemonade you made for him when he first came over to visit your place.

He had a green thumb. He liked mint chocolate chip ice cream, which you would never give him the satisfaction of knowing, but you liked it too. He was polite, always holding the door for you, a soft palm on your back as he’d lead you inside, always closing his eyes whenever you changed in front of him, claiming it wasn't gentleman like to watch a woman change (though you caught his fingers peel from his eyes a few times).

He was an animal lover. He was nurturing, and wanting nothing more than to provide for you.

And he always listened. About anything, really- but especially when you talked about your future.

With him in it.

It made his heart swell up so large he feared it would break his ribcage, at the mention of your garden, and your chickens, dogs, ducks, cats- the homemade meals and soft cuddles by the stone fireplace.

All involving him.

Of course you included his interests- referring to the dogs as his dogs, mentioning his favourite dishes, and his brothers coming to visit whenever they wanted. Talks on your couch turned into sweet kisses, gentle touches and addicting tastes of mint, coffee and the musk of cinnamon.

It was all you had wanted, and if God, or anyone judged you for the temptations of Eve’s apple, it was something you’d collect seeds from and grow yourself.

An apple tree of temptation, the branches of Dicks embrace wrapping you tightly.

Barbra noticed it too, the effect he had on you. How somehow- someway, she had stated, you seemed even more bright.

Butterflies had practically found their way to you, fluttering on the flowers outside the store, resting on your fingers as you sent them off to the sun. Birds chirped even louder, the faint smell of honey and cinnamon a constant warm embrace around you as you left Dicks arms in the morning, spreading your wings to go off on your own, to tend to the store.

It was an unusual day today though, you noted.

It was cloudier than it had been lately, though that was Gotham. Light sprinkles of rain pattered off your umbrella as you walked to the floral shop, and despite the rain, you still found it in your heart to smile at anyone who passed by.

It was quiet today, and you had expected just as much. Tonight would be equally as quiet, as Dick had plans with his brother, Jason. You urged him to go off and do his own thing, as even sometimes you needed your own space.

Tonight would be filled with fluffy blankets, buttery popcorn, some mint chip ice cream, and superhero movies. A perfect night, in your opinion. Perhaps a beeswax candle could be lit- a reminder of Dicks sweet smell that stained the pillows.

Your thoughts of the Friday night ahead were whisked away as a customer stepped inside, shaking the rain from her bright red hair.

She smiled, waving slightly as she adjusted her very large purse, starting to browse around. You smiled back, turning your back to resume your task, letting her browse in peace. You never liked to hound anyone, knowing how annoying it could be as a customer yourself, when pesky store owners nagged at you, or pressured you to buy something you were having doubts on.

Plus, if she had questions, she’d ask.

You were approachable enough. Or at least you hoped you were.

By the time you turned around again, she was out of sight. Nothing left of her but the gentle chime of the door bell as her heels clicked against the pavement.

❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。❀。• *₊°。 ❀°。

As you were doing your rounds before closing, something had you stop in your tracks.

A plant.

Of course, a plant was not out of place in a florist shop, but this particular one, captured your attention. It was foreign to you, which was unusual, considering you had spent countless years pouring over plant textbooks, and gathering as much hands-on experience in the garden that you could muster.

But this… this was not something you had ordered in.

Then how the hell had it gotten here?

You picked up the pot, observing the unusual markings on the petals. It was beautiful, the flowers almost mimicking those of a lilly. But you knew deep down, it wasn't.

As you picked up the pot, you were blinded.

You gasped, inhaling pollen as it sprayed at you, almost like a mist of freckles that splattered on your cheeks, getting in your nose, your mouth, clouding your vision.

You coughed, setting the plant down where it had rested, waving the air as your vision blurred, tears starting to trickle down your cheeks. Making your way over to the counter, you started to sneeze and cough, feeling as if the vapors were choking you.

At least you could see now, scrambling off your apron and tossing it somewhere- unknown to you.

You’d deal with it tomorrow. For now, you needed fresh air, and a clear head. Whatever had sprayed you, it was having an effect- fast.

Your body felt tense. Like it had been strung up on a live wire. Heat curled in your gut, strong and fast- like a current that threatened to drag you under its vicious waves.

Sweat dotted at your forehead, your fingers curling into fists. It was so hot you fought the urge not to strip naked and lay on the cool wooden floor.

But no, god no- you needed to get home. To lay down, get some rest, and let this do its thing.

But your head was clouded. Foggy.

All you knew was that you felt hot, bothered and needy.

You wanted Dick. But Dick was with his brother and he needed time to himself, and to enjoy his family… and yet you dialed his number anyways.

He would know what to do. He could help you, could touch you, could take away this pain, this need- this want that consumed you whole- like Goya's Satan consuming your very flesh.

It took two quick rings before his gentle voice answered, quickly turning to concern as you moaned.

“Sweetheart? What's going on?”

“Some plant. I found some plant when I was closing, I don't know what the hell it is but it sprayed me and now I can’t- I can't think- God its so hot-” you panted, slouching against the counter, grounding yourself onto the floor as you let your head lull back.

“Fuck. Fuck sweetheart, where are you now? I’m coming right now.”

“N-no s’okay stay with Jason. I just didn't know if you knew-” you hiccuped, groaning again as you felt your clothes start to stick to your body.

“If you knew what it was. Maybe I can sleep it off.”

You heard a low voice in the background, catching some of the words the man, presumably Jason, mumbled. “Its Ivy. That sex pollen shit we saw a while ago, but fuck Bruce hasnt found a cure yet.”

“Sweetheart, did anyone new come into the shop today that looked unfamiliar?”

You nodded, even though you knew he couldn't see you. The drug was making you hazy.

“Some redhead came in with a large purse. But I didn't think anything of it. She was gone before I could offer her help.”

You heard cursing on the other line, before Dick begged for you to stay conscious. “I’m gonna be right there sweetheart, you just stay put okay? Shut the blinds, lock the door and if it's me, I’ll knock three times.”

You tossed your phone as he hung up, tugging at your top. You had turned the air on, yet it felt so stuffy and hot you felt like you might puke.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck I need-” you gasped, letting your hands cup your breasts, toying at your hardened nipples through the lacy floral bra fabric, feeling heavy and aching. You started to unbutton your pants, shimmying them off your body, sweat sticking to them.

Trapped in your own head, you let your fingers trace your body, but it wasn't enough.

Whatever had sprayed you, it wanted more. It wanted him.

And almost as if it was some divine intervention, the plant weaving its vines around Dick Grayson to tug him to the front door, you heard three quick wraps on a knuckle on the door.

“Sweetheart? It's me honey, can you let me in please? I’m gonna make you feel better okay?”

You groaned, starting to crawl to the front door, reaching up to unlock the door for your savour. And fuck, the sight before him made him hard.

It felt wrong, and dirty to feel so turned on at the sight of you- but he couldn't help it.

There you were, on your knees, looking up at him with so much need in your eyes, lips quivering as sweat trickled down your neck. The pollen stained your cheeks like golden freckles, like constellations in the sky that sang to him.

“Oh my poor, sweet girl.” he cooed, locking the door behind him as he crouched down, cupping your cheek with his palm, stroking little circles gently with his thumb.

“M’gonna make you feel better little dove, okay? You just tell me what you need from me. But we gotta, we gotta get this out of your system.”

You nodded, wincing slightly, not from pain- but from overstimulation as his hand trickled down to stroke your bare collarbones, eyes darting to your pretty pink floral set that sent his mind reeling.

“H-how do we fix this Dickie?” you whimpered, his heart nearly crackling into pieces at how sweet his nickname sounded from your cherry blossom lips.

“Well it's a sex pollen honey so I think- well we have to…”

“Have sex?” you asked and he nodded.

“That would make me feel better. All I can think of and feel is this fuzzy, burning need. It hurts.”

He cooed, letting his hand rest just above your throbbing core. “Right here honey? Is this where it hurts?”

You nodded frantically, guiding his hand down to your soaked panties, juices already coating his fingers from the simple brush of his fingers.

He groaned, the sound making you whimper in delight.

“And right here. M’so sorry Dickie-”

“No, no you don't get to apologise for this honey. You take what you need from me, okay? I’m gonna help you feel all better again, get that fuzziness out of your head.”

Your hands slipped up to tangle in his hair, tugging at the soft, dark raven locks hungrily as your lips found his. He melted into your touch, and you couldn't help but savour the feeling of dominance you had over him.

Even if it was an illusion.

You felt so hungry you couldn't help but straddle him, letting your hands roam over his body, touching anywhere you could reach. It was as if he had been sprayed as well, with the way he was touching you back.

Manhandling you up into his lap, gripping your ass as you began to grind on the fly of his jeans, letting the cool flicker of the zipper soothe your ache as you dampened the fabric.

Guiding you with his hands, urging you to do whatever you wanted to him. As if he was in this as much as you were.

Your equal.

“Need- need you now please.” you practically whined, tugging his shirt over his head, his warm chest now flush with yours, his fingers toying with the back of your bra strap. You gasped as it fell, sliding down your arms, his fingers wrapping around the nipple and tugging on it harshly.

The pain was delicious. You needed more.

“Take what you need sweetheart. My sweet flower.”

You wasted no time tugging his pants off, throwing them haphazardly on the floor with your undergarments, hands guiding him down to the floor.

“You’re so good to me.” you whispered, head bowing as he ran his cock through your soaked folds, before slowly guiding himself in.

Your eyes widened, as if sparks had gone off and illuminated throughout your body.

This. This was what you needed.

All of this, the feeling of him stretching you, guiding you in with such compassion and tender praises, cooing at your little expressions and sounds as he filled you to the brim.

It was as if the pain had stopped, just briefly. Dick Grayson was your cure.

“Big stretch I know baby. I’m sorry, I didn't have time to prep you m’just worried… oh-” he was cut off by your sudden movements, riding him like your life depended on it.

Which it did. You didn't have time to waste. And it was like this thing- this pollen had taken hold of your body, and you were a puppet on its strings.

Gripping his chest, your nails dug and scratched him as you tossed your head back, letting him admire you as much as he wanted. The way your lips hung open as your sweet little moans trailed from them, your forehead scrunched in concentration, letting the waves of the pleasure consume you.

Your eyes, closed, lashes fluttering your cheeks, crying out his name.

The sight alone almost had Dick Grayson come undone. But he had to hold off for you, had to help you first. That was always his rule.

“There you go sweetheart, doing so good for me. Feels so fuckin good oh my god- ridin me like that..” he cooed, hands firm on your hips as he thrusted up, meeting you half way.

Until he couldn't control himself, picking a rhythm that you mindlessly followed, body going limp as he pounded into you- taking control. Knowing that was what you needed.

You didn't even need to tell him where you were, he knew, could feel you squeezing him.

“Let go for me honey. Good girl..” he cooed softly, holding you close to his chest as you came down from your high, legs quivering as you clung to him like a teddy bear.

“Is it over?” You asked softly, your head on his steady heartbeat as he stroked your hair. He shook his head.

“I’m not sure honey. You might need a few more rounds, but I promise, you’ll be okay. Its almost out of your system.”

You nodded, feeling the surge of pleasure lap at your insides, letting it consume you wholly again.

“I’m so sorry Dickie.”

He stopped you, silencing you with a kiss. “Stop apologizing, my sweet girl. We’re gonna get through this. We’re in the home stretch, and I’ve got you. I’m here. Gonna make it all better.”

And deep down, you knew that was the truth.

It had taken a few more rounds for your fiery insides to burn down to little embers, loud moans turning to soft whimpers and hiccups. And he was there with you for all of it, on the floor, against the wall, up on the counter.

And each way he handled you, made you feel like a delicate little petal, despite your actions being anything but.

Holding you in his arms when the flush from your body subsided, and your skin had cooled to a normal temperature, when sleep consumed your body as you lay curled in his lap, his shirt acting as a blanket that you breathed in deeply.

His cum trickling down your thighs, that he had cleaned up before slipping you back into your clothes, and carrying you back to your apartment.

And you knew then, that he’d never leave you. Not now, and not ever. 

[seat-safety-switch]

The best way to fix things is to clean them. An old mentor of mine used to say "if it doesn't work, clean it. If it still doesn't work, clean it again." He wasn't wrong. You'd be surprised how much stuff breaks just because it's a little dirty.

Next time you're visiting a mechanic, stop in at their shop. Check out all their cool solvents, cleaners, specialty rags, and parts-washing machines. All of that stuff is essential to fix the many kinds of weird dirt that your average mechanic encounters on a job. They've got like thirty kinds of grease alone, which means they need at least that many kinds of grease removers.

On the other hand, they will still swear by their old friend, brake cleaner. Brake cleaner is great. It makes a delightful smell and you can feel your brain cells popping whenever you get a good-sized huff of the stuff. It's cheap. You can get it anywhere. Even if you aren't fixing brakes, whatever you are fixing could probably do with a squirt or two of the stuff (unless you're fixing a flashlight or anything else made out of formerly-nice, used-to-be-clear plastic.) At the very least, it will be shiny and smell great, and you'll forget why you were having such a bad time with it five minutes ago.

Just like the rest of our world, brake cleaner is undergoing a lot of changes right now. Turns out it wasn't really a good idea to spray thirty litres of the stuff a day all over your driveway or into your nostrils. Naturally, the mechanics (who are addicted to huffing it) are getting mad. They can't be blamed for this: as we've established so far, nine-tenths of repairing things is cleaning them, and to reduce the effectiveness of their cleaners even a little bit is to welcome the destruction of all we hold dear.

I remain confident that, for years to come, brake cleaner will still be a potent combination of dangerous and also kind of alright at cleaning anything you spray it on. They're probably going to fuck with the smell, though. Won't be the same.

[elliesbabygirl]

CHAPTER ONE: THINKING ABOUT YOU.

SERIES SYNOPSIS: Midterms were crushing you—and so was she. Maybe she was the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time. Either way, none of it mattered when she was next to you.

WARNINGS: 18+, alcohol + drug use, cheating, swearing, mentions of tattoos + body mods (piercings & tattoos), arguments, blood, partying, pining, sexual tension, eventual smut. slow burn with fluff and angst.

SUBMARINE; MASTERLIST

The bell above the tattoo shop door jingled with a weak chime, the sound swallowed by the hum of a late-night rock playlist playing somewhere in the back.

You stepped inside, blinking against the sudden contrast of warm amber lights and cool walls lined with framed flash sheets.

Your hoodie smelled like cold air and leftover anxiety from the midterm you definitely just bombed, your brain was fried, to say the least.

And your heart was somewhere between fuck it and why not.

The neon sign out front had read WALK-INS WELCOME, glowing a soft pink against the empty sidewalk.

It was past eleven, you half-expected the shop to be closed.

From behind the front counter, a head slowly lifted.

She looked up from her sketchbook, one airpod still in her ear, the other tucked into her hoodie pocket.

Her brows furrowed, like she wasn’t sure if you were real or just the ghost of another college burnout looking for a distraction.

“Uh… hey,” you said, voice sticking in your throat a little.

“Do you actually take walk-ins this late? Or is the sign just for show?”

She blinked, clearly not expecting anyone to wander in after hours. Her green eyes swept over you, quick but not unkind.

Then she shrugged and said, “Yeah, I got time.”

There was a pause, not tense, just… full.

Like the both of you were trying to figure out if this was going to be weird or not.

The girl stood, cracking her knuckles as she moved towards the back. She wore a dark flannel over a tank, ink crawling up one arm like a second skin that protected her.

You watched her move—steady, even a little graceful in the way people are when they don’t realize they’re being watched.

“C’mon,” she said over her shoulder, motioning you toward the chair. “I got some time.”

You followed, the buzzing silence settling between you both like a third presence.

“So, what’s the story?” She asked, gloving up. “Breakup? Quarter-life crisis? Got an F and decided to self-destruct like me?”

“Option C,” you said. “Massive failure and poor impulse control.”

She grinned—crooked, tired, but real. “Well, at least you’re honest.”

You laughed, and for a moment the weight on your chest eased.

You sat down, letting the leather chair swallow you whole, heart thumping just a little faster now.

(Ellie. You learned that her name was Ellie, so sweet and simple.)

“Alright,” Ellie said, pulling out a stencil. “Let’s do something simple. Like linework? Maybe something small on the wrist?”

You nodded. “That works for me.”

(You had no idea what she was saying.)

She kneeled beside the chair, eyes leveled with yours now.

Her gaze lingered, for just a second too long. “This your first?”

“Yeah. You?”

Ellie let out a laugh. “God, no.”

And just like that, something cracked open between you two—barely there, just a flicker.

A flicker that lingered in Ellie’s eyes while she worked on you.

(The kind of moment you wouldn’t even think twice about until months later, when everything had already fallen apart.)

+

The hum of the machine had long faded, replaced by the soft rustle of gloves being stripped off and the quiet click of a spray bottle.

A simple outline of an orange now sat on your wrist—small, clean, and sweet in a way you couldn’t explain.

You hadn’t told Ellie why. Truth was, you didn’t know. You just said “an orange” when she asked, and she didn’t question it. She just nodded like that was reason enough.

Ellie wiped down her station with practiced motions, quiet and focused, like she’d done it a thousand times.

Then she looked up at you, eyes softer now under the fluorescent lights.

“Go wait by the front,” she said. “I’ll cash you out in a sec.”

You hesitated, glanced down at your wrist again, then stood up and walked back to the counter, the leather of the chair creaking as you left it behind.

You watched her again, for a moment—methodical, careful, lost in the routine. She didn’t rush, didn't look at the clock. Just moved like the night had all the time in the world.

Ellie eventually wandered over to the register, rubbing the back of her neck with pen-stained fingers.

The silence between you stretched—not awkward, just dense with something you couldn’t name.

She keyed in a few things, barely glancing at the screen.

“That’ll be…” she said, then paused, eyes flicking up to yours. “Actually—uh, hold on.”

She fumbled with the tablet for a second, hit a few buttons, then finally slid it towards you. “Discounted it. First tattoo and all.”

You tilted your head. “That’s not a thing, is it?”

“Nope,” Ellie said, popping the P. “Just felt like it.”

You tapped your card and waited for the receipt to print, fully expecting her to mumble a polite thanks for coming before locking up.

Instead, Ellie hovered for a beat, biting at the inside of her cheek like she was wrestling with something.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it. “Hey, uh… you want to get some boba?”

You blinked. “Boba?”

Ellie scratched behind her ear, flustered all at once. “Yeah, I mean—you don’t have to. I just… there’s that place down the block that stays open stupid late, the one with the open mic stuff. It’s dumb. But sometimes they have slam poetry nights and I figured maybe—fuck—nevermind, that sounded lame.”

You were already smiling before she finished stumbling through it.

“No,” you said, laughing softly. “That doesn’t sound lame.”

She nodded quickly, half-embarrassed, but relieved. “Cool. Cool, yeah. You don’t have to, obviously. Just thought… maybe you didn’t wanna...go home yet.”

You grabbed your hoodie from the back of a chair, still smiling. “Let me guess—you’re more of a ‘pretend-you-don’t-like-it-but-secretly-know-every-word’ type when it comes to slam poetry?”

Ellie smirked, flicking off the lights behind the counter. “You’re already talking a lot of shit for someone with a fruit on their wrist.”

She locked up the shop, keys jingling in her hand as you both stepped into the night.

The air was crisp, the street quiet except for the distant sound of someone rehearsing lines on the corner.

The boba place came into view at the end of the block, tucked between a laundromat and a 24-hour vape shop, glowing in mismatched purple and teal neon.

You squinted at the sign. “Thirsty Bitch? Seriously?”

Ellie laughed, pulling her hoodie up over her head. “Yeah. It’s awful, but they’ve got the best matcha in a ten-mile radius.”

“Still,” you said, grinning, “naming your boba shop after a Twitter insult is bold.”

You reached the door and stepped inside, the smell of brown sugar syrup and steamed milk hitting you like a wave.

The place was dim, cozy, lit with hanging paper lanterns and fairy lights that probably violated a dozen fire codes.

A group of people were lounging on mismatched couches, someone was curled up reading in a window nook, and in the far corner—half-hidden behind a fake plant wall—someone was passionately performing a poem about heartbreak and avocado toast..?

You and Ellie stood in line, trying not to stare at the guy on stage who was practically crying into the mic.

“I… genuinely can’t tell if that’s a metaphor,” you whispered.

Ellie snorted, covering it with her sleeve. “I think he’s serious. He looks like he just got dumped and lost a farmers’ market sponsorship.”

You both fell quiet again as the line inched forward, eyes occasionally flicking to each other and then away, like you were playing a game neither of you fully understood.

It wasn’t lost on you—this wasn’t casual, not really.

You could feel Ellie watching you in quick glances, like she was trying to solve a problem in your expression.

Trying to figure out if you knew this was her awkward, nervous version of flirting.

You did.

And she could tell that you did.

“So,” Ellie said, voice a little too casual as she rocked back on her heels, “you hang out with tattoo artists often? Or am I just that lucky tonight?”

You raised a brow, smirking. “Is this your go-to move? Ink someone and then lure them into weird poetry cafés with sugar drinks?”

“Only if they look good under neon lighting.”

You tried to cover your grin with your hand.

She was clearly testing the waters—careful, but bold in a way that said she didn’t know exactly where the line was, just that she wanted to find it.

The line shuffled forward, the guy on stage wrapping up his ode to heartbreak with an exaggerated sigh and a dramatic bow.

A light smattering of snaps followed. You and Ellie exchanged a look, trying not to laugh.

“Okay, what’s your order?” Ellie asked as you reached the counter.

“Black milk tea. No sugar, less ice.”

Ellie nodded, then turned to the cashier. “One black milk, no sugar, light ice, and… one matcha milk tea with boba. Full sweetness.”

You were halfway into your bag, already fumbling for your cash when Ellie slid hers into the reader without missing a beat.

You blinked. “Wait—shit, I didn’t bring cash.”

She shrugged, not even looking at you as she typed in her pin. “Good thing it’s not a problem.”

“I was gonna get mine.”

“You can get the next one,” she said, pulling her flannel sleeve over her hand. “Or like… I don’t know. A sticker for my sketchbook or something.”

“Wow,” you teased. “Big spender.”

Ellie shot you a grin as she tipped the cashier. “You’re lucky I like your weird fruit tattoo.”

The two of you made your way to the back, weaving past a guy setting up a keyboard and a group of students debating if slam poetry should rhyme.

A random sunken couch was free—one of those big, overstuffed ones that looked like it had been there since the ’90s—and you both dropped into it like it owed you comfort.

“So,” you said, crossing your legs as you sank too far into the cushion, “you always hang around after tattooing strangers, or am I just special?” You mirrored her tone from earlier while in line.

Ellie leaned back, her knee just brushing yours. “I don’t really… do this. Like, ever.”

You tilted your head. “Do what? Drink overpriced tea or hit on people who are going through a midlife crisis?”

She gave you a slow, crooked smile. “Yes.”

You laughed, surprised at how easy it was to be around her like this—loose, light, like nothing in the world was pressing down for once.

The kind of calm that didn’t come often in your life lately.

“So,” Ellie said, eyes flicking towards the next performer taking the mic, “what are you majoring in?”

“Communications. Which is ironic, because I’m pretty bad at it.”

She huffed a laugh. “Art. Also ironic, since I never show my own shit to anyone.”

You looked over at her. “Not even the people you tattoo?”

“Especially not them,” she said, pulling a knee up onto the couch. “I hide it in sketchbooks like a coward.”

You didn’t press. Just nodded, both of you watching the next act start—some kid doing a poem about their mom’s rice cooker and generational trauma. It was weirdly good, too good.

One of the employees—wearing a beanie too big for his head and a pin-covered apron—gently placed your drinks on the small coffee table in front of the couch.

“Black milk, no sugar. Matcha, full sweet,” he muttered, already halfway turning before either of you could do more than offer a quick “Thanks.”

You both reached for your cups at the same time, fingers brushing lightly, then pulling back in that awkward, polite stutter people do when they’re a little too aware of each other.

Ellie handed you yours, then sat back with hers, the paper sleeve crinkling slightly as she adjusted it in her grip.

You took a sip, the cold bite of black tea grounding you, while she raised her matcha like she was inspecting it. “Okay,” she said, “I know it looks like swamp water, but it’s actually elite.”

“I’m judging you,” you said flatly. “Full sweet matcha is basically melted ice cream.”

“Exactly,” Ellie said, smirking. “You’re welcome for the experience.”

Another performer took the mic—a girl with dyed green hair reading something about toxic friendships.

You both listened half-heartedly, more focused on the strange little bubble you were sitting in, pressed against each other by the couch’s deep sag.

“So,” you said, after a beat, “do you always invite people out for boba after tattooing them, or was I just radiating ‘needs emotional sugar’ energy?” You asked, trying to guage what this meant.

Ellie chuckled softly, eyes on her drink. “No, you were radiating ‘maybe I’d let her see my sketchbook’ energy.”

Your eyebrows raised, amused. “That so?”

She nodded, then added quickly, “Not that I—like—want to show it. Just… hypothetical.”

You smiled into your straw. “Hypothetically noted.”

There was a pause, not uncomfortable—just charged.

Ellie took another sip and glanced sideways at you, quick and nervous.

“I like your voice,” she said suddenly, almost too soft to hear.

You looked over, surprised. “My voice?”

She shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah. You’ve got one of those… kind voices. Not in a weird way. Just—whatever.”

You tried to hide how much it hit you—how nice it felt to be seen that way. “Thanks, you've got nice hands...for someone who literally stabs people for a living.”

Ellie snorted, a quick, surprised laugh bursting out of her. “That’s one hell of a compliment.”

“Take it or leave it,” you said, sipping your tea again, feeling your smile pull at the edge of your lips.

+

The final poem faded out under light applause and scattered finger snaps.

You and Ellie were slow to move, both dragging out the last sips of your drinks like they were excuses to stay a little longer, but eventually, all that was left was ice.

You stood, tossing your empty cup into the trash by the door. Ellie followed a second later, her lid clattering as it hit the bin.

The two of you stepped out into the cool night air, the neon lights of Thirsty Bitch flickering faintly behind you.

Neither of you spoke at first. The walk back towards the tattoo shop was quiet, not tense, but full of something unspoken.

The space between you felt smaller now, but the silence was heavier—like you were both trying to figure out what this night even was.

“Thanks,” you said finally, turning toward her. “For paying, you didn’t have to.”

Ellie waved a hand, brushing it off like it was nothing, but you caught the way her neck flushed red, color disappearing under the collar of her shirt.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said quickly. “I mean—I wanted to. Not in like a weird way. I just… wanted to, that's all.”

You smiled. “Ellie.”

She blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re literally stammering.”

Her hands went straight to her pockets as she laughed, half-defeated.

“Okay. Look. I’m just—I don’t know how to end this without sounding like a complete idiot. Like, is this still part of the tattoo appointment? Did we just accidentally hang out for two hours? Is this… a date?”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Do you want it to be a date?”

“I was, like, gonna ask for your number. Like… subtly. Or somethin, but I kinda suck at this.”

You held out your hand. “Give me your phone.”

She blinked again.

“You know,” you said, “so I can save myself in it.”

A slow smile spread across her face as she handed it over. “You’re really good at this whole subtle thing too, huh?”

You typed your name in, shot yourself a text, then passed it back.

Ellie immediately unlocked her screen, texting you a quick “hey” from your new contact.

You pulled out your own phone and smiled when it lit up with her number.

“I guess this means I’m not just another walk-in,” you said, sliding your phone back into your pocket.

Ellie looked down, that shy, half-smirk tugging at her lips again. “Nah. You’re the one who ordered an orange on your wrist. Pretty sure you were gonna stick around whether I wanted you to or not.”

You laughed, and it felt good.

Light.

Like the start of something real.

You both stood there a beat too long, the night stretching thin between you like it was waiting for one of you to make a move neither of you were ready for.

Ellie shifted on her feet, hands still buried in her jean pockets. “Uh… I should probably head home,” she said, eyes flicking to the street.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Me too. Home, definitely.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay, well… bye?” Ellie said, stepping back, voice a little higher than usual.

“Bye,” you echoed, giving a small wave that felt weird the second you did it.

You immediately dropped your hand, pretending to fix your sleeve instead.

Ellie turned towards the row of cars parked out front.

Her converse scuffed against the pavement as she walked—shoulders hunched like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

She glanced over once, half-smiling, and you offered a quick smile back before turning to go the opposite way.

You heard her car beep as it unlocked behind you, and you didn’t look back.

Your chest felt tight—not in a bad way.

Just in the way things feel when they might be something.

Awkward, a little clumsy, but still somehow… sweet.

+

The campus café buzzed with the usual chaos—grinding espresso machines, laughter echoing off the concrete walls, and the constant scrape of chairs on tile.

You sat across from Juni in your usual booth by the window, nursing a lukewarm coffee and trying (failing) to wipe the stupid smile off your face.

Juni narrowed her eyes, sipping her oat milk latte with suspicion. “Okay, spill. You’ve been grinning like an idiot for the last fifteen minutes, and you haven’t said a single thing about your drama class meltdown or the train wreck of a group project you’re in.”

You bit your lip, shrugging casually. “Maybe there’s nothing to tell.”

She gave you a look. “Girl.”

You laughed, finally giving in. “Okay, okay. So… remember the tattoo artist? Ellie?”

Juni’s eyes lit up. “The tattoo artist? Late-night walk-in Ellie? The one who took you to a place literally called thirsty bitch?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh my god, finally,” she said, smacking her palm on the table. “What happened? I thought that was a one-time hangout slash casual date with crazy undertones of sexual tension!”

You took a sip of your coffee, trying to downplay it but failing miserably. “We’ve been texting. Like, nonstop, all week.”

Juni leaned in, eyes wide. “Nonstop, huh? What kind of nonstop? Good morning texts or ‘here’s a meme that reminded me of your wrist tattoo’ kind of thing?”

“Both,” you said, cheeks heating up. “She sends stupid gifs, and voice notes sometimes. She’s… actually really funny.”

Juni smirked, stirring her drink with a tiny wooden stick. “I’m happy for you. Just—be careful, okay?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Juni leaned back, eyes playful but serious underneath.

“You’re soft. You catch feelings like it’s your job, and tattooed girls with tired eyes and flannels? That’s exactly the type to make you fall hard and then disappear into a cloud of cryptic playlist links.”

You laughed, pushing her shoulder. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” she teased, sipping her drink like she wasn’t delivering warnings through a straw. “Don’t let her ruin your playlist.”

You shook your head, grinning. “No, she’s not like that. I mean—she’s kind of… nerdy? In this hot, low-key way. Like, she was talking about shading techniques and somehow I was still blushing.”

Juni blinked. “You blushed over shading?”

“She made it sound important!” you defended, laughing now. “And her voice goes all quiet when she’s focused, and she has this stupid pencil tucked behind her ear all the time. I swear, she doesn’t even know she’s hot.”

“Oh no,” Juni groaned. “You’re doomed.”

You covered your face with your hands. “I know.”

Juni grinned, the teasing softening. “Okay, but seriously. I love this for you. Just… don’t fall in love until I get to meet her and approve.”

You peeked through your fingers. “Too late.”

Juni took a long sip of her latte, waiting, eyes sharp like she already knew you weren’t done.

You swirled the last of your coffee, biting the inside of your cheek before finally speaking again.

“I’m seeing her saturday,” you said quietly, not looking up right away. “She’s off from the shop.”

Juni perked up, grinning again. “Ooh, plans?”

You nodded, finally meeting her gaze. “Just… hanging out, at her place.”

Juni raised an eyebrow. “Just hanging out?”

“That’s the plan,” you said, trying—and failing—not to sound flustered.

“She said she wants to show me this ridiculous old horror movie she loves. Like, some weird black-and-white zombie thing.”

“Let me guess—she’s gonna act like it’s ironic, but she secretly knows all the dialogue.”

“Exactly.”

Juni smirked. “Okay, so you’re gonna be alone. At her place, watching a movie. Sounds very platonic.”

You groaned, sinking lower into your seat. “I know. That’s the thing. I don’t want it to be platonic, but I also don’t want to ruin it if I read this all wrong.”

“Babe.” Juni leaned forward, more serious now. “You said you’ve been texting every day, she took you out after hours, paid for your drink, and flirts with you over shading techniques—you really think she’s not into you?”

“I don’t know, okay?” you said, voice low but urgent. “What if she’s just nice? What if I go over and it’s just two friends watching a movie on a couch and I sit there the whole time dying because I want to touch her but I don’t want to freak her out?”

Juni softened. “You’re into her.”

“I’m so into her,” you admitted, leaning your forehead against your hand. “Like… stupidly into her. It’s bad. I think about her and my brain just short circuits, and then she sends me a blurry pic of her cat and suddenly I’m spiraling into soft girl hell.”

Juni let out a laugh and reached across the table, touching your wrist. “Okay, listen. Just go. Hang out. Be you. If it’s mutual—and I promise you, it probably is—you’ll feel it. You don’t have to make a move. You just have to be open.”

You nodded slowly, heart thudding in your chest. Saturday felt both a breath away and miles off.

“Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “Okay.”

Juni leaned back again, smile returning. “Worst case? She’s emotionally repressed and you two spend three months in gay limbo. Best case? She kisses you mid-movie and you finally get to make out with the hot, nerdy tattooed girl.”

You laughed, half-nervous, half-relieved.

“I’ll take either at this point,” you said.

But deep down, you were already hoping for the second.

+

Ellie opened the door a crack before pulling it wide, already rubbing the back of her neck with the same nervous energy she always wore a little too visibly around you.

“Hey,” she said, stepping aside to let you in. “Uh—so just a heads up… Shimmer might hiss at you, but that’s her way of saying hi. She’s a bitch, but she’s old, so she gets a pass.”

You laughed softly, stepping inside. “Shimmer, huh?”

“She was named during a regrettable horse phase…don’t ask.”

The apartment was small but lived-in, cozy in that kind of organized chaos that made sense to her and no one else—sketchbooks piled in one corner, a half-finished painting leaning against the wall, a blanket bunched up unevenly on the couch.

A couple tattoo machines sat on a shelf above her desk, next to a bowl of cat treats and a few empty cans of energy drink.

You kicked off your shoes by the door and scanned the space with quiet curiosity. “It’s cute,” you said honestly. “Very… you.”

Ellie flushed, ducking her head a little. “Yeah, well. Don’t look too hard, or I’ll have to pretend I totally meant for that chair to have four unmatched hoodies on it.”

Something furry darted past your feet, letting out a judgmental chirp as it hopped up onto the arm of the couch.

“Shimmer,” Ellie called out. “Be cool.”

The cat blinked at you slowly, as if deciding whether you were worth acknowledging, then curled into a dramatic loaf and ignored you completely.

“I think we’re off to a good start,” you said.

Ellie laughed, a little breathless. “She likes you more than she liked my ex, so… that’s probably a good omen.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow, high praise.”

Ellie cleared her throat, suddenly fidgety. “Okay, uh—movie’s queued up already. It’s dumb. You’ll probably hate it. I’m gonna grab snacks from the kitchen. You can… sit wherever, get comfortable.”

She spun on her heel and all but fled toward the kitchen, pretending to be very busy rummaging through cabinets and muttering about not having enough popcorn.

From where you stood, you could just barely see her shoulders tense as she pulled open a drawer with way too much force, trying to look casual while clearly, clearly short-circuiting.

You smiled to yourself as you sat on the couch, Shimmer watching you like a sentry. Ellie’s voice floated in from the kitchen, muffled and quick;

“Do you like Red Vines or Twizzlers or—shit, wait, do you even like candy? I forgot to ask. I’m a terrible host. I have chips too and maybe ice cream? I don’t know if it’s expired. I should check. Do people check that?”

You leaned back into the cushions, heart full, voice soft but teasing; “Ellie, breathe.”

“Okay,” Ellie mumbled from the kitchen, the word coming out more like an exhale than actual speech.

You heard the rustling of plastic bags and cabinet doors creaking open and closed as she scrambled to collect supplies—Red Vines and Twizzlers, both, because she hadn’t known which ones you liked better, and a half-eaten bag of sour cream & onion chips. Two cans of generic soda from a bodega run earlier in the day.

She was trying to act casual, but every move she made was just a little too loud, like her nerves were shaking through her limbs.

When she finally emerged from the kitchen, her arms were overflowing, and she had to pause to awkwardly nudge the light switch off with her elbow.

“Okay, so, uh… snack options,” she said, holding the bags up like a nervous magician revealing her final trick. “They’re kinda random, but… I panicked. I just grabbed what looked vaguely edible.”

You grinned, scooting over to give her room.

Ellie dumped the snacks onto the coffee table and sat down next to you, movements stiff, careful. She leaned forward, cracking open a can with too much force, then immediately winding at the hiss like she had startled herself.

“So,” she said, still not quite looking at you, “the movie’s called Night of the Undead Teenagers—it’s terrible, but, like… intentionally terrible. It’s got this ridiculous synth soundtrack and every line sounds like it was written by a sleep-deprived college student. Which… might be why I love it.”

You chuckled softly, already feeling the warmth of the couch pressing both of you closer together than you expected.

Ellie noticed it too—the way her thigh barely touched yours, the way the couch didn’t offer much personal space unless one of you leaned all the way into the armrest, which neither of you did, obviously.

She picked up the remote and hesitated before hitting play, sneaking a glance at you like she was trying to memorize your expression before the lights dimmed from the TV’s glow.

“You sure this is cool?” she asked, almost whispering. “Just… hanging out like… this?”

You looked at her, close enough now to notice the way her freckles shifted when she flushed red, the way she was trying so hard not to let her knee bump against yours again.

“Ellie,” you said softly. “Yes, I’m sure.”

She let out a breath, nodded, then finally pressed play.

As the terrible synth music filled the room and the movie’s clunky opening credits rolled, Ellie settled back into the couch beside you, eyes on the screen—but her mind clearly somewhere else.

Halfway through Night of the Undead Teenagers, the screen was bathed in fake blood and neon greens, some guy in a leather vest dramatically shouting about “the power of eternal angst” before getting eaten offscreen by what was clearly two people under a bedsheet.

You and Ellie both snorted.

“This is so bad,” you whispered, your cheek practically against her shoulder now.

“I know,” she whispered back, trying not to smile too wide. “It’s perfect.”

At some point—neither of you knew when—Ellie’s arm had slipped behind your head. It had started as a cheesy imitation of what a character in the movie did twenty minutes in, one of those exaggerated “yawn-and-stretch” moments that Ellie had ironically copied with a smug, joking grin.

But the thing was… she never moved it back.

And you hadn’t minded it, not one bit.

Now her fingers gently rested near your neck, thumb occasionally brushing against the edge of your hoodie. It wasn’t bold, but it wasn’t nothing either.

You leaned into her more with each scene, and she hadn’t shifted away. If anything, she shifted closer.

The bowl of snacks sat mostly untouched now, save for the near-empty pack of Twizzlers clutched in Ellie’s lap like some kind of sugar-laced emotional support item.

She tugged one out lazily, chewed off half, then held the other end up in your direction with a casual glance.

You arched a brow, amused.

“Sharing is caring,” she murmured, eyes still on the screen like she wasn’t holding her breath.

You leaned in and bit the other half without a word, letting your eyes linger on hers just a little longer than necessary before settling back against her shoulder.

Neither of you said anything after that, you didn’t have to.

The movie carried on, the plot unraveling into some bizarre high school ritual involving eyeliner, ancient texts, and zombie prom queens—but it all faded into background noise.

What mattered was the way you fit into her side.

The way Ellie’s breathing had slowed, steady and soft near your ear.

The way your fingers lightly brushed her thigh without either of you flinching away.

+

The credits rolled in dramatic red letters, backed by a final synth scream and a slow pan over what was clearly a mannequin head meant to be the villain. A single, off-key guitar chord echoed—and then silence.

You and Ellie burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, half-curled into her lap now, hand pressed over your face. “That was so bad.”

“I told you!” Ellie said, breathless, shoulders shaking under you. “They reused the same explosion shot three times.”

“They didn’t even try to hide it,” you gasped. “The main guy was still in frame.”

Ellie tipped her head back against the couch, full-on grinning. “That was cinema.”

You were basically tangled in her now, limbs overlapping somewhere between cuddling and a pile-up.

The couch barely had room for it, but neither of you made a move to shift away.

You could feel her heartbeat under your hand where it rested against her chest, her hoodie smelled like something clean and faintly like bleach—probably the shop.

Most of the snacks had been demolished. Ellie had absolutely hoarded the Twizzlers, breaking them in half to hand you pieces without even asking, like it was a ritual you both understood.

The chips were nearly gone too, save for a few crumbs, and two empty soda cans sat on the coffee table beside a half-squashed Red Vine packet.

Your laughter started to fade into softer giggles, eyes still on her face.

She looked down at you, cheeks pink, lips slightly parted from smiling so hard. “Okay,” she said, still catching her breath, “but seriously. When the zombie ripped off his own face just to kiss his ex? That was art.”

You snorted, tucking your head slightly against her shoulder. “He was committed to the bit. I respect that.”

You looked up at her, and this time the laughter slipped into something quieter—gentler.

Ellie was already looking back..

You were still smiling—barely—but it wasn’t about the movie anymore.

The screen had long since dimmed to its idle menu, casting flickering blue light across Ellie’s face. She looked different like this—softer, like all the guarded edges she’d carried were slowly melting under the weight of the moment.

Neither of you said a word.

You shifted just slightly, and her hand at your waist moved with you, instinctively anchoring you closer.

Her thumb brushed over the fabric of your hoodie, and you felt it—how close you really were, how close you wanted to be.

Your eyes dropped to her lips, just for a second.

Ellie noticed.

Her breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, and she leaned in—just an inch, maybe less.

You mirrored her without thinking. A slow, subconscious gravitation, like you were both afraid of pushing too fast, but more afraid of pulling away.

Your foreheads were nearly touching now, the air between you thick with hesitation and want.

She whispered something—your name, maybe—but it got lost in the space between your mouths.

Then you kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect, not in the storybook way.

You were half-curled into her, the angle weird, her nose bumping slightly into yours, but it didn’t matter.

Her lips were soft and a little chapped, and the moment your mouth pressed to hers, something in your chest went still.

She kissed you back immediately, shy at first—then more sure, more Ellie, with the way her hand slid up your back and held you just a little tighter.

It was a small kiss, barely more than a press of lips, but the way she leaned into it made it feel like the world had tipped over.

You pulled apart just slightly, noses brushing, and she let out a breath against your cheek like she’d been holding it in forever.

“Was that—”

You nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, it was.”

Ellie blinked, stunned quiet, then laughed once—small and breathless.

“Cool,” she murmured, eyes falling back to your lips for half a second. “Good. Just…checking.”

The quiet hung between you again, but it wasn’t awkward now—it was charged.

Tense in a way that pulled at your skin, pulled at her fingers still gripping your waist like she didn’t know how to let go.

You both tried to play it cool.

You leaned your head against her shoulder like it was just casual. She exhaled a shaky breath like maybe that first kiss hadn’t just wrecked her entire ability to think.

But then her hand slid up your back, slow and warm and deliberate, and you shifted—just a little—to meet her eyes again.

Ellie looked at you like she was caught between trying to hold herself back and giving in completely.

“Okay,” she muttered, half to herself. “Fuck it.”

She kissed you again—no hesitation this time. Just heat.

You barely had time to react before her lips were on yours, firmer, needier.

She groaned softly into your mouth, her fingers tightening at your waist as she pulled you upward, drawing you further over her.

You moved without thinking, letting her guide you, your knees sliding across the couch as your body pressed closer to hers.

This kiss wasn’t awkward. It was desperate, focused.

All the tension that had simmered between texts and shared glances and whispered laughter were now pouring out between your mouths.

You could hear it—the soft, wet sounds of your lips meeting, parting, meeting again—sharp against the quiet hum of the TV menu behind you.

Ellie tilted her head, deepening the kiss, her breath hitching as she pulled you even closer.

You gasped into her, and she drank it in, her hand sliding up your back to cradle the base of your neck.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, your chest rising and falling against hers, Ellie’s lips already bruising—flushed red and slightly swollen.

She stared up at you, dazed, thumb still grazing your side like she wasn’t ready to let go, not even close.

Then she leaned in again—no pause, no words—and kissed you hard, like this time, she needed to remind herself it was real.

+

Morning came slowly, bleeding soft light through the cracks in Ellie’s blinds, warming the corners of her small bedroom.

The world outside muted, far away, like the city had agreed to sleep in too.

You were wrapped in one of her oversized shirts—something faded and threadbare, with a logo you couldn’t even read anymore. It hung off your shoulder just enough to feel deliberate, the scent of her still clinging faintly to the fabric.

You laid curled beside her, your legs tangled with hers under the blanket, and your forehead nearly brushing hers.

Ellie’s arm was tucked beneath your head, her other hand lazily stroking through your hair, fingers warm and slow against your scalp.

Every so often, she’d scratch gently near the base of your neck, and it made you want to melt right into her.

Neither of you had said much yet, you didn’t need to.

You shifted slightly, nudging your nose against her cheek. “You snore,” you mumbled, voice low and thick with sleep.

Ellie cracked one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “That’s slander,” she whispered.

“You absolutely do.”

“You were literally drooling.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “I was cozy, there's a difference.”

She chuckled, a lazy sound deep in her throat, and her hand moved up to gently comb through your hair again. “You looked cute, like a passed-out cat in my shirt.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I’m in your bed.”

Ellie raised a brow, still half-asleep. “And yet… not denying it.”

You buried your face into the crook of her neck, laughing softly. “God, you’re annoying.”

Her hand cradled the back of your head, thumb grazing slow circles at your nape. “Yeah,” she whispered. “But you’re still here.”

You didn’t reply to that—not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because the truth of it settled in too easily between you.

You were still there.

And neither of you were in a rush to move.

So instead, you let the morning stretch on, your fingers lightly tracing patterns against her chest, her hand never leaving your hair.

Just breathing, curled into each other, letting the quiet speak for what words couldn’t quite hold yet.

+

The hum of Ellie’s old car idled beneath you as she pulled up in front of your apartment building, tires crunching slightly over the curb.

Morning sunlight poured through the windshield, catching in the dust on the dashboard and the tiny charm hanging from her rearview mirror—some cracked little keychain you didn’t remember noticing the night before.

Ellie shifted into park and glanced sideways at you, her hand still resting on the gear shift. She looked more awake now, hair pulled up messily, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up her forearms.

But her eyes… they were softer.

Like something had settled in her overnight.

You opened the passenger door but didn’t move to get out just yet. “I think I’ve got everything,” you said, checking your tote in your lap. “Phone, keys, dignity…”

Ellie laughed under her breath, but didn’t say anything right away. She leaned slightly across the console, one hand brushing your arm.

Her fingers curled gently under your chin, tilting your face towards hers like she couldn’t stop herself.

“Wait,” she murmured, and then she kissed you.

It wasn’t shy, or rushed.

Just slow and sure, like she needed one more moment of you before she let you go.

Her lips moved against yours with a quiet kind of hunger, deepening the kiss just enough to steal your breath.

A low hum of pleasure slipped from her throat—quiet but unguarded—and it made your heart stutter in your chest.

When she pulled back, your eyes met again, dazed and grinning.

And then, almost as an afterthought, she leaned in one last time and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek—sweet and warm like punctuation.

“Bye, baby. See you later,” Ellie said casually, voice low and a little rough.

It took half a second for both of you to realize what she’d just said.

You blinked.

Her eyes widened a fraction.

And then—you both laughed.

It wasn’t nervous, or awkward.

Just this giddy, breathless kind of laughter that filled the cab of the car like sunlight.

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, shaking her head with a crooked smile. “I mean… yeah. I guess I said that.”

“I noticed,” you teased, already stepping out with a dumb smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.

She leaned over the console again, resting her chin on her arm. “Text me when you’re inside, yeah?”

“Always.”

You shut the door, gave her one last look through the open window, and waved as you walked towards your building.

She waited until you disappeared behind the glass doors, before pulling away from the curb, her car grumbling quietly as it rolled down the street.

Author's note: hey.....How y'all doing! As promised, chapter one is here😛I did not proofread this... Mainly because I'm lazy and just transferring it from my google docs.. So I hope you enjoyed it😭chapter two next week.... trust me you guys!! Lmk what you think in the comments!!

TAGLIST: @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @wwefan2002 @persymons

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA BE TAGGED IN THE FUTURE...

[openwund]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ✶ㅤㅤㅤㅤFAMILY MAN ﹙toji f.﹚ 𝖏𝖏𝖐

⊹ ࣪ ˖ headcanons for toji as a family man! :D

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ did i write this at 3 am on a wednesday?? yes. i had to write this or else i would be tasting colors and lose hearing in my right eye. not proofread, a lot of typos probably.

2 in 1!: marriage + fatherhood

── 𖤓

.ᐟ as a freshly married man, all he would want to do is spend time with his wife. it doesn't matter if they cook pancakes together (which ends up in a flour fight), lay on their (too small for two people to lie on) couch or shower together.

.ᐟ you know those strong and intimidating men who treat their wives like absolute queens? that's him. although, when he's at work or hanging out with his friends (against his will) he always finds a way to bring his wife up. they're at a restaurant having lunch? — "my wife would make this so much better."; he sees something that reminds him of her? — "when can we go home? i miss my wife." "toji, it's only been thirty minutes." "that's too long. it feels like forever since i've heard her voice."; afraid to disturb him by calling while he's working? don't worry, he calls first! — "toji?" "hi, sweetheart! i miss you!"

.ᐟ his love language (by txt)? does it really have to be just one? he loves doing it all. words of affirmation, quality time, acts of service, physical touch? he will do them all for his beloved wife. he needed to make sure that she wouldn't doubt that he loves her for a second ("...or i will die." dramatic much?). one thing he won't do is recieve gifts from his spouse. for his birthday? she's his gift; just for being himself? don't even think about it.

.ᐟ god forbid someone has something slightly negative to say about his spouse. and if they argue with her? c'mon, you should've known better than to pick a fight with this muscular man's wife. just look at his 'i ♡ my wife' shirt.

.ᐟ baby fever™. he is the face of the phenomenon. growing up in a huge family, he loved playing and taking care of his little relatives. again, you wouldn't expect a beefy and intimidating man to be so soft around children, but he is. he gets it bad when he sees his wife playing with their friends' babies that it's a baby cold at this point.

.ᐟ he is very touchy and needs to be feeling his wife all the time or he will die (real! not clickbait!). it's not even a sexual thing, he just feels comforted by his wife's mere presence. and her perfume? show him a thousand differents scents, he will recognize it. on the very rare ocassions that he sleeps alone, he will always spray his pillow with her perfume when he can't smell her anymore.

.ᐟ when he found out his wife was pregnant? over the moon. he can't believe that he will finally be a father. he's there flr evedything. and i mean every thing. first ultrasound? he's the one dragging his wife through the door; finding out what sex the baby will be? he already drank two cups of coffee to try and calm his nerves and it's only 8 am. it doesn't matter what the baby will be, but the thought of finding out more about his child is enough to make him excited, scared and overwhelmingly happy.

.ᐟ throughout his wife's pregnancy, he didn't let her do anything. loading the washing machine and unloading the dryer? pfft, easy!; mopping and vaccuming? he got it!; wiping the dust off surfaces and trinkets? sparkling in the sunlight. (just don't move anything from it's place and we're good!); cooking? ......... whatever happened it's in the past now! thank god one of his friends owns a kbbq restaurant! what happened the last time he cooked? let's just say that he had to buy his wife another, identical, one of her favorite pasta pot.

.ᐟ his wife's second trimester of pregnancy was when 'grocery shopping dates' began to become a thing among the couple. it's 3 am and she gently wakes him up because she's craving pickles and cookie dough ice cream? who is he to say no to her when she looks so adorable in the moonlight, adorned in his hoodie as she looks at him with sleepy, shiny eyes? not a loser that's who. he helps to tie her shoes' laces, as she can't bend down because of her belly, and they make their way to the nearest 24/7 store, which thankfully it's pretty close. "pickles and cookie dough ice cream? are you sure? what if it's so bad that it makes you sick?" but after one look at her, he gives in and buys whatever she needed.

.ᐟ baby clothes? he can't escape them. it's like the universe heard that he's going to be a father so now all it shows him it's baby stuff. scrolling on his phone? "how to not fail as a dad"; "top 10 things to NOT do during parenthood"; "day in the life of a dad of 12"; "baby mma fight pt. 127". he couldn't escape it. even in normal conversations, normal words began to transform into terms that had to do with babies and it started to feel like he was going crazy (he wasn't. he's just a nervous first time dad).

.ᐟ baby names. don't ask this man to be serious about anything ever. when he suggests that their daughter should be named 'jordan terrell carter fushiguro', she makes it her mission to keep him away from any papers once the baby is born. when he realizes that this is very real, he stops joking and actually chooses pretty good options.

.ᐟ as the due date was aproaching, he was freaking himself out. he even had to ask his wife to change the password to the router and not tell him what it is because he was scaring his own self reading about 'the side effects of pregnancy' on google. don't let this man find out about that one lady's reasons to not get pregnant list, matter of fact, don't let him open tiktok or reddit (ew) at all, during and after the pregnancy.

.ᐟ during the labor, he's there, by her side, holding her hand, the whole time. how many hours has it been? 8, 10 maybe? he doesn't really process how fast the time flew by as he's cuddling his wife in her hospital bed. this eventful night, from the moment he was woken up by her screams and getting up to call a nurse, a doctor, anyone — to the moment he's holding his newborn daughter for the first time ever, was a blur. he couldn't believe that he was finally holding the product of his and his wife's love, tsumiki fushiguro. the second light in his life.

── 𖤓

.ᐟ the following year, it would all feel surreal. the baby chair sat at one of the heads of the dining table, the brightly colored play mat spread on the living room's rug filled with rattling toys and plushies made out of fabrics to help with teething, the baby formulas on the fridge's door and the breast milk bags in the freezer, the omniscient fragrance of baby powder, the crib that barely fit in their bedroom (it should've been in the nursery but tsumiki didn't want to sleep alone) and the toys that, however many times they were picked up, somehow would return.

.ᐟ would treat his daughter like a princess, so when needed, his wife took the role of being the 'strict' parent. he would do whatever tsumiki wanted and pampered her when he got the chance. tea parties, makeovers, dragon that guards the queen's tower as princess tsumiki attempts to free the 'damsel in distress', mani-pedi, 'spa days', bake-offs with the toy oven, he has done everything.

.ᐟ somehow, his wife looked even more beautiful now that they were connected in another way. she looked different in the best way possible in his eyes, more mature, warmer, sexier. if he was clingy before, he now had his two girls and he would never pass on the offer to cuddle with them.

.ᐟ "happy birthday, miki!" his wife would cheer as she placed the breakfast specifically requested by their daughter, star shaped rainbow colored pancakes with maple syrup, sprinkles, blueberries and strawberries. toji couldn't help but smile as the girl blew out the 3 candles that were stuck on her pancakes. "make a wish, baby." "i want a baby brother!"

.ᐟ his daughter's wish was his command. they were planning on having another baby anyways, but they didn't know how to explain it to tsumiki so they were glad that she could, somehow, read their minds.

.ᐟ brag central. he's the kind of guy to pull out his phone and show off pictures of his wife and daughter to others like it's some kind of competition. "what can i say? i really couldn't have done it without my girls."

.ᐟ when his wife casually breaks the news to the two while having breakfast, like he won't be crazy about the fact that he's going to be a dad again. he took a day off from work and spent it with his favorite girls going out for ice cream and watching barbie movies.

.ᐟ he's the type to get a minivan even before his second child is even born. why? "why not? it will be fun."

.ᐟ he was more than happy to go on parental leave so he could pamper his girls all day, every day.

.ᐟ when time came for tsumiki to be able to go to kindergarten, he was destroyed. "can't she just stay at home one more year? what if she will miss us too much." "toji, that's what you said last year. it's time for her to make friends and have fun with someone that's not us."

.ᐟ this time around, 9 months flew by as he grew even more excited (if that was possible) to be able to meet his son. although, he's not as scared as he was the first time around, with the experience he gained taking care of his sweet angel.

.ᐟ megumi fushiguro. the fourth (and last, like his wife warned him) member of his beloved family. she decided to let him name his son since he took baby names seriously this time around. "finally, i'm not outnumbered anymore." he would joke, but the sincere smile on his face as he watched tsumiki hold her baby brother for the first time, betrayed his attempt at being funny.

.ᐟ he loves going to daddy-daughter dances where he gets to see tsumiki smiling and giggling as they twirl around on the dance floor. did his back hurt after having to bend down a little for his daughter to hold him properly? yes. was it worth it seeing his princess happy? yes!

.ᐟ grocery shopping is always eventful in the fushiguro family. baby megumi sat in the shopping cart as he held on to his mom's blouse like he would fly away if he didn't, tsumiki holding on to the side of the cart as she asks if she cand get everything that catches her eye (which is literally ANY product. what is a 5 year old going to do with an electric saw?) and toji who clings on to his wife's back as if he's a toddler, savoring the moment before his wife pushes him off of her.

.ᐟ grill master. he counts the day until it gets warmer so he can finally used his beloved again. during the summer, he pleads his wife to let him fry anything on the grill and not the pan. he even gives the neighbours some of the meat he cooks since they didn't need that much and it was too good to go to waist. summer nights with friends or family? everyone knows that when the fushiguros invite you over to eat, you would be crazy to say no.

.ᐟ white socks with sandals, fanny pack, jorts and black cap combo. he swears it was conicidence, the dad outfit just called to him.

.ᐟ and when megumi is old enough to play a sport? soccer. there's no other choice. and who needs a coach when your dad is shouting at you, louder than anyone, from the bleachers. (kind of like troy bolton and his dad)

.ᐟ dad jokes. make this man stop. enough is enough please.

.ᐟ he definitely has a horrible case of dad sneeze. (i miss jaehyun so much y'all don't understand)

.ᐟ hands on hips and squinting kind of dad.

.ᐟ when tsumiki's prom comes around, he would takes a lot of pictures to the point that the teenagers get annoyed by him. he will treathen his daughter date to treat her as she should be treated or else. when they leave, he will cry to his wife about how his babies are growing up and won't need their dad anymore.

.ᐟ when megumi says that he doesn't like radiohead's (or any other old band) music, be prepared for a day long rant on how "kids these days don't understand real music".

.ᐟ when his kids bring home their s/os, he will take out the baby pics album and embarrass them in front of their lovers.

[rafesteddy]

Makeup Sex - Rafe Cameron Daydreams ☁️

+18 Minor DNI

Dom!Rafe x Girlfriend!Reader

450 words

It was never your intention to show up to the country club with lipgloss and a slick of mascara, but it’s all you could apply on the car ride there.

When Rafe met you, he was enamored with you, praising your beauty right down to your makeup. Which, for a guy, is usually odd. Right? “You’d look so much better without it.” Blah. Blah. Blah. Rafe was different. He complimented your twinkly eyeshadow and inky black lashes the way your highlighter hit the light just right.

It wasn’t until he got to fuck it off you that he knew what true beauty was.

Rafe loved how your nude lipstick smudged across your cheek, black mascara running like rivers down your flushed face. He fed off the frazzled looks you gave him as you scrambled around, attempting to salvage the mess. Ultimately settling on a post-sex glow and whatever the fuck you could apply in 5 minutes or less.

You got a little curious before Midsummers when he watched you get ready in the mirror, smirk spreading wider as you got deeper and deeper into the application process, fawning on you at every step. You even stopped halfway to hook up, but he waved you off, not wanting to get in the way of your little ritual. “Later. Later, princess.” Later, ultimately meaning immediately after you were done.

But, how would you know? The man would bring you to Sephora, holding your shopping basket, egging you on as you tossed in product after product—Rafe, gliding his card through the machine with a smile on his face.

Then, one day, you went rogue, settling on a waterproof mascara and setting spray instead of your usual. He rutted in your mouth over and over, making you gag as he furrowed his brows, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong. The tears were there, spit seeping down your chin, but where was the mess?

He leaned down at eye level, running his ring-adorned thumb along his tongue, smudging it roughly along your lashes, watching as it barely moved. You sat there wide-eyed, looking back at your boyfriend perplexed. He was annoyed… highly annoyed. Disgusted even.

“The pink one...” His voice was dark and deep. Only three words were said, but you knew exactly what he wanted. You bent into the mirror, slicking on your usual mascara over your already done lashes as he stood behind you, strong arms crossed across his chest. Rafe fucked you on the counter, overstimulating you to tears, demanding that you reapply just so he could fuck it off you again, throwing you down on the bed before ruining you completely.

[tojipie]

as long as trade professions exists i WILL write this man working as each and every one of them.

mechanic toji x fem reader | 2.2k words !

content: smut ! semi public (??) not sure if garage sex counts

the feeling of your shoes losing their grip nearly sends you flying as you step into the car shop lobby.

whoever was working tonight clearly had no grasp on what a wet floor sign was, opting to cover the floor in what felt like 2 feet of suds.

“oh! sorry!” suguru exclaims, extending an arm for you to hold onto. “you okay?” 

“i’m ok sugu,” you tell him, feeling your anger dissipate at the sight of the shop’s newest bright-eyed apprentice. 

you can practically hear him asking you not to tell his boss, eyes big like a kicked puppy.

the smile you shoot him is soft and reassuring. 

suguru apologizes again, grabbing a caution sign from the supply closet.

“he’s in the garage if that’s who you’re looking for.” the apprentice adds, sending you in your husband's direction with a smile.

“toji?” you yell, scanning the 8-door garage for his telltale mop of black hair. 

“on your right!” he shouts, waving an oil-stained hand in the air to flag you down. cars in varying conditions line your path as you make a beeline for your husband, following his black footprints like breadcrumbs

a 59’ impala comes into view as you weave in between the tall legs of the suspension machines. toji is crouched on the driver’s side with his back to you, fiddling with the front end of the vehicle.

“woah,” you whisper, trailing your hand over interior seats wrapped in glossy leather. 

the cherry red exterior of the classic car is blinding, waxed to perfection by none other than the man in front of you

“aht, aht—hey.” toji chides, motioning for you to get your hands off the car.

“no fingerprints,” he says firmly, tossing you a rag from his equipment cart.

you quickly wipe down the headrest of the driver's seat, restoring it to its original sheen. the residue left on your hand smells like lemons, the sterile scent of carwash soap.

“you fix this up by yourself?” you ask, watching him fasten a new headlight into place. the amount of detailing was beyond impressive.

“course i did.” your husband chuckles. “can’t even trust these other guys with an oil change.”

you laugh, recalling the shop’s newest employee and your little wet floor debacle. toji reaches for the back of your calf, rubbing your leg affectionately from his spot on the floor.

“you’re the one that hires them.” you remind him.

“yeah, gotta stop doing that,” he mumbles, snorting at the way you smack his shoulder in protest.

the impala looks fresh off the conveyor belt with the amount of restoration that had been done to it. you can’t quite recall the last time you’d seen toji put this much work into a vehicle.

“what’s the story with this one?” you ask, stepping back to let your husband stand up.

navy blue coveralls come into view as toji rises from the floor, chest peeking out from where the one-piece garment is unzipped. he’s filthy, covered in motor oil and sweat. god, he looked good.

the raven-haired mechanic steps back with a cocky smile, zipping the garment down to just above his waist.

“what, like what you see?” he asks, slipping toned arms out of his uniform and tying the excess around his waist.

your mouth goes dry, eagerly taking in the way his body ripples under his black tank top.

“nah, nothing i haven’t seen before.” you tease, taking the spray bottle and cloth he holds out for you.

“right, okay.” your husband laughs, ego clearly knocked down a peg.

you’re wiping down the front windshield when he speaks again, answering your question from earlier.

“one of our regulars dropped her off a week ago, needed some help with parts,” he explains. the “her” in question being the obscenely glossy car in between the two of you.

“how’d the inside look?” you ask, strolling over to the sink. the smell of leather polish and windex gradually fades with a bit of scrubbing.

your husband scoffs, recalling the abhorrent state of the under-hood.

“fuck.. awful.” he explains, handing you a roll of paper towels. “some people don’t deserve cars like these.” he laughs, rubbing your back as you join him at the hood.

your husband fiddles with the tool cart, wheeling it closer to begin working on the tires.

“you look good tonight.” toji mumbles, leaning down to accept a kiss from you. you tug on the neck of his wifebeater just as he begins to pull away, roping him into a deeper kiss this time. 

“careful.” scarred lips mumble. you feel his hand trail down your back, slipping under the waistband of your jeans and leaving just as fast.

“stop being a tease,” you tell him. 

“s’ one hour till quitting time.” he says, grabbing a wrench from the cart. “can you make it, pretty girl? or do you need it right now?”

“i can wait.” you lie, not wanting to distract him from the job.

he nods, clearly not believing you. 

“you remember how to get these bolts off?” he asks, handing you the wrench with a sly grin. his hulking form settles behind you as you crouch down in front of the tire he’d picked.

vintage cars like these needed a lot more manual work, not being able to withstand the force of any automated tools. 

you unscrew the bolt with ease, fidgeting at the feeling of two warm hands rubbing up and down your waist.

“mhm, just like i taught you.” toji says, nosing at the curve of your neck.

you twist another one free, groaning at the feeling of scarred lips suctioning onto your neck.

“can’t focus.” you whimper, trying to wiggle free of your husband’s embrace. 

“s’ not your job to focus.” he chuckles, biting the meat of your shoulder for good measure. toji takes the equipment from you and replaces the bolts with new ones, motioning for you to stand up.

you wait as he washes up in the sink, scrubbing the grime from his hands and forearms. thick hands dry themselves on his uniform, stalking over to you with a look that can only be described as lust.

“think that’s all for today,” he says, voice hinting at something much deeper.

“you’re still on the clock,” you tell him half seriously, taking note of the 45 minutes left in his shift. still, warm hands settle on your hips, backing you up against the washing station 

“yeah?” he says, entertaining your jest. deft fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, lifting the garment off your body. 

“funny how that works out.” he starts, “guess I'll have to live with getting paid to fuck you.”

your skin is on fire, prickling with every calculated brush of his hand. you lean up to kiss him again, feeling his tongue flit over your bottom lip.

“someone will hear,” you whine in between kisses.

“they know not to bring it up around me,” he says, lifting you onto the counter with ease. 

toji’s zipper is next to go, stopping just under his crotch to reveal his boxers.

convenient you think, palming him through the opening in his coveralls. now that you think about it, why hadn’t you two fucked in the shop before?

scared lips peck over the tops of your covered breasts, biting down momentarily to leave a red mark.

the whine that escapes your mouth echoes throughout the spacious garage. blood rushing to your ears as embarrassment takes over.

“shhhh,” he tells you, crowding impossibly closer to muffle your sounds.

“can you stay quiet for me?” he asks, genuinely curious. a small nod is all he needs to seal your mouths in another kiss, shucking your bottoms down along with your panties to position himself in between your thighs.

you scoot to the edge of the counter, kicking off your shoes and wrapping your legs around your husband's waist. he doesn’t free himself from his boxers just yet, choosing to grind himself on your heat while you leave dark hickeys at the bottom of his neck.

“fuck.” he groans, flinching at how loud the sound echoes in the garage.

“quiet,” you whisper.

“i know, i know baby.” you watch as toji hooks a thumb into his boxers, his manhood already dripping with pre.

you pull away from your husband's neck right as he pushes in, a thin string of saliva connecting you to the dark bloom of purple your lips had left.

it’s a tight fit, but not impossible. the angle you’re at has you clenching down on the cock that’s splitting you open, squeezing him like a vice.

“fuck.” you whimper, lifting your husband’s tank top to expose his abs. toji bites the hem for you, letting you caress the dips of his toned muscles.

the distant echo of his rhythmic thrusts reverberates throughout the shop, drowning out your shared pants and groans.

“no fucking point in being quiet, huh?.” he mumbles with a smirk, taking you by surprise as thick fingers slide under your thighs and hoist you into the air.

“wait—wh-” you’re cut off as toji turns around, holding himself inside of you as he walks you over to the car.

“oh shit.” you gasp, mouth agape as you’re set down on the long hood of the impala.

your husband props his knee up on the vehicle, pummeling into you at an angle even deeper than before.

“thought you—ah- said no fingerprints.” you whimper, feeling yourself slide up the hood of the car with every thrust.

thick arms wrap around you, holding you in place while your husband ruts into you from above. 

“you’re helping me wipe this thing down after.--fuck” toji says with finality, pulling you into a deep kiss with a hand cradling the back of your head. 

the car continues to rock as the two of you go at it, filling the shop with noises that are beyond sinful.

“wanna ride you,” you mumble, taking in the way his eyes darken.

you’re flipped and carried up the hood of the car, the two of you now fully seated on a bed of cherry red aluminum.

toji settles into his back, satisfied with his work. he does it all without leaving your walls, cock still buried to the hilt.

“come on.” he encourages, moving you up and down his shaft with two hands around your waist. you’re practically being tossed around on his cock like you weigh nothing, panting and groaning while your walls struggle to accommodate his length.

“just how i like it, give it to me,” he tells you, leaning back on his forearms to watch where you two connect.

“gonna make me fucking cum, shit.”

you rock yourself onto your husband's dick, feeling him twitch each time you sink to the base.

“wait, wait.” you pant, smiling at the idea that just dawned on you.

you let toji slip out of you for the first time in half an hour, readjusting so your back is to him. cautiously, you reach both arms back, feeling him wrap both hands around your wrists.

“reverse cowgirl? on a fucking chevy? shit.” he chuckles, clearly impressed at your bold move. the raven-haired mechanic gathers both your wrists in one hand, using the other to guide his cock back into your heat.

the first thrust is agonizingly deep, pushing you closer to your edge. strong legs anchor themselves onto the hood of the car, steel-toed work boots leaving murky footprints.

“ah shit—like this?” toji groans, each hand holding your arms behind you at the wrist. 

“want it like this? want me to ruin you?

"please." you groan, feeling your climax hit you like a tsunami.

the sound that rips out of toji is purely carnal, a long groan reverberating throughout the garage.

"fuck--oh fuck-hah" he pants, still reeling from the sensation of your walls pulsating around him.

you slowly lift off of his cock, holding onto his leg to balance. warm, viscous fluid drips down your thighs and onto the red surface beneath you. you hadn't even realized he came inside with how intense your climax was.

"fuck, look at this." the raven-haired mechanic chuckles.

the state of the car is absolutely abhorrent. obsidian footprints bleed into sweaty handprints. you'd think a game of twister went down if you didn't know any better. 

"oh shit." you frown, stepping onto solid ground for the first time in half an hour.

guilt gnaws away at you at the thought of toji's hard work going to waste. this was his only form of income after all.

"hey, not a problem." he coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

"s' nothing some scrubbing can't fix, right?" you nod, lifting your arms to let him redress you.

navy coveralls zip back into place, covering the mess of hickeys you left on his chest.

you finally button up your jeans, frowning at a murky streak of oil across one of the legs.

"must've tossed those on the ground when I took em' off of you." he chuckles, dodging a swat from you.

You pad into the lobby first, blissfully unaware of a very disturbed sugaru sitting at the front desk.

your husband follows soon after, watching you walk into the parking lot.

“see ya, man.” the mechanic says plainly, shooting his apprentice a smug wave with a laugh. 

[baby-you-you]

haaii!! could u do a summer kidre themed set ?

Summer kidre themed things!!!

🌞 Activities

Laying in a sunbeam with a popsicle or stuffie Drawing with sidewalk chalk (or on paper if indoors!) Blowing bubbles or watching them float Making “summer soup” with water, leaves, and flowers (I used to do this all the time, please don't drink it though) Running through the sprinkler or hose spray Building sandcastles or playing in a sand bin (Those turtle shaped ones are great for maximum joy) Playing with water balloons or squirt toys

🌞 clothing

Light cotton pajamas with sunshine or ocean prints Soft shorts or denim overalls Tie-dye shirts or pastel tank tops Barefoot or wearing jelly sandals/crocs Swimsuit with floaties or rash guard Towel capes or oversized beach towels Sunglasses with silly shapes (stars, hearts, dinosaurs) Sunhat/ baseball cap

🌞 toys

Favorite plushie in sunglasses Bubble wands or bubble machines Chalk, finger paints, or window markers Toy watering can or pretend gardening tools Rubber duckies or floaty toys for water play Toy beach set (bucket, shovel, rake, or one of those fancy little sandcastle buckets!!!) Water squirters or splash pads (You can also go to a locational splash pad for more fun!) Picnic basket playset or toy BBQ set (hyou can get these at Walmart or HEB)

🌞 Games

Coloring summer scenes (ice cream, sun, beach) Ice cube painting or frozen toy dig Hide-and-seek in the backyard or living room “beach” Water cup relay (scoop water and fill a bowl with a sponge!) Sandbox treasure hunt (basically bury a toy, try to find it) Tag with summer rules (freeze, melt, splash!) Pretend lemonade stand or popsicle shop Summer scavenger hunt (find yellow, something wet, something round, etc.)

🌞 Foods & drinks

Popsicles (real or juice-based) Sliced watermelon or fruit on sticks Lemonade or fruit punch in a sippy or cup with a silly straw Fruit snacks or “ants on a log” (celery, peanut butter, raisins) Jell-O cups or gummy worms in “dirt” (chocolate pudding + crushed cookies) Mini sandwiches, cut into stars or triangles HOT DOGS!! grilled cheese picnic-style Ice cream sundaes with sprinkles (with supervision if messy!)

🌞 Nicknames

Sunny Sunny beam Sunny delight Bubbles Bubbly Bubble baby Beachbug Lil' beachbug Popsicle kiddo Kiddo Sprinkle Sprinkles Ducky Sizzle

[cece693]

LOVING YOU FELT LIKE DROWNING

pairing: tony stark x male reader synopsis: During Tony Stark's deepest pit of self-destruction and addiction, you were by his side. Day in and day out, you would clean up the mess from yet another party and help Tony relieve his massive hangover. However, after months of the same routine and Tony's unwillingness to get help, you walked away. It wasn't that you didn't love him, but being with him (at that time) felt like drowning.

Loving Tony Stark was difficult. It came with a slew of inherited fractures—Howard’s clipped praise, Maria’s silent dinners, people who saw him as only a means to an end—that sank into Tony’s marrow and festered until they bloomed into self-destructive behaviors. You learned to see the pattern: every champagne spray, every paparazzo grin, every dawn spent coaxing him off a kitchen island because he’d decided gravity was optional. They were all new skins stitched over the same old wound.

You met him at MIT, a blur of red-lined schematics and five-hour problem sets away from graduation. He’d crashed a freshman robotics seminar because he was “bored of his own genius,” then took a seat beside you, feet on the desk, chewing bubble gum that smelled like expensive scotch masquerading as candy.

“Mind if I copy?” he asked, yet was already looking at your screen.

You should have told him off. Instead you laughed—because the formula on your screen was an answer to a question he’d posed in Scientific American three months earlier: “Is there an elegant way to reduce vibrational noise in miniature arc rings?”

You turned the laptop so he could see better, attention snagged by the tiny crease at the corner of his mouth when he pretended not to be impressed.

SMALL TIME SKIP

Howard and Maria’s car exploded on a wet highway two weeks before mid-terms senior year. Tony walked out of the dean’s office with a folded condolence letter and eyes so matte they didn’t reflect sunlight. He skipped the funeral—sent a wreath the size of a sedan and buried himself in a machine-shop sub-basement instead, machining arc rings until his fingers bled through nitrile gloves.

Grief, for Tony, was kinetic: if he could keep every gear spinning fast enough, the howl inside his chest might stay drowned out by the whine of turbines. You and Rhodey lugged take out cartons down to that workshop night after night, trading shifts like ICU nurses.

When graduation came, Tony missed commencement to sign the first of many board documents that handed him a kingdom he had no interest in ruling. That evening he bought out every table at the one decent restaurant on Mass Ave, tipped the staff eighteen thousand dollars, and toasted “freedom” with a bottle of Japanese whisky older than you all were. It was the last night you recognized the man you loved before the orbit decay began.

Addiction doesn’t storm castles; it seeps under doorframes. At first it was just celebration: Stark Industries quarterly up? Champagne. Prototype proof-of-concept succeeds? Absinthe poured into coffee like cream. Then came the anniversaries—of weapons patents, of the day he didn’t crash the Maserati, of “Tuesday.” Eventually Tuesday never ended.

Six months post-MIT he kept a penthouse in Malibu that pulsed neon through blackout curtains. Models flitted through like migrating birds; paparazzi colonised the front drive. You learned to identify cigars by their ash on glass tabletops, to triangulate Tony’s location by TMZ headlines.

Rhodey tried the military tack: intervention flowcharts, detox facilities vetted by the Air Force medical corps. You tried the gentle tack: sober-buddy apps, harm-reduction podcasts playing on every smart speaker, whispered bargaining at dawn while you wiped blood from knuckles cracked against bathroom mirrors.

Tony tried gravity again, this time off the mezzanine wearing a prototype propulsion heel that misfired and sent him pin-wheeling through a plate-glass balustrade. Forty-four stitches. Two broken ribs. “Worth it,” he slurred while you picked glass from his hair, “for science.”

You measure the final year in hospital bracelets:

January: alcohol-induced arrhythmia, three hours in the ER.

March: DUI rollover on PCH, miracle escape, four civilians injured.

June: grand mal seizure after a four-day stimulant bender; you found him facedown in a Vegas hotel bathtub still wearing his shoes.

The board threatened conservatorship. Rhodey punched a hole through a drywall that left his hand in a cast for 3 weeks. You sat on the bathroom floor of the Malibu house, listening to the Pacific crawl across sand, and realized you hadn’t slept longer than ninety minutes in six months.

The night you left wasn’t dramatic; you were too wrung out for spectacle. Tony had passed out on the kitchen table, cheek pressed to wood, fingers still curled around a half-finished bottle. You tucked a rolled towel under his neck so he wouldn’t aspirate, set a bottle of water within reach, and wrote four lines on a Stark Industries memo pad: I love you. I am drowning. I can’t save you if you refuse to swim. Call when you want help—really want it.

You folded the note into his palm, pressed his fingers closed, and kissed his temple. He didn’t wake—only mumbled, “Propulsion coefficients…yeah, quadruple-check ’em,” and smiled like the universe was an inside joke he’d just solved. You left him on the table, arc-reactor glow blinking against the dark like a lighthouse that couldn’t decide whom it was guiding home.

Outside, the air tasted of salt, freedom and grief pared to the bone. You drove east until the sun was behind you and your phone finally died.

You meant to stop looking. You really did. But the algorithm kept delivering headlines you knew how to read between:

STARK EMBARGOES HIMSELF IN MALIBU BUNKER—FRIENDS CONCERNED

PLAYBOY MOGUL BUYS DECOMMISSIONED DESTROYER FOR “FLOATING PARTY PLATFORM”

TONY STARK EJECTED FROM F1 GARAGE AFTER ALLEGEDLY RACING PIT SCOOTER UNDER INFLUENCE

Rhodey’s texts filled in the negative space: He fired two chauffeurs in one week—wouldn’t let them touch the steering wheel, found four empty bottles of Hibiki 30-year in the koi pond, Hospital stitched his knuckles again.

Your heart clenched with every update, yet you refused to return to New York. You scrolled tabloids at midnight, mapping each new scandal like aftershocks of the quake you’d left behind.

And then, radio silence.

No party photos. No blurry TMZ footage of a billionaire face-planting out of a Lambo. According to Reuters, Tony Stark had vanished somewhere in Kunar Province after a Jericho-missile demonstration went sideways. For three months the world waited. You watched the sunrise like you were keeping vigil for the dead—though sometimes you swore you heard his laugh in the kettle’s whistle, like he was mocking mortality again.

And then—Miracle. Genius. Iron Man.

A press conference: Tony, gaunt, eyes banded with new iron resolve, announcing he was shutting down Stark Industries’ weapons division. You felt the room tilt through the television. He looked sober—clear—like someone who had watched his own death in slow motion and opted for resurrection instead.

Six weeks later, a midnight ping:

RHODEY: He poured $80k worth of Pappy Van Winkle into the ocean. Said Atlantic needed flavor notes. YOU: He sober or showboating? RHODEY: Sober. Shaky, honest, terrified. Won’t admit he misses you, but Jarvis logs his searches. Your name’s a top query.

The messages kept coming—blurry photos of trash bags stuffed with crystal decanters, screenshots of PTSD therapy appointments, Stark Relief Foundation filings with your initials hidden in the mission statement. Rhodey never said come back outright; he just kept nudging the compass until, one dawn, you realized it already pointed west again.

Jarvis let you up without announcing you—Rhodey’s override, no doubt—but the A.I. still chimed a courteous "Good evening" while the elevator whooshed past glass‑paneled floors. You counted each passing level like heartbeats. Somewhere between R&D and the residential deck your pulse climbed from apprehension to something dangerously like hope.

When the doors opened, the penthouse loft felt altered at the molecular level: fewer glass sculptures, more whiteboards blooming with equations; no vodka‑crystal decanters, only a carafe of alkaline water sweating politely beside a bowl of lemons. Yet memories flickered in every polished surface like old neon—echoes of half‑remembered songs, champagne spray on the ceiling, your own reflection once glassy‑eyed with exhaustion.

Tony emerged from the workshop in a grease‑smudged Henley and threadbare Stark Industries sweatpants. The arc‑reactor glow throbbed gently through cotton, a constant heartbeat in artificial blue. Dark crescents carved caverns beneath his eyes, but those eyes themselves—clear, steady, impossibly alive—caught you mid‑step.

"Hey," he said, voice hoarse with surprise, as if you were an apparition conjured by late‑night solder fumes.

"Hey," you answered, palms slick despite the room’s cool climate control. "Rhodey invited me."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "Of course he did. You ditched me when I was fun and now you show up for the boring sequel."

"Fun?" You swallowed. "Yeah, fun was watching you bleed out one mistake at a time."

He flinched, a micro‑expression quickly camouflaged with sarcasm. "Look at you—saintly as ever. Want a medal? Or just an apology for not dying when it would’ve been convenient?"

Old playbook. Guilt‑trip deployed. You refused the bait.

"I don’t want medals," you said, voice low but firm. "I want you to understand that loving you back then felt like pulling glass shards from my own lungs. Every night I checked your pulse, I lost a piece of myself. I left because I was drowning in your ocean, Tony—and you were busy bottling new waves."

Tony’s shoulders sagged, sarcasm leaking out of him like air from a punctured suit. He scrubbed a hand over his face, leaving a swipe of motor‑oil across one cheek. "I deserved that," he muttered. "Probably deserve worse."

You let out a slow breath, steadying your heartbeat. "I didn’t come to fight. I need to know the man standing in front of me isn’t waiting for the next distraction to torch whatever progress he’s made."

His gaze lifted, exhaustion and determination braided in equal measure. "No more torches," he said. "I used up every match in that cave." He exhaled. "I kept hearing your note in my head. Line three—Call if you decide to live. Only I was buried under scrap and shrapnel, so the first person I called was myself. Had to convince the bastard to get up."

"Tony—"

"Please, let me finish." He stepped closer but kept a respectful arm’s length. "Everybody thinks I was living in my own world—and yeah, I was—but I remember you shaking me awake because I’d stopped breathing. I remember you dumping every decanter while I screamed about ‘personal property’ and you just kept pouring." His throat bobbed. "I remember you crying in the hallway where you thought I couldn’t hear. I was drunk, not deaf."

"Then why didn’t you stop?" you asked, voice raw.

“Because stopping meant facing myself sober, and I hated that guy more than I hated the bottle,” Tony says, voice roughened by memories. He exhales through his nose, then pushes onward before you can interject. “I know it sounds backwards—booze was killing me, sure—but for a long time it felt like the only thing keeping the gears turning. One drink and the noise in my head—Howard’s voice, shareholders’ expectations, every headline calling me genius or failure—dropped from a jackhammer to a dull thud."

He rubs the heel of one grease-smudged hand over his temple, smearing another dark streak. “The second and third drink? That was the party trick. People laughed harder, models leaned closer, investors relaxed because Drunk-Tony meant agreeable Tony—tip big, sign the deal, pose for a selfie. Alcohol turned me into the mascot everyone wanted to invite back. And the more they rewarded the stunt, the more terrified I was that Sober-Tony couldn’t sell a single ticket.”

You see it now: the feedback loop masquerading as lifestyle. He continues, softer, almost ashamed. “So yeah, I needed it to function—or what I thought was functioning. To stay awake through the nightmares and still dazzle at the gala. I built an entire operating system around a decanter. By the time I realized it was running my life, ripping it out felt like tearing out critical code. Every line was tangled with profit margins, press coverage, even friendships. Pull one thread and the whole Stark brand looked ready to crash.”

He lifts his eyes to yours, and the steadiness there is almost startling. “But Afghanistan stripped all that away. No bar cart in that cave. No entourage to applaud the jokes. Just me, a car battery, and the echo of your note. That’s when I understood the bottle wasn’t fuel; it was a dead weight tied to a drowning man. And the only way to surface was to cut the rope myself—then start learning how to swim.”

Tony’s shoulders rise and fall with a shaky breath. “I’m still learning. Every day. Some days the water’s calm; other days it’s a riptide. But I’m not handing out free tickets to the sinking anymore. Not to strangers, and sure as hell not to you.”

You let his words settle between you for a moment—heavy, honest, almost fragile. The tension in your chest eases as you step forward, closing the gap he’s kept. “Thank you,” you whisper, so quietly that only he can hear.

He blinks, as though surprised you meant it for him. “For what?”

“For telling me the truth.” You reach out and rest a hand on his forearm—grease and sweat still clinging to his skin—then pull him toward the kitchen where a coffee machine had been peeking from the corner. “Now, let's get some coffee. We both need it badly."

[shares-a-vest]

Prompt: Daddy (Discord Drabble)

Eddie can feel his heart beginning to race when he checks his watch. He sets down his large Coke (a payment from Steve, who is slipping into the driver's seat) between his legs to set an alarm.

He is sure Burt will take more than half an hour on his lunch break but, considering how hard it was for Wayne to score him this job, Eddie decides to err on the side of caution.

For one time in his life.

This probably isn't the best idea anyway – giving his just-friend free rein over the most expensive car in the shop right now, all for the low, low price of a gas station beverage.

But the car in question is a red Corvette, a near enough model to single decorative embellishment donning Steve's bedroom wall.

But Steve likes cars.

And Eddie likes Coca-Cola from that ancient soda machine on the other side of town.

But most of all, Eddie wants to impress Steve.

Steve, who leans over and clips him in – a gesture that almost has Eddie spreading his goddamn legs in a way that would leave the car vulnerable to being ruined by brown sugary goodness.

He scrambles for his drink and covers a possible gasp (okay – it was a gasp) with a big enough sip he gives himself a brain freeze as Steve retreats and fires up the engine.

"Oh yeah," Steve hums, positively groping the steering wheel, "Purr for Daddy."

Eddie splutters, spraying Coke onto the outside of the glove compartment.