#the most in-touch with himself to a degree

[retiredteabag]

jjk guys & their love languages

Including: Gojo, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna, Toji, and Suguru

*the five love languages are pseudoscience, but I think there is something to say about preferences*

Gojo

His love language: words of affirmation

You would think that he would have been praised all his life, being the strongest and all. But there is nothing that flusters him more than a kind word or two. He'll act unaffected or brush it off, maybe even pretend to be cocky, but the prominent blush that appeared when you compliment him is telling.

"You're really generous, you know?"

He would have done something simple, paid for lunch, bought the students a new TV, filled the lounge with snacks, who knows. He's always doing things for others.

"Pshh, it's nothing!"

He would wave off your praise, feeling giddy nonetheless.

"No, seriously, you're really thoughtful and giving, Satoru, it's sweet."

Oh, he's just delighted! With the expectation he's held to being so high, it isn't often that people feel the need to validate him. Verbal recognition was never something he could get over easily.

Even so, while he is constantly in need of attention, feeding off of the love someone may give to him, he never seems to be able to just say, 'thank you'.

Sweet.

You had called him sweet.

He now has daydream material for months.

The way he shows love: quality time

One would think that he would prioritize gift-giving when it came to showing love, but I don't necessarily think that's the case. He doesn't see gifts as a big deal; having grown up living lavishly, he would much rather show you with his actions.

I don't imagine you would ever have to plan a date with Satoru. That man is on it. If you ever mention wanting to do something, he will remember it and make it happen.

It's not that he isn't interested in your planning; it's just that at the end of every hangout (pre-relationship and during), he's already scheduling your next get-together.

He gets withdrawals if you're not around enough, of course, he can't let that happen.

Nanami

His love language: physical touch

Here's the thing: it's very typical for a man's "love language" to be physical touch in a slimy, objectifying way. Where he doesn't express his "love" to any degree other than sexual acts and lacks proaction in any other mode of expressing intimacy.

This is not the case with Nanami Kento.

He is the most attentive man you will ever meet, patient to a t, and loving in the gentlest of ways. He adores quality time with you, is endlessly appreciative of any gift, it warms his heart to hear you say kind things, and thoughtful acts of service never go unnoticed.

After years together, though, it is still the case that nothing causes his heart to race quite like when you reach over and grab his hand.

After a long day of work, having you come to the foyer and wrap your arms around him lifts any stress right off his shoulders.

A kiss on the cheek will have him distracted for hours.

Cuddling with you is a divine experience for him.

Even just a casual touch during conversation causes him to stutter.

And as much as he tries to hide how affected he is by you, he just can't deny himself for very long.

The way he shows love: acts of service

It's not intentional for him, he just never wants to ask anything of you. He is happy to fix anything, complete any chore, do any task, so long as it keeps you from having to work.

If you are ever stressed, he will do everything in his power to cause it to cease. You never have to ask him to take out the trash or clean up after himself, he respects your shared space and likes nothing more than doing these little things for you.

It's almost as if he is able to anticipate your needs, he is always there in your corner, supporting you however he can.

And every time he hears an "Oh, Ken, you didn't have to do that!" He is determined to show you just how high your standards ought to be.

Choso

His love language: words of affirmation

It truly does not matter how many times you tell this man that you love him, that he's so good to you, that he's your cute baby, that he did a good job, that he's a strong and brave hero, that he makes you happy, that you cherish his company... it always feels like the first time to him.

His stomach does these little summersaults whenever you verbalize your recognition of him, causing him to squirm in his seat.

If he's ever having a hard time, maybe the day seems to be dragging on, he just recalls when you kissed his cheek, murmuring into his chest, "Have a good day, Cho, I love you."

And he's rubbing his ears in embarrassment, attempting to hide his grin.

The way he shows love: physical touch

He didn't have much practice expressing love for a few hundred years before meeting you, the love he has for his brothers is real, but it's different than what he feels for you.

Anytime he gets that tingly feeling in his chest and his cheeks start to heat up, he just wants to bury you in his arms. When he sees you laying on the couch, bundled up in a blanket, he has to hold himself back from smothering you in a bear hug.

It's fair to say he has a bit of cuteness aggression; sometimes he just gets stuck in the act of kissing you, not wanting to let go of your hand. Trying his best to transport the love he has for you into your body, straight from his.

It's actually quite difficult for him to control himself; you ought to be proud of him.

If you tell him you're proud of him though, he might just implode.

Sukuna

His love language: quality time

Oh boy, this man does not need anything from you but your presence; you don't need to be going anywhere, doing anything, speaking at all, just being together is enough for him.

He was alone for so long that being with you, no matter the circumstance, is special.

He'll let you sleep on his lap, listen to whatever you say without interruption, and regularly dedicate time to your company.

He would never say it, but if he goes too long without being around you, he becomes a little crazy.

(a oneshot I wrote about something similar)

The way he shows love: gift giving

This was a toss-up, like his love language, he also expresses his love with quality time, but since he thinks of it as his own special enjoyment, he also showers you with anything you like.

They often come as a surprise, the gestures he makes for you. Randomly finding flowers around your room, the thoughtful presents that arrive anytime he goes out, and the symbolic tokens he adorns you in for every festivity.

The main gift you will never stop receiving, though, are all the letters he sends you. Perfectly artistic is his calligraphy, the handmade pages can be found slipped under your chamber door, resting on your workbench in the greenhouse, or hand delivered by a servant.

When he discovers you have kept every last note he has written, he feels his pulse stammer for the first time.

Toji

His love language: acts of service

He lives to serve, always has, always will. More than anyone else you've met, this man is a giver; perhaps that is why it kind of holds him up short the first time you offer to shave him.

He had never had someone offer, and it didn't take him long to realize that your constant willingness to do little things for him ruffles his ability to remain nonchalant.

Why is he feeling so flustered?

One day over dinner you heard him complain about needing to fill up his tank before going out on a job. You spun around in your apron, shaking your head,

"Oh, did I not say? I got gas for your car this morning."

He had never kissed you so desperately as he had in that moment.

When he sees that you've gone grocery shopping, made him coffee, or offered to scratch his back, he's just at a loss for words.

The way he shows love: acts of service

Hey, he's an easy guy, like I said, he's super giving, especially with you. He knows that he loves all the little supportive behaviors you do for him, so he makes an effort to sacrifice for you in the same ways.

He especially loves to warm up towels for you when you get out of the shower, or toss a blanket in the dryer to cover you while he folds the laundry. When you let him, he’ll kneel down to tie your shoes or zip up your coats.

He's a real problem-solver too, in whatever situation, he will never hesitate to take the lead whenever he can lighten your load.

Suguru

His love language: quality time

It does not elude him how appreciative he feels every time you choose to be around him. There is only one priority in his life, second to his cult, and that is you.

Uninterrupted conversations with you are a must for his sanity. All the little shared activities you take part in, watching a show, reading a book, enjoying your lunches, stargazing etc. keep him together.

When he's away from you, his focus lies ahead, to a time when he can hold your gaze once more.

Got forbid you ever end up sleeping apart, he needs you next to him to be able to rest peacefully.

His desperation to be around you only grows by the day, whether it's preparing breakfast, going for a walk, or completing projects, there is nobody he would rather be with than you.

The way he shows love: words of affirmation

If this man is anything, it is free with his praise.

He just can't hold himself back from cooing out his admiration for every little thing about you. It was so embarrassing at first, all the compliments, the recognition, the force that was his attention.

You couldn't do anything without him making a comment:

"Well, aren't you sweet."

"My, you're a hard worker."

"Well done! I'm proud of you."

Whether it's completing a strenuous task or something as simple as preparing tea, he is loose with his appreciation.

And don't even get me started on his flattery, not a day passes where he was not taken by your beauty, of course, he needs to tell you.

Your sheepish thanks and endless blushing did nothing to hinder him in this regard; in fact, it only made him want to tell you more.

He is particularly fond of whispering in your ear sweet little words that cause you to teeter between smacking him and pulling him down for a kiss.

my masterlist

artists: Gojo - @deka_sad. Nanami - @neconi_o0 + unknown. Choso - from the manga + unknown. Sukuna - @Su2kuna. Toji - @Hunnismoker. Suguru - @Zijingpap.

[sainz100]

2024 Hungarian GP | x (edited)

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer��” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer��s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Epilogue

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and his lover :) That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, suggestive language, finally some fluff lol A/N: I missed writing for Error!! God, deliver me from the shackles of schoolwork and capitalism pls (I wanted this, I wanted this....) Enjoy! <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue (-> spin-off)

“When I look at you, I can't believe it's true You're all I ever dreamed of, and you love me (And you love me) And you love me.”

The two of you are holding hands as you make your way to the new café that just opened on 6th Avenue, near Darlington Square, your fingers woven into his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You’ve heard great things about the place, and not just the usual noise from clickbait-y blogs desperate for engagement, but from people who actually know what they’re talking about. The hipster types—the new-age purist fucks who claim they can taste the "notes of apricot and the warmth of an abuela’s love" in a single origin Santuário Sul pour-over, brewed with beans ethically scoured from the mystical depths of Carmo de Minas or whatever.

You think they’re full of shit. But for all their unbearable pretentiousness, they’ve never steered you wrong. So.

It still feels… unreal sometimes. Sylus, here, beside you. Present, in a way he never could have been before. In a way you two could only think of as a passing pipedream, not so long ago.

He’s here. Solid, tangible. And so, so warm. 

His thumb traces soft circles against your knuckles, an absentminded caress that sends a shiver up your spine. He does that a lot—little touches here and there, like he’s committing the texture of your skin to memory. Like there’s still a part of him that can’t quite believe that you two exist in the same space now. In the same plane of existence. 

And maybe you’re just as bad; sneaking glances at him whenever you could, half-expecting him to flicker out like a glitch in the system. Like some cruel error will right itself and erase him from this reality at any given moment, when you least expect it.

He never does. 

He’s still with you. Always with you. 

And day by day, the knot in your chest loosens; not all at once, but in slow, steady increments. Like frost clinging to the soles of your boots, melting under the first touch of spring. Day by day, the small voice in your head—the one that whispers warnings of borrowed time, of happiness slipping through your fingers—slows to a mum. 

Not gone, not yet, but it's quieter. Fainter now. Sounding more and more like the lingering echoes of a bad dream.

(You hope that one day, when you look into Sylus’ fathomless grey eyes, the reflection staring back at you will be filled with certainty. Of this. Of him. Of what you have. Nothing else.)

And whenever reality hits you – and what a novel thing it is, that this is what you now consider reality – it steals the very breath from your lungs. 

It’s an exhilarating kind of happiness; the way it makes you feel as if your heart's too big for your ribs, too much for your mortal body to contain. It spills over, bright and absurd—almost to a ludicrous degree, honestly. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. The utter magnitude of your bliss. 

And he’s just as lost in this as you are—though you suspect he’s just a tad better at making it less obvious.

He never strays too far away from you. He stays close to your orbit, always within arm’s reach; his fingers brushing against yours when they can, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. Your personal shadow.

It’s more than just physical proximity. There’s a gravity to him now, almost on a molecular level, like he’s in the very air you breathe. Inescapable, even if you tried.

(Not that you’d ever want to.)

Sometimes you think you’re not even consciously doing it, but when he moves, you move with him. You lean into him as if by instinct, finding the curve of his body and the spaces in between as though it was made just for you. It’s a rhythm that feels both thrilling and comforting, the kind of closeness that makes your heart thump a little faster; your cheeks a little redder. 

“Sweetie.”

Sylus’ voice breaks through your thoughts. It settles over the buzzing noise in your mind, soothing as ever. As it always has.

Has it really been four months?

You still find yourself mesmerised by the way he’s easily integrated himself into your world. His world now, too. All six-foot-five (!) of him; impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and so naturally magnetic. 

It’s in the way he carries himself—not unlike the way he’s always done, back when he was no more but your impossible, sentient character. That presence is still there, the one you always thought was larger than life. But it's slightly more subdued now, toned down into something less intimidating. Something less… exorbitant. 

Something just for you.

And then there’s also the fact that he’s stupidly, ridiculously handsome.

It’s unfair, really. As if it weren’t already enough of a miracle that he’s here, real, flesh and blood, he had to step into this world looking just as breathtaking as his video game counterpart. And hey, maybe you’re a little biased, but you think the changes that came with his mortality only made him all the more perfect in your eyes.

Sure, you miss the silver hair from time to time. And occasionally, your brain still expects the sharp contrast of crimson when his gaze cuts to yours—only to be met with a monochromatic grey, deep and electrifying as a thundercloud in mid-July.

But then there’s everything else. The way his chest rises and falls under your palm, the steady heartbeat that lulls you to sleep at night. The way his hair sticks up in all the wrong places in the mornings, no physics engine rendering it down to a smooth perfection. The scratch of stubble when he steals kisses from you throughout the day, because body hair is a thing now (thank god). 

The off-key singing when he’s taking a shower—

Oh. Nevermind. 

The little imperfections that weren’t designed to be attractive but somehow make him even more so.

He isn’t all clean-cut lines anymore, no longer a carefully-crafted fantasy meant to appeal to an audience. There’s a rawness to him now, something that’s inexplicably human. He’s just some… guy. 

Granted, an extremely hot guy, but still. 

Just himself. Just Sylus.

And maybe… maybe, that’s what makes this version of him the most beautiful of all.

Because he’s yours. Completely and wholly yours.

“Sweetheart, we’re here.”

There’s laughter in his voice. You blink up at him, only to find that look in his eyes—amused and endearingly fond. You realize, a beat too late, that you’ve been spacing out for the last couple of minutes. 

Sylus tips his chin toward the double doors a few metres away, and he feels the way you startle slightly. 

You give him a sheepish smile. He merely chuckles, squeezing your hand in response. 

He’s used to this, revels in this. The way your mind drifts so freely when your hand is in his. It’s not unlike the way you used to depend on him, back when his existence was confined to a screen. 

But now, in this corporeal form, he can be more than a voice in your ear—do more than just watch from the sidelines. 

He can pull you back when you get too close to the curb, for one. Tuck you into his side when the cold bites too sharply at your skin. He can prevent you from walking straight into oncoming traffic whenever you get too lost in your own head… because of course you would. Carefree thing that you are.

He likes seeing you at ease; so completely trusting of the man who, in the grand scheme of things, has only truly been here for a fraction of a year.

As if he’s always belonged by your side.

Oh, how he adores you.

He’d take care of you forever, if you let him. His little dove.

You two enter the café, and immediately, your eyes are drawn to the eclectic décor of the place. It’s almost like you’ve entered a fever dream—or what you can only describe as a frankensteined aquarium. 

Circular faux windows line the stone-clad walls, imitating a sort of subterranean oceanic sanctum, drowning the space with an atmospheric blue. There are hanging lamps reminiscent of jellyfish floating at sea, casting vivid hues of bioluminescent purples and pinks across the room; the mix of colours gives off the illusion of something sunken, almost psychedelic. An abundance of plants of varying sizes can also be seen at every corner, from the creeping ivies to the potted lilies, as if they’ve simply sprouted into existence.  

The main kicker, though, is that – aside from the predominantly nautical motif – the owner seems to have a strange fondness for… the cabaret? 

Framed photographs of harlequin girls wink from gilded edges, and there’s a signage in cabochon lettering that looks like it belongs outside a burlesque theater rather than in here. It spells out a cryptic phrase in a swirling font, in a language you don’t recognize.

You’re still trying to process the visuals of it all when you register the familiar notes of Paradise Circus filtering in through the speakers.

…They’re committed, you’ll give them that. 

"Woah," you can’t help but say, momentarily disoriented by the overwhelming interior of the unassuming—or at least, from the outside—café. "This is… definitely something."

Sylus glances around, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a full immersion," he remarks dryly. "I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Glad to see they didn’t oversell it."

You snort. “I hope good coffee is part of the experience.”

You both amble toward the counter, third in line behind a girl with a bob cut who’s swaying to the music in a pair of silver bell-bottoms, and a shorter fellow wearing a flatcap and trench coat like he’s on the damned set of Peaky Blinders.

Clearing your throat, you quickly glance up at Sylus—just to see him watching you with a knowing look, an eyebrow arched.

You roll your eyes, pressing your lips to suppress a smile. Judgemental little shit. 

"It’s possible we missed a dress code somewhere," he says drolly. 

“Shh,” you hiss at him, trying to keep your voice low—or as low as you can manage—trying your hardest not to laugh. “You’re wearing leather pants. You don’t exactly have the fashion high ground here.” 

Sylus pinches your side in retaliation, and you swat his hand away. 

Tommy Shelb—rather, the cap wearing twenty-year-old-something dude—gives the two of you the stink eye, clearly unimpressed by your not-so-quiet banter. You can’t help but think that maybe he’s the type to take himself a little too seriously.

After a few minutes, you two are next in line.

You’re looking up at the hanging menu—an aged wooden board with elegant yet slightly smudged calligraphy, suspended by fibre twine that gives it a rustic feel without making it look too tacky. Your eyes skim past the more familiar offerings before landing on something called The Drowned Saint. 

It’s intriguing. You’re intrigued. 

Why not?

“Ready to order?” an easygoing voice asks, prompting you to tear your gaze away from the menu.

The barista in front of you is tall, with large, square glasses that sit slightly crooked on his nose, like they’ve been knocked askew one too many times. It gives him a friendly, bookish vibe, the kind of charm that might fool you into a sense of security… if not for the sly look in his eyes. 

Something that spells mischief. 

“Oh, hi—yeah, can I get The Drowned Saint? Just, uh, a regular.” You say, glancing down at the silver name tag pinned to his shirt.

… Red. Does everybody in this establishment need to have a certain degree of quirky to them...?

“–-and a strawberry muffin, too.” 

“And for you?” The dark-haired man seems to size Sylus up, his gaze sharpening with something you can’t put a name to. “Sir?”

There’s a pause. It makes you peek up at Sylus, and you’re surprised to see the same look of quiet consideration on his face.

You shift your weight awkwardly, glancing between the two men. Um.

Finally, Sylus lists his order in a measured tone. Red hums noncommittally, grabbing a paperboard cup from the stack behind the counter.

"Alrighty, and can I get a name for that?”

“... Silas.”

A snort; followed by a barely-restrained cough. 

Your brows lift. Okay. What’s this guy’s damage?

“Riiight, so do you spell that with an ‘I’?” There’s a deliberate smirk playing on Red’s lips. “Or maybe a ‘Y’? Sorry, still getting the hang of–” he makes a vague gesture with his fingers, “all this.” 

You squint, getting a little annoyed by the whole ‘cool guy’ act. Fucking hipsters, man. “Look, it’s not that complicated. It’s S-I-L–”

You feel the light press of Sylus’ palm at the small of your back—a silent reassurance while he cuts in, unperturbed. “It’s alright, sweetie,” he murmurs by your ear. 

Then, without looking away from the irritating barista, he languidly pulls out his wallet. There’s something almost amused in the way his brow lifts, the barest flicker of challenge. “Write it however you want.”

Red, looking unruffled for the most part, is already jotting something down on the cup. There’s no visible reaction; just that same ever-present ghost of a smile, which you’re starting to find… kind of weird, to be honest.   

After paying, both of you move to the side, settling into the wait. You narrow your eyes at the flamboyant man who's busy humming something upbeat under his breath as he moves effortlessly behind the counter. Steam rises in the air while he works the espresso machine like he’s done it a thousand times before. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if he started twirling a milk frothing pitcher mid-pour, like a performer in some kind of latte circus act. He seems like the type.

Finally, Red pings a tiny brass bell by the pick-up area, the tinkling chime almost mocking. “Order up,” he calls out, flashing the two of you a toothy grin. “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Sylus scoffs, unimpressed. He doesn’t respond—just picks up the tray in one smooth motion, nudging you toward an empty table near the centre of the room, right below a floating indigo anemone. 

He pulls out a chair, and you drop into it with a huff. “The fuck was that guy’s deal?”

He takes his seat across from you, unbothered. To your surprise, instead of the ire you expected to be written on his face, he looks more fascinated than anything. 

He studies you, eyes flickering with something you can’t put your finger on. 

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

You frown. The question throws you. “Huh?” Your brows knit together, head cocking sideways in confusion. “Wait—you know him?”

He gives you an indulgent smile, but doesn’t say anything. He picks up his cup, gaze dropping briefly as he turns it in his hand.

Do you know him?

Sylus watches you, patient, the faintest curl of his mouth betraying nothing as you mull it over. It’s as if he’s waiting, trusting you’ll make the connection yourself without his help. But how would you know the owner of a newly-opened café—if he even is the owner? (He sure carries himself like he owns the place.)

You wrack your brain, trying to pin him down. Where else would you know a roughly six-foot-tall guy with dark, wavy hair and shifty-looking eyes the color of a dead aubergine? 

He’s certainly… a character. And he doesn’t pass off as local—maybe foreign, or at least mixed—so should be easily recognizable, right? 

Yet, for some damning reason, nothing’s clicking. 

It’s in the way he acts too, you think. The easy arrogance, the look of mirth lingering in his expression, as if he’s in on some inside joke you’re not privy to. It’s nagging at you, like an itch in the back of your brain. You’ve seen him before, right? 

You’re pretty sure you have… but for the life of you, you can’t figure out where.

“I mean, like, he does look kind of familia—” Wait.

Oceanic décor. Dark irises that glint into a near-violet hue under the dim, overhead lights. 

Red. 

Reddie.

The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Wha—no.” You spin your head around so fast it almost gives you whiplash. 

And as if he’s already expecting it, Rafayel meets your wide eyes. 

He gives you a wink. 

Holy fucking shit. 

“So he found a way out, as well,” Sylus muses, his large hand comically dwarfing the coffee that he’s back to examining. When he meets your stunned gaze, he casually flips the cup around, revealing the name scribbled on the sleeve.

‘Sylus’ 

And just right below: ‘still got here first lol ;)’

You let out a sharp exhale, the dots starting to connect in your head. “Did you know?” Your voice pitching higher than you intended, brows scrunched up as you look at the calm man in front of you—the nonchalance to your overreaction. “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

He picks up your strawberry muffin, tapping the excess crumbs off the edge of the plate. “I had my suspicions,” he admits, cupping a hand beneath the pastry, angling the muffin closer to your face. “Ahh, baby.” 

With no small amount of frustration, you take a bite, your eyebrows still furrowed as you chew. The flavors don’t even register on your tongue as you try to wrap your head around this… unexpected development. 

Of course, that’s putting it lightly—inside you’re freaking out. What does this mean? When did this happen? Two of them now?

Are you losing it? Again?? 

It’s too much to process in one go. You’ve just come to terms with your very own freak of nature, thank you very much. 

Sylus tuts gently, dabbing a napkin at the corner of your lips. "No need to stress over it, my love," he rubs his thumb on your lower lip to draw your focus back to him. The corners of his mouth curl into a small smirk when he sees you nibble on it absentmindedly. "Careful now."

Suddenly, your ears pick up a voice calling out, “Raf!” from behind, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see someone step out from the small kitchenette. 

They’re wearing a navy blue apron over a glittery top, carrying a square pan of what looks to be a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. 

On the taller side, standing only a couple of inches shorter than Rafayel, sporting a silver nose ring. Their hair is in a split-dye, parted down the middle, and styled into intricately braided space buns—likely a labor of love from the man himself. 

“Ah, that must be his partner,” Sylus notes idly.  

Rafayel reaches for the tray with all the confidence of someone who has absolutely no plan beyond offloading the weight from their lover’s hands. His partner, quicker and clearly wiser, snatches it away at the last second with a knowing look. "Cutie, I was about to get that," he whines in protest, lips forming a pout.

"And yet here I am, actually getting it," they reply dryly, maneuvering the steaming buns out of his reach.

Undeterred, he makes another attempt; only for them to sidestep, holding the tray higher like a seasoned veteran at dealing with his antics. 

Rafayel huffs but refuses to back down, making for another grab. This time, faster. 

He gets his fingers around the edge of the baking tray—only to hiss in pain and immediately jerk back. "Just let me– ow, fuck, hot!" 

His partner gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "You don’t say."

"You could’ve warned me," he accuses, shaking out his hand with all the theatrics of a man in peril. 

"I did. With common sense," they deadpan, but you detect a hint of laughter beneath the monotone.  

That earns a full-blown scowl, but it’s betrayed by the way his eyes soften—something unmistakably fond in the way he watches them, as if their amusement alone makes the now-forgotten burn worth it. 

You don’t miss the subtle shift in his posture; the way his shoulders loosens, the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s biting back the urge to grin.

After a few more playful back-and-forths (one of which involves Rafayel attempting a truly ridiculous reach-around that gets his wrist lightly smacked in retaliation), they finally place the cinnamon rolls into the glass display, arranging them alongside the rest of the baked goods.

It’s the ease between them that sticks with you. The way he casually fixes the strap of their apron, how they don’t even flinch when he brushes a stray crumb from their cheek. 

It’s an old, familiar rhythm—one that speaks of something long-established. The kind of comfort built over time. Like it's already habit. 

It makes you smile. 

(In your periphery, you catch Sylus smiling, too.) 

You exhale a long sigh, sinking back into your chair, only now noticing the weight you’d been carrying—the one you hadn’t even realized was there—finally lifting off your chest.

Questions swirl in your mind, most of them aimed at the busy couple manning the counter. The hows and whens. The adjustment period. The hardships. 

And, honestly? Just the need to have someone to freak out with and scream say, Can you actually believe this? 

… But you suppose it can wait. There will be time for questions, for stories, for untangling the mysteries of it all.

For now, you’re just going to enjoy a normal weekend afternoon with your very normal boyfriend.

After all, they’re not going anywhere. Nor will the two of you.

- -

An errant thought pops into your head.

Before you can stop it, your mouth blurts out: “You think Xavier’s ever gonna come out of the game, too?”

A beat.

Sylus freezes for a split-second before his gaze locks onto you, wry and amused—like he’s debating whether he heard you right. 

You get the bad, bad feeling that you’ve made a mistake somewhere.

He lets out a throaty chuckle. “Xavier, huh?” he muses, almost patronizingly, eyes alight with an intensity that makes you squirm in your seat.

The nervous little action doesn’t escape his notice.

“Look at the time, kitten.” His voice drops an octave, deceptively calm and even, but there’s an undercurrent to it that has you squeezing your thighs together. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough. Don’t you?”

Uh-oh.

End A/N: Ok, so I’m a big, fat liar who lied about not including anything about the silly lil fishman ≽^-⩊¬^≼ I’m anal about spoilers if you haven’t noticed. 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira @writingmyladsdelusions @borkunlimited

[thinkinonsense]

call me if you're lonely⟡

old man!logan howlett x phone sex hotline worker!reader

cw: dirty talk, mutual masturbation

author's note: very short. just an idea that came to mind.

masterlist

this is so desperate, logan thought to himself as he dialed the number written on the fourth page in the second column. in pretty cursive words it read, call me if you're lonely!

your number had been living in the back of his head for almost a month now but he never got this close to calling it. in the column, it's written that you are a college student working on your masters degree and that you are very popular within your profession as a phone sex hotline worker. honestly, logan didn't care if you just started yesterday. he's been so stressed and overworked lately that he needs a release soon. logan waited as the phone rang after entering his card information. he's sat up on the old mattress under him, waiting patiently to see if anyone answers.

on the third ring, someone picks up.

"thanks for calling, hush hotline." you say, giving him the typical welcome speech before jumping straight in. "what would ya' like me to call you tonight, sugar?"

the sweet tone in your voice made logan's boxers feel tighter. resting his hand on top of his heavy cock, squeezing lightly and slowly stroking himself over the thin material.

"james is fine, honey." logan mutters.

"i like the way you call me, honey." you purr, getting relaxed in bed.

you had a long day; woke up late, missed class, messed up during important meeting at work and needed to blow off some steam. normally, the people you talk to over the phone don't have an effect on you, instead opting to fake it and offer phony pornstar like moans but something made you want to give it another shot.

"is that so?"

the stranger's voice was rough around the edges. deep, cold, straight to the point. it sent a shiver up your spine. usually, your customers were weak. willing to give into your every word and fully submit to you.

"mhm," you hum, lightly running your fingers up and down your thigh. "so, what's gotcha call in tonight, james? rough day at work or you just wanna hear me touch myself for you?"

"bit of both." he was already lost in this little world between the two of you.

“aw, can’t wait to make you feel good." you tell him, playing with the lace of your underwear. "wanna hear what i'm wearing right now?"

"mhm." he grunts.

"a white t-shirt and lacy blue underwear. wish you were here to take them off of me." you sigh, slipping your hand under the waistband.

"what would you do if i was there right now?"

"hmm, think i'd start by kissing you, making sure you get nice and hard for me then i would beg you to fuck my tight throat for hours. are you hard for me right now?"

"y-yes." logan sighs, trying to slow down a bit.

"that's sweet, james. got me blushing just thinkin' about it." you run your middle finger through your folds, gathering the slick and circling your button a couple times.

"just blushing?" he teases, catching you off guard.

"not 'just blushing'." you giggle softly. "you also got me r-really–ah, fuck! really soaked."

logan could hear the obscene squeak of you dipping your fingers inside of yourself. his chest moves up and down at the same rhythm as his strokes. your pretty little gasps made it difficult for him not to release right away.

"s-shit, honey." he groans, listening to the small wet slaps of you fucking yourself. "wanna taste that pussy of yours. i'm sure it's as sweet as that fuckin' mouth you got on you, honey."

never have you actually gotten wet from the men that call you. most of them let you do all the talking, only offering moans and whimpers. you couldn't quite place a finger on it but something about james was doing it for you.

"w-wish it was you inside of me instead of my fingers." you whine, tickling the spot that makes your vision blur.

"bet you would look so pretty wrapped around my cock, honey."

"i would look even prettier with you dripping out of me." faintly, you can hear him shuffling around, trying to stifle his groans. "don't hide yourself, baby. wanna hear you."

like a rubber band, something snapped inside of logan. unable to control his noises anymore, he's fucking his fist faster than before, chasing after every little moan you let out.

you move to rubbing your button switching occasionally, picturing the man that you believe james to be. a little older and rugged. maybe even someone your father would be friends with. someone you would definitely have a secret crush on.

logan's hips thrusted with need. the louder you got, the faster his orgasm was approaching. he had to hold off, he thought to himself. hear you cum first. by the broken whines and little hiccups you let out, he could tell you were only moments away from your release.

"f-fuck, i'm so close." you squeal, legs shaking a little as you near your high.

"me too, honey."

within seconds, your head is thrown back against the silky pillow case. the sheets under you were drenched but you were too full of bliss to care. logan finally allowed himself to let go as well, pearly white spurts coating his lower stomach and even some landing on his tank top. it's quiet for a minute or so before your little giggles can be heard on the other end of the line.

"something funny?" he asks, confused.

"no, no, it's just..." you giggle again with a sigh. "ever since i started this job, no one's ever made me orgasm. at least not like that."

"hm.." logan couldn't fight off the smile creeping on his face. "might need to call more often then."

"i'll be looking forward to it."

[lakeofsilverpike]

3x06 crystalized something essential about what Moiraine is able to offer Rand in this moment of his journey. Presence in the darkness. A person who sees all of him and accepts him. Rand asks if Moiraine saw him kill her in the rings, and she smiles fondly at him and says yes. And he smiles back, because he knows that this doesn't frighten her away. Most people would run. Most would find the prospect of him going mad, no less him hurting them, too much to stay. But Moiraine won't leave. And where before that annoyed Rand to no end, now it has become a comfort. He is beginning to realize what he must do, what he must experience and how that will change him, to fulfill his destiny. And now the idea that there is a person who also fully knows that and accepts it and will remain by his side is a comfort.

Rand is reckoning with both the madness that he fears channeling will bring and also what he perceives as a darkness inside himself. Egwene tells him that loving Lanfear means he's given into the madness. But Rand knows the truth, that his love for Lanfear isn't about the madness from channeling. It's about there being one person he knows will see him at his darkest and still love him. Up until this episode she really is the only person who he knows can see that darkness and accept it.

I think that shifts at the end of the episode for Rand. When Rand channels to try to bring Alsera back from the dead it is a moment that feels for him like his evilness as a man and his madness from channeling come together. They're both him. It's hard to know where one ends and the other begins. Because he channels recklessly, but then that channeling brings the taint, and it changes his perception. And that feeling that he can do anything, that he is a god, is that him or the madness? Or does it speak to both the darkness within him and also the madness from channeling?

Egwene, Aviendha, and Lan have expressions on their faces as they watch Rand that speak to varying degrees of fear, disgust, and pity. But Moiraine looks at him only with understanding. Where the others recoil from the darkness, from the intensity of the pain of that moment, Moiraine goes to Rand in that pain.

There are a few aspects to what she can offers him. First, I imagine, a shared experience as a channeler learning the limits of channeling. Surely most Aes Sedai have raged against the idea that with all their power they cannot heal death. The have felt angry and helpless and despairing that despite their power, death exists, that they cannot change that.

Second, she grounds him. She understands the pull of the One Power, and she knows how to bring Rand back. Not with words or reasoning, but with touch, with human connection, with a hand on his shoulder, then quietly crouching beside him and encouraging him to look at her and come back from the seductive place the One Power takes him.

And third, and I think most importantly, she sits with him in the darkness. In his darkness. Not just the madness of channeling. But the moments after. When Lan looks at him with pity, Avienda with disgust, and Egwene with fear. Not because he channeled, but about the horrific human experience he just had, the messy, raw human experience of grief. Where he was out of control, overwhelmed by despair and rage, where he is lashing out, where his feelings are big and dangerous.

Moiraine touches Rand in that moment when he is loathing himself. She crouches down and looks him in the eye unflinchingly, sees him and offers herself. Her face holds understanding, but also an openness for him to give himself to her, to let her hold his feelings, to be the person who sees what he is feeling and holds it with him. And when he looks at her you see his face shift from this blank mask to all the complicated difficult emotions he has in that moment - the self-loathing, despair, rage. Moiraine is the person willing to wade into that with him, to see him when he feels his worst and be with him in that pain. She probably has always been that, but Rand finally sees it and accepts it, and that feels like a massive shift in this tiny moment of eye contact.

[red-garden]

Ficlet from this AU (Southeast US SY):

Having the OOC restrictions lifted was a blessing obviously. Well. Probably.

All the formal xianxia shit was a mouthful and a half, and Shen Yuan knew the sect leader was far too soft on him to scold him for indulging in a more casual tongue. Being a Georgia gentleman born and raised, Shen Yuan felt a certain degree of familiarity was owed his students, Binghe most especially.

“Oh come here sweetheart, don’t cry. Oh baby I know.”

His tearful little lamb looked up at him like a deer in headlights. “Shizun?”

“Come on baby, let’s get you something to drink. You like sweet tea?”

Anachronistic he knew, but he needed a taste of home. Not as good as his mama’s, but he never was much of a cook.

There had been a greater number of accidents on the peaks lately. Shen Yuan didn’t know if there was something in the water but every time he tried to be neighborly people started dropping like flies. His martial siblings came to visit more often but left even quicker.

“Xiao Jiu!”

The sect leader always looked like the cat that got the cream when he was let in. He brought a basket of peaches- not the Suwanee from back home, but it was sweet nonetheless.

Shen Yuan gave him a smile as he took the basket to the kitchen. “Ah, thank ya kindly sugar!”

The sect leader went abruptly still. Shen Yuan turned about in concern. “Everything alright?”

The sect leader nodded stiffly, eyes anywhere else but Shen Yuan.

“You got some business needs getting back to? Don’t put it off on my account.”

“Ah, no, Xiao Jiu need not concern himself.”

“Then sit with me for a bit! I made a fresh pitcher of tea and we can have those peaches you brought me.”

“What would Xiao Jiu wish to hear?”

“Anything you please to tell me sugar.”

The sect leader stiffens again. “Ah, I just remembered some work I really must get back to. Please excuse this Shixiong.”

Liu Qingge was hardly better. He came for the meridian clearings on time of course, but he wouldn’t suffer Shen Yuan’s company a moment longer. Frequently he even stumbled on his sword to get away.

“Honey, are you sure you wanna keep clearin my meridians? Seems like it takes a lot out of you, stumblin as you do to get away. I’m sure Mu-shidi would be amenable to trade.”

“S’fine.” He grits out.

Shen Yuan sighs, leaning back into his touch. He huffs a laugh. “Hands like that, I should ask you to be chair all the time! Support soothin my aching back.”

Liu Qingge flinches away, letting Shen Yuan fall backwards. His voice is strained, his face red as a tomato. “I have to go. Bye.”

He falls flat on his face scrambling to the door and darts out like a chicken with its head cut off. Shen Yuan tsks. “If my company is really that intolerable he could just say so.”

Binghe, coming out of the kitchen with a fresh pitcher and a tray of lemon cakes (he knew the protagonist could do it) shakes his head. “Shizun shouldn’t have to put up with him.”

Shen Yuan can resist pinching his little cheek. “Don’t go being so rude to your Shibo now baby, he’s still a grown up…. Even if he acts like a cat in a rocking chair factory.”

[sweet1delusi0ns]

Naruto boys random headcanons──☆*:・ﾟ

Sfw

Characters: Naruto🦊,sasuke🗡️,Itachi🥀, kakashi🍃, kiba🐺, shikamaru🀄️,shino🪲,neji🎋,Lee🥋,choji🍥,gaara⏳,kankuro🪆

Naruto🦊-*

Hes lazy at home. Not because he’s tired he just wants you to take care of him, but when you call him a baby for all these requests he gets mad “I AM NOT A BABY! I AM A GROWN MAN! NOW SPOON FEED ME!”

He tries to prank you but fails, your too smart to fall for it. He always tries to trip you in public while walking and every time he is the one on the floor and your the one laughing some how-

He likes the idea of drawing and being an artist he just can’t draw. He can only draw stick people with different hair, one time he tried to draw you, gave up and instead gave you a picture of a stick person with your hair. It’s now on the fridge LOL

He tries to act cool around his friend with you but just makes a fool of himself. “Yeah this my bae so what?” “Yeah I’m his bae and he’s my baby, my big, soft, smiley baby!” His soul is now crushed and his friends all laughing

He sleeps like a ANIMAL. he full on can’t sleep normally, You both go to bed the same time, one of you is always gunna wake up on the floor, mostly you. Then he wakes up like “why you on the floor?”

Sasuke🗡️-*

He may seem cool but he gets very flustered. He doesn’t cover his face though he just closes his eyes so he doesn’t get more flustered and so he can ignore the fact that he is red

He CANT Dance, don’t EVER take him dancing. It’s not because he’s bad at dancing he just never learn. If there is music he will bop his head to the beat though, if you try to get him to dance he will freak out and freeze. He just doesn’t like it ok!

His waist is weirdly sensitive, you could barely touch his waist and he will start giggling. He isn’t ticklish anywhere else but if you take a feather to his waist he will start LAUGHING

He will kick your feet when he wants attention. If you guys are out to dinner with friends he will kick you under the table to get your attention, he thinks it’s funny until you fight back and stomp on his foot. He made you kiss his pain away at home, atleast he got attention LOL

He forgets the silliest things one time he forgot how to tie a knot so anything he needs to tie like his clothes or shoes you had to do for him. You don’t know if he actually forgot or if he just wanted to be babied-

Itachi🥀-*

He can’t handle heatwaves. If it’s over 90 degrees he’s gone for. One time you woke up on a heat wave morning waiting for him to wake up and walk out but he never did, you went to find him and he was in bed, sprawled out, shirt and covers off soaked in sweat. You had to rub ice on him to get him conscious -

Unlike naruto, he likes drawing and can ACTUALLY DRAW, although he can only draw plants but he doesn’t mind he likes plants! He will draw you flowers instead of buying you some which is like equally as cute~

He has very sensitive eyes. Like how he can’t handle heat he cant handle the sun either. If it isn’t cloudy he will have to squint to keep his eyes from hurting. When you told him to wear sun glasses he said “I still want to see you clearly though love…”

He’s not a big fan of skin care but he likes those face roller things. He bought one just so you could use it on him, he likes that it’s cold but also massaging!

He sneezes like a girl- he has the cutest, most petite sneeze you’ve ever heard out of a man which is cute and very funny. He doesn’t even realize it either “a-choo!” “That was crazy out of character” “huh?”

Kakashi🍃-*

He’s allergic to cats, he likes cats sure but he never hangs around them because he’s allergic. You didn’t know that and one day you brought a stray inside and he instantly turned puffy (poor thing)

Once he gets home and discards the mask he puts lip tint on. He has pink lips for that reason. When he first puts it on he will find you and kiss you just to leave a mark before waiting 10 minutes then whipping it off

He needs reading glasses but never uses them, then complains to you when he gets a headache as if you didn’t tell him to put them on

He takes a lot of baths. If he showers it bound to end up a bath. And he doesn’t care if your using the bathroom if he wants a bath he’s gunna make a god Danm bath. One time You were just washing your face and he busted in the door and ran to the bathtub, You washed your face as fast as you could-

He is EXTREMELY tired when he first wakes up, he doesn’t move for like 20 minutes so if he needs to get up and do stuff your gunna have to make him, like actually you’ll have the carry him out of bed.

Kiba🐺-*

He bites his nails from stress so you have made it a habit to smack his hand away when he does. It worked since all you have to do is tap him softly and he will stop. He’s so glad you help him get over bad habits

He decorated akamarus ears when he’s bored, one time you walk in on him giggling like a little girl and akamarus ears were pulled together in a little ponytail! You joined in on the fun🤞

He comes back from a casual walk along a complete mess, you have no idea how but one day he came back with half a bush stuck on his leg. He always cleans up though!

He sometimes transforms akamaru into himself to prank his friends or you, mostly you. One time akamaru came up to you as Kiba and started licking your face “EW OH MY GOD?!” “AUUFF AUF!” “KIBA YOUR NOT FUNNY”

He always has tan cheeks and nose. Compared to the rest of his face, his cheeks are cute and golden!

Shikamaru🀄️-*

He lets you win at intelligents based games to make you feel better. Except one time he actually tried and lost. He’s convinced you cheated

His hair is straight but gets very frizzy if not cared for. (You care for it since he’s lazyy)

He draws on himself when bored, mostly just trippy designs like swirls and stuff. Will also let you draw on him, only if your good tho he doesn’t want “bad drawing” on him😔

He has a box FULL of hair ties and will notice if you take one. “This one you literally stole from me?” “Don’t care put it back!!!”

He gets Freezingly cold at night, like really really cold. When he snuggles up to you to warm up you could feel how cold he really is and you don’t understand how since you are both under covers-

Shino🪲-*

He keeps bugs in the house so they can watch over anything, they are basically his security cameras-

His hair is so cute and wavy! Also gets very frizzy because of the texture like Shika. He also makes you take care of it, he just really likes you touching his hair

He gives you bugs as gifts, not like freaky beetles but cute little bugs like lady bugs or fuzzy green caterpillars. You find it cute that he gives you things that mean so much to him

He shockingly has a sensitive neck, only to you though. Bugs can crawl all over it and he doesn’t move but if you try to kiss it he gets chills. Also shockingly he has really soft skin idk maybe he sheds skin (IM JOKING)

When he gets home and can finally undress he lets you take his glasses off since you love his eyes and he loves that you love them. He gets insecure about it sometimes!

Neji🎋-*

He speak really highly and intelligently but he’s honestly a little dumb sometimes, or maybe he’s just dumb with you to be silly we don’t know

The only jewelry he really wears is an ankle bracelet you got him

He loves hair charms, he likes decorating his hair! He likes putting clips and braids in it, sometimes even put color streaks in it if he wants to be festive

He really likes pottery and making things out of clay, he’s very creative and he finds clay the perfect outlet. He even makes pots for you!

He has a flower garden that NO ONE is allowed in. He treats them like they’re his baby’s, because they are! He’s favorite plant he has is his cactuses.

Lee🥋-*

He’s extremely energetic and powerful yet he has asthma, he denies it. But if it’s really hot outside he runs out of breath REALLY fast which makes you worry

He’s scared of spiders you kill the spiders for him or he runs! If you trap a spider and chase him with it he will almost start crying (he will start crying) he’s ashamed to admit spiders are his weakness

He wears mascara, he gotta make them lashes voluminous yk. He stole his mascara from tenten too. You made him give it back to her and bought him his own

It’s pretty obvious but he is FLEXIBLE! Backbend, splits anything he can do. You thought he broke his spine onces-

He’s not much of a plant guy but he has the TINIEST succulent in your room that he cares for, every other plant he has had died but not that one~

Choji🍥-*

He loves finger painting and is actually really good at it, you’d think it was made by a professional and an actual paint brush but no it was Choji and his finger paint😭

His hair is so thick most hair ties he uses break. He has to use hair needles instead because it’s the only thing that holds if he wants his hair up for a while

He thinks pillow fights are actually entertaining he could have a pillow fight with you all day and never get bored. He goes crazy if he’s over at someone’s house and they suggest pillow fights!

He loves bath bombs!!! He basically died when you run him a bath and put bath bombs in it, his favorite scent it lavender. Even if you didn’t add a bath bomb he loves when you make him baths he thinks its adorable

He paints your cheeks like his in your sleep, that’s his idea of a prank even though it’s basically him just being a cutie “look now your like me y/n!!”

Gaara⏳-*

He turns the black rings around his eyes to cat eyes sometimes. He looks ADORABLE with cat eyes. He sometimes even uses eye shadow too, if he can’t change it he thought might as well make it look cutee

He’s scared of mosquitos, he just doesn’t like bugs that can fly and go after human blood it freaks him out

He wears one of those scent bracelets and puts your signature scent in it so he always smells like you~

He gifts you plants all the time

He collect the silliest things, there are these cute little cat charms at a near by store and he’s working on collecting them all!

Kankuro🪆-*

Shockingly he really likes reading. He likes fiction books the most, he asks you for suggestions

He asks you what new make up design he should try, sometimes he just gives you the brush and lets you go wild. But you always make him look cute~

He fidgets with the ears on his hat when he’s bored. It rubbed off on you so now if he’s around you with his hat on you start messing with them-

He steals your clothes and hides them so you have no choice but to ask to use his for the day. After the day is over he comes up to you smiling and hands you your missing clothes “found em!” “By found em do you mean took them out of the hiding spot?” “Yeah-”

He paints his nails either black, pink or purple. He also lets you paint them, it honestly just ends up a mess. He would totally whip nail polishes on your nose~

[empathicliar]

eren loves pussy. nothing more or nothing less. he loves looking at pussy, sliding his fingers through the folds to feel just how much his efforts have paid off. he loves kissing pussy. something about his lips touching everything puffy and sensitive has him grinding into the sheets, almost dragging an orgasm out of himself.

but most of all, eren yeager loves eating pussy. he loves massaging his long tongue onto your clit, flicking that muscle just enough for those gaspy moans to fall and a smirk he refuses to hide upturns on his lips. he loves holding you in place and watching your body fully submit to his. 

he absolutely adores the way you push him down when you get desperate and it feels almost impossible not to ride his face from below. he takes pride in making you feel good, so when it comes to you showing off some new panties you’d ordered from victoria's secret and that pussy print just keeps nagging at him, he’s losing it inside and out.

you pop the string on the side of your curvy hip and frown. “ i don't think i like the pink. “ you pout with doubt, assuming your husband would agree until that mirror is hogged with his body. 

head cocked beyond degrees and he’s just staring, eyes flushed over with hunger that can't be disdained by food. he’s craving you in every way it almost feels wrong for him to rub your body innocently.

 and now, he’s goneeee.

which isn't surprising considering he’s been eating your pussy through the seams of wink pinkie underwear for ten minutes, uttering “ too pretty to take off yet.” whenever you pleaded for more. those almond colored locks gained nothing but tugs the whole time he teased your body, spit on the mattress from his lack of morals. his chin wet with his own fluid and your arousal that kept pouring.

that lace rubs and nips and sometimes hurts a little too fucking good when eren pushes his head into your cunt, face almost completely covered from how tight your thighs hold him in. it's like he's proving a point down there, that he doesn't have to do much to get you off, that one flick can send you overboard, wanting more. -  that you may be easy when it comes to him.

and when you're too high off of pleasure to think, he can get you to admit that every. single. time.

[badgerbl00d]

you've reached situationship central!

☆ characters: akagami no shanks (pt. 2)

☆ up next: TBA

☆ summary: being stuck in an on again off again (very indulgent) relationship with the notorious red haired shanks is not for the faint of heart..

☆ content: angsty, happy ending, nsfw, smut, complicated relationship drama, 18+ mdni

☆ a/n: hi my loves!!!! i am knee deep in midterms right now but as we all know, one piece smut is more important so here i am. will try to have another fic up next sunday <3

#i would tolerate a concerning amount of disrespect from this man wc: 5k oops 🙈

Never in his life had he so clearly felt jealousy. What was, an hour ago, a small, weak fire in his chest had grown into something more sinister– the thick, heavy heat spreading throughout his body. His mind was fogged by an onslaught of nauseating images- his hands on your waist, fingers digging into your plush, soft, forgiving flesh. His lips on your neck, placing light, arid kisses against your sensitive skin. Your pliant, charitable attention being focused on him, his face, his words, his touch, his authority. 

It was blinding, Shanks felt as though he was losing control of himself. He fought against his own wandering thoughts, trying to focus on the drink in front of him. The sickening sound of your gentle laughter filled his ears, you were so enraptured by the trivial, pointless conversation you found yourself caught in. The sound of your voice, of your focused occupation, your precious attention should be directed at Shanks and Shanks alone.

He pounded back the small cup filled with whiskey; never in his life had this kind of possessiveness taken him over so quickly. White hot jealousy wrapped its hands around him and he could not struggle out of its grasp. Of course, there had been moments with past flings and more-than-casual acquaintances that left him feeling a twinge of jealousy, a hint of what he now felt. He was always well aware of the nature of these relationships, they were meant to be fleeting, unsustained. Sweet, induglent moments in the otherwise chaotic uncertainty of his life. His reputation preceded him, in both bed and in battle he was ruthless, commanding, completely in control. To be rendered so weak, so desperate by the sweetest, most docile woman he’d ever met in his life was… he wasn’t sure what it was. Karmic? 

A degree of it, he supposed, was shame. Embarrassment at his own past actions as the realization dawned on him that he has most likely made countless others feel the same. He’d always brushed it off as the inevitable nature of these things– they were, at their core, impermanent, unserious. You weren’t any different, he’d supposed. 

Perhaps, he thought, he was incredibly naive. You were different– in every possible way! You weren’t only a lover but a member of his crew. He implicitly and absolutely trusted you with his life, the lives of Beckmann, Yasopp, Lucky, his family. You were family. 

Glimpses of your time spent together within the last few weeks flashes through his whiskey-addled mind: 

The way your cheeks squished against his chest when you obliged his requests to spend the night in his room, “I sleep better with you, sweetheart,” he’d explained. The softness of your voice in the morning, asking him, “Ten more minutes, Captain?”

The small, soft smiles you’d give him when you crossed paths on the ship.

Never had he felt so entitled to ownership of a person. 

The sound of your laughter once again caught his attention, and worsened his mood. Your friend was smiling with pride, clearly happy to have elicited such a sweet sound from you. It was his last straw. He quickly stood, leaving more than enough money on the counter to pay for his drinks, and walked over to you.

It was difficult to not notice when a man with Shanks’ energy was directing all of it toward one, unfortunate person. As he walked, he began drawing the attention of most of the other patrons in the bar. 

“Y/n,” he said, his voice more stern now than it had ever been with you, “Let’s head back. It’s late.”

Your lips parted in shock, and you slowly looked up at him. 

Ignoring the man in front of you was easy– child’s play. But ignoring the surprise and confusion on your face at his tone– not his words, but the harsh, indifferent manner in which he said them– was something he wished he’d never have to do again.

“So soon?” you asked, voice soft, “Benny said he’d let us know when he wanted us back–”

“Now.”

You sharply inhaled, and closed your mouth. Blinking up at him, taking a second to process whatever this sudden change in personality was. 

Your friend was silent, the evident awkwardness of the situation earning an uncomfortable pause in sound from the three of you.

“That’s alright, Y/n,” your friend said, “I was… just getting ready to head home myself.”

Shanks clenched his jaw, refusing to look at either of you. 

“Well, alright,” you said, gathering your coat and standing, “Thank you for the drinks, lovely to see you.”

He shook your hand, placing a soft kiss on the back of it– a soft pink hue began to color your cheeks.

“Write to me,” he said, putting on his coat before offering you a half-smile and leaving.

Shanks grabbed your arm, practically dragging you out of the bar into the cold of the night. Your breathing was fast, white clouds forming in the winter air with every exhale. He was walking quickly, his grip now firmly settled on your wrist– you were struggling to keep up, practically jogging as he half-dragged you behind him. 

“Shanks,” you yelped, “Slow down– Please!”

He ignored you, maintaining his pace. Your wrist was beginning to ache, “Shanks!”

Another pointless plea. Your frustration was increasing and had begun to boil into anger.

Though it took a lot to get a rise out of you, your Captain’s behavior was starting to seriously upset you.

Your wrist ached, badly now, and you were tired. Your body had not properly adjusted from the warmth of the bar, the dim yellow lighting and strong drinks had spread a soft heat throughout you and the sudden cold of the deep blue winter night you were now being dragged through was an unwelcome interruption. It was no later than half past nine and you knew that his excuse about it being late was complete bullshit. You couldn’t even count the number of times Shanks had come back from a night out at noon the following day. 

You came to a sudden stop, planting both of your feet firmly in the snow and yanking your hand out of his grip with a cry.

Shanks turned, taking a deep breath– the anger on his face only upsetting you further. 

“What is wrong with you?”

He laughed, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, “With me? You were practically fucking that guy in front of me and you have the audacity to ask what’s wrong with me?”

Your eyes widened at the harshness of his words, completely taken aback by his attitude. Never had he spoken to you so obscenely. You gasped, partially from the shock of his speech, and tears welled in your eyes. 

It was overwhelming, to have a man of his size and notoriety talking to you in such a filthy, angry manner. But, after all this time, Shanks was an idiot to think you would crumble so easily to harsh language– you were, after all, one of the stronger members of the crew. 

“What did you just say?” you bit back, your tone just as venomous.

“You heard me,” Shanks scoffed, “Laughing at his jokes, accepting the drinks he bought you, promising to write him back? At this point just fuck him.”

You were completely infuriated. How dare Shanks– the most notorious womanizer on the ocean– reprimand you for flirting. Since when was your relationship a marriage?

You inhaled, carefully calculating what to say to piss him off even more, “Okay. I will, then.”

You turned and started walking quickly back the way you came, slightly unnerved when you didn’t hear his footsteps following behind you.

You ignored the absence of sound and held your head high as you walked back toward town.

“Y/n,” Shanks said your name once, a clear warning.

You ignored it and picked up your pace. Your vision was blurred with tears, and your nose bright red from the cold. You steeled yourself– now wasn’t the time to let your Captain know how badly his words hurt you, how shocking it was for him to speak to you so cruelly. 

You barely heard the flurry of his footsteps by the time he’d caught up to you, turning you around to face him.

You avoided making eye contact with him, not wanting to dignify his insults by showing the tears that resulted from them.

“Get off me,” you said, but your voice had significantly weakened.

Shanks’ grip on your arm loosened, an effect of guilt. He hadn’t expected you to cry.

“Fuck you,” you said, “Don’t act like we were ever exclusive.”

Shanks swallowed, you weren’t wrong. In the year you had been seeing one another he’d had multiple encounters with past and new flings– all less important than you of course, but your point remained. 

“Not once,” you continued, pushing through despite your wavering voice and sore throat, “Have I ever been with anyone since we started… this. But you?”

He let go of your arm, hoping now that you’d turn away. 

“You have forfeited any right to jealousy, Shanks. Don’t you dare fucking tell me who I can and can’t sleep with. Have I ever said anything to you about your dozens and dozens of partners in the past year?”

You emphasized your point with a harsh jab at his chest.

He was silent, guilt beginning to wrack through his quickly sobering mind.

“Well?” you insisted.

“Y/n,” he started.

“No,” you said, answering yourself, “I haven’t.

And do you think it was easy? To watch someone I cared about so much– Someone I love toss me to the side repeatedly over and over and over? Week after week, month after month, you’d use me and entertain me when it convenienced you just to put your hands, your lips on someone else the next day. Treat me like I was something to you, play the role of a husband, a lover, a friend and then do the same to another woman right after?”

“I didn’t realize–”

“Of course, not,” you choked out, “Of course you didn’t. Until I had a conversation, a fucking conversation with someone else. That’s all I had to do to finally get you to want me? Talk to someone? I wish I would have known that a year ago, you fucking asshole.”

Your tears flowed freely now, the cold not helping hide the emotion on your face. Your cheeks were a deep shape of pink, your lips puffy from the cold. 

Shanks was overcome with guilt and regret. He was an idiot, as you had so graciously confirmed. What could he do? What could he say? 

“You acted so indifferent,” he responded, “We’d spend a week in love and then… when I did start to entertain someone else, at a bar, or party, or wherever, you’d act so indifferent. Like you didn’t care at all.”

“What else could I do? What right do I have to you?”

“Every right,” he gasped, sinking to his knees in front of you, wrapping his hand firmly around yours. He looked up at you with a sort of reverence that momentarily took your breath away. But that was what he did, he treated you like a goddess, like a divine creature one moment, and like anyone else the next.

“They were all distractions from you. I thought that if you cared so little for me I might draw something out of you with them– jealousy, anger, hatred, anything.”

“You succeeded,” you whispered, sniffling.

“No, no I haven’t,” he said, “I’ve done the opposite. I’ve guaranteed your indifference now.”

You sighed, not even trying to fight the tears now, “I’ve tried, Shanks. I’ve tried to be indifferent. 

I tried, tonight, to spark up old affections for someone else. I used to be in love with him, you know? He’s a writer and a good man. And despite all of that, despite his intelligence and wit, despite his kindness, despite how handsome he is I found myself sitting in that wretched chair drinking and thinking about you. Your touch and your lips and your voice.”

You broke out into a sob, falling against Shanks who gently picked you up and started the walk back to the ship. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, tucking your face into the crook of his neck placing a kiss against it. You were helpless, you’d realized. You were in love with Shanks. 

The walk was short, ten minutes at most. Shanks spent it half-delirious, cursing himself in every way possible for having done you such harm as he felt the crook of his neck getting more and more soaked with tears. 

For the first time in his life, he deeply wished that he were religious so that he might directly ask a higher power for forgiveness. You felt so light in his arm, your figure so perfectly wrapped around his that he realized, at the very least, he would spend the rest of his life making it up to you. 

How many times had he flirted pointlessly with a girl at a bar, at a port, on an island leading her back to his room hoping to get a reaction out of you that would confirm your feelings for him just to be welcomed with your indifference and send her home anyway? 

If he’d doubted his love for you earlier it was undeniable now, pressing against his ribcage like a rabid caged animal– hungry and desperate, willing to cling on to anything offered to it. 

Your confession fed it, not enough, not even close, but enough to sate it for the time being. 

You loved him, Shanks reminded himself as he carried you on board the ship and started to walk toward your room. 

“Shanks,” you whispered, tugging at his collar, “Let me sleep in your room. It’s warmer.”

He redirected his path toward his own bedroom, quietly opening the door and placing you in his bed. He helped you take off your coat and shoes before removing his own and crawling into bed next to you. 

He racked his brain for the words with which to start his apology. 

You wouldn’t even look at him. 

“Y/n,” he said, “Please look at me. Talk to me.”

You slowly turned, scooting yourself closer to him.

“I’m tired.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he brought up a hand to your face, “Can I hold you?”

You paused for a moment and then gave him a small nod. He situated you on his lap, and slowly placed a soft, chaste kiss on your lips. 

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, as he finally conjured up the bravery to begin his apology.

“In the past year,” he started, “The women, the girls, all of them were just to elicit a reaction out of you. When you’d ignore it, or act indifferent I’d just send them home. I never… slept with them.”

He felt pathetic, it was a humbling admission to say the least. 

You pulled him in for another gentle kiss. “I know,” you whispered against his lips, “I figured after I accidentally ran into one leaving just a few moments after you’d shown up on board with her. But it wasn’t just the sex that was hard, Shanks. It was having to watch you talk to them, charm them, and for them to all fall for it so easily. Like I did. Like I am right now.”

He nodded, wiping away the tear that had begun to make its way down your cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was all just a terrible way to try and… to get you to love me back, I suppose.”

“But I do! I do, Captain, I have since I first set foot on board this ship, from the moment our eyes met. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else. It makes me sick to think of anyone that isn’t you–”

He crashed his lips into yours, he could no longer bear the passion that had been slowly burning inside him. His hand came up to the base of your neck, tangling itself in your hair gently tugging your head backwards leaving your neck open to him.

He nipped at it, leaving small bites and sucking it– the warmth was addicting, inebriating.

You melted into his touch, your back arching into him– sweet moans pouring from your mouth.

“Mmmh,” you whined, nails digging into his shoulders, “Shanks, I need you. I need you.”

His lips found their way back to yours and he freed his hand from your neck, helping you take your shirt off, unclasping your bra. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head, pouting when the cloth forced your lips to leave his. They quickly reattached, your mutual desperation increasing. 

He palmed your tits in his large hand. Your body was so warm, so soft and buttery, melting in his grip. His palms were still cold from the harsh temperature and the walk back home, the coolness earning him a gasp as he brushed his palm over your nipples. 

The heat between your thighs was increasing, your slick arousal beginning to dampen your panties. You moaned into the kiss, welcoming his eager tongue into your mouth, gently sucking on it as he teased your nipples, now pinching and flicking. 

“Mmmmm,” you moaned.

He pulled away, his hands never stopping their ministrations on your sensitive buds, a heart-stopping smirk on his handsome face, “What’s that?”

“More,” you panted, a small string of saliva hanging from your swollen bottom lip, “Please.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, an expression of desire and want settling on your face.

“I could never say no to you, sweetheart,” he said, running a finger under the band of your pants, “Let me make everything up to you. Please let me earn your forgiveness.”

You nodded, granting him the permission he so desperately sought. 

Shanks worked quickly, a man who greatly concerns himself with how you spend your time did not want to waste any of it.

Your pants are quickly removed and you lie back on his bed, left in only a pair of pink panties. 

He leaves his own pants on, and lies on his stomach pressing soft kisses to your feet. He started working his way up your body, giving equal attention to right and left sides, peppering you with kisses, gentle bites, and soft licks. He spent a frustrating amount of time on your inner thighs, biting hard enough to earn a yelp or two, leaving possessive marks in the shape of his teeth. He kissed the wet spot on your panties, that was now dripping onto his sheets, expertly avoiding the spot where you wanted to feel him so badly.

He gently sucked at the fabric, eyes shutting as he savored your taste, “This is for me?” 

“Y-yes,” you whimpered, “Shanks…”

You brought a hand to your pussy, to attempt to move your panties to the side.

“Tsk, tsk,” he warned, “Hands above your head.”

You were far too sensitive and pliant to disobey now.

Your hole throbbed, earning a kiss from your Captain, “Very cute. Stay still, sweetness.”

His tongue tucked itself beneath the side hem of your panties, and pushed them to the side. You gasped at the split second of contact his warm tongue made with your pulsing clit. His finger replaced his tongue to hold your panties out of the way, and quickly, without any kind of warning whatsoever, he began to ravish you.

His tongue expertly licked from your hole to your puffy clit, generously spreading your arousal over your pussy. He sucked and licked, he wasn’t just eating you out– he was making out with your pussy. You let out a soft cry and your hands found themselves tangled in his hair and your chest heaved with rapid, desperate breaths. Your moans filled his room, you were completely overcome by the sensation of his tongue against you. He was as close to eating you as he could be without hurting you. The sounds coming from his mouth against your pussy were disgustingly obscene, like a starved dog eats without second thought your Captain feasted on you– savoring the proof of your love and affection. 

Your eyes rolled back and your lips parted to form a perfect ‘O’ as he slipped a thick finger into you, and then another. 

Shanks had fucked you before, how many times exactly you had lost count of. You were more than familiar with each others’ bodies and, in truth, this was far from the first time that he had made you feel so good. But something was different this time. 

Knowing now that it was you that brought him down to this level of depravity allowed you to release completely– give him full control over you, your body, your thoughts. 

It felt sinful, wrong, terrible to reduce him to such a state of animalism. You felt as though you, minxlike and tempting, had corrupted a great man, led him to a point of such violent desperation that you were the only thing that could sate him. 

You gave him this illness and now, cruelly, were also the only person who could cure it. 

Your arousal coated his fingers completely and had started to drip down his hand. He pulled back, removing his fingers to bring his hand down to his own pants. His tongue’s assault on your pussy stopped, and was momentarily replaced by kisses and he removed his pants, and stroked his leaking cock a few times, coating it with your sweet, precious arousal. 

“Ohh,” you moaned, “Please, Captain, please.”

“Please what, hm?” A soft slap landed on your cheek, “Use your words.”

“Fuck me.”

Just as quickly as you had asked, Shanks had lined up the dark pink head against your slit and was rubbing it up and down your pussy, drawing small circles on your clit letting his precum leak out onto you. 

“Perfect pussy,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “Looks so cute painted white.”

You whined, and he made eye contact with you. It nearly broke him, to see you so desperate, so open for him. He realized, now, that you were his in every sense. Your body, your mind, your emotions and feelings– all his. 

His head pushed into your hole, a tight fit at first, drawing some soft cries from you.

“Shhh, shh,” he said, “You’ll adjust.”

Once the head slipped past, the rest followed easily– Shanks had to hold himself back to avoid bottoming out in you at once. 

The stretch was the most delicious pain you’d ever felt– even now, a year after you and your Captain first spent a night together it took you a minute to adjust yourself to his girth. 

“I can take it,” you said, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek , “I can take all of you.”

He turned his head to kiss your hand, and lowered himself slowly onto you, kissing you with an unexpected restraint. He bottomed out in you, and your breath hitched.

“Breathe, baby, breathe.”

You took a breath, eyes shutting as he began to rock his hips slowly, sliding his full length in and out of you each time.

“Good girl, take me just like that,” he encouraged, “Look at me, bunny.” 

You blinked your eyes open, tears pooling in the corners and he smiled at you.

“I love you,” he kissed your forehead, “I love you.”

He repeated it over and over, kissing a different part of your face each time, his dick throbbing and pulsing inside you as a smile began to form on your face and your cheeks darkened.

“You’re mine,” he said, “Only mine.”

Your lips parted to moan as he began to thrust faster in you, still blessing you with his full length every time. His sticky, swollen tip kissed the deepest parts of you and you could feel him in your tummy. 

“Feels so full,” you muttered, “Don’t.. stop, please, daddy.”

Shanks groaned, you were addicting. He thanked the powers that be that you came to him as a human and not a siren for he would have not only fallen into your trap but willingly jumped to his death if it meant having you for even just a moment. 

His pace was intoxicating, he had rendered you unable to form even a simple thought. Your brain was filled with the sounds of thick, wet slaps echoing in the room and the sweet musical moans that fell from your lips and his. His lips were on your neck, biting and sucking– harshly, this time. You were both close, the tell-tale sign with Shanks was when he finally shut up. So used to his teasing and jokes and wit were you that it was obvious when he was finally silent.

“Close, baby?” you asked

His eyes were shut in ecstasy and he gave a small nod as he panted.

“Cum inside me,” you whispered in his ear, running your tongue along the edge. 

That was all it took. 

A simple, dirty request from you (one he had indulged in many times before). 

Almost on command, his hips began to stutter as he filled you with weeks’ worth of pent up sexual frustration. You moaned as you felt it dripping out of you before he had even pulled out. 

Shanks collapsed onto you, kissing your cheeks and petting your head, “Let me drain everything into you, sweetheart. It’s yours, all yours.”

You hummed and kissed his forehead, speckled with sweat. 

He lied there, on top of you for another few minutes, his cock twitching inside of you erratically. 

When he had fully spent himself inside you he got up, slowly pulling out– an expression of hunger settling on his face as he watched himself pouring out of you. 

It was almost as though you weren’t there, you felt like an intruder watching as he looked at your pussy, creamed and puffy. 

He joined your ankles together in one hand and lifted your legs up to your chest, bending his head down toward your pussy.

“Ah- Shanks,” you whined.

He ignored you completely, placing his lips onto your pussy, licking and sucking his cum out of your hole. The feeling was indescribably indulgent. He gathered his cum into his mouth and bringing his head up a foot or so away from your pussy he slowly spit it out onto you, the liquid landing with a plap on your clit. You moaned, it was the filthiest thing you’d ever seen him do. 

He let go of your legs, which you were now holding against your chest, and used his hand to slap your puffy, swollen pink pussy a few times, the cum making the slaps louder than usual. Smack, smack, smack. 

Your body completely relaxed, entirely submissive to your Captain. You were his. 

Shanks’ tongue found its way back to your clit, his fingers once again resuming their place from earlier. He slowly slipped in a third finger, shushing your (weak) protests. 

In seconds your orgasm was approaching, fast and hard. You barely had time to let out a cry when a gush of liquid squirted out from your pussy, dousing Shanks’ face and hair. He growled into your pussy and kept going, earning a series of slutty whines from you as you came around him, hips bucking into his face and chest heaving.

“Shanks, too much, too much!”

He laughed against your pussy and placed one more kiss on your clit before pulling away. 

His face was soaked, and you playfully pushed him away from you with your feet when he tried to kiss you. 

He grabbed your ankle and pulled you toward him, earning a series of giggles from you as he scooped you up and rubbed his face all over you.

“Gross!” you whined, “You’re like a wet dog.”

He wiped his face with your discarded shirt before snatching you back up and lying down with you, face to face. 

“You’re hard again, aren’t you.”

He chuckled, burning his face in your shoulder, “No.” 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Only with you,” he confessed, sitting up, “C’mere.”

He pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arm firmly around your waist. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, gently kissing you, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, okay? I promise.”

You cupped his face with your hands, scooting in on his lap closer to him, so your chests were touching, “I know. So am I. That guy… he doesn’t mean anything to me. I just wanted to make you jealous.”

“It worked,” he admitted, a sheepish smile settling on his face, “If I had drank any more I probably would have punched him.”

You smiled, surprising him, “Is it bad that I’d like to see you fight someone over me?”

He laughed, kissing you again, “No– and I will, if it ever comes to it.”

“So…” 

“Hm.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well,” he glanced at the clock on his bedside, “It’s only eleven. Got another round in ya?”

You rolled your eyes, “I’ve got at least two more in me, but I’m talking about us.”

“Oh,” he said, smiling, “Didn’t I tell you my plan?”

You shook your head.

“We’ll get married.”

Your eyes widened and you smiled, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. Why don’t you ask me to be your girlfriend first.”

“Mm,” he pretended to think about it, “Not good enough. You’re my wife.”

You sighed, his cock was rubbing up against your pussy and you were quite ready for a second round. 

“Alright,” you conceded, starting to grind your hips into his, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow morning.”

He caught onto your little game immediately, hands coming up to start groping at your tits, “Alright, sweetheart. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. My bed.”

He winked at you and you smiled, your lips finding each other for the millionth time tonight. 

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

[horny-marbles]

eyeless jack medical kink smut ?! please please please 🙏🙏🙏

YESSIR 🗣️🗣️ rubbing my hands, plotting, scheming... i might be bullshitting a bit because i have close to 0 medical knowledge lmao. also writer's block actually made me rip my hair out w this one for some reason. i read and reread this shit like...... an embarrassing amount of times and i literally got writing dysmorphia or whatever you call it 💀 BUT ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY ANON!!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Loose Hinges (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: med examination, a little sadism kinda maybe if you squint, biting and blood, oral (f giving), orgasm denial, squirt, creampie, overall clinical feel... most of it anyhow :P

word count 5.2k

It’s not like he ever applied for the job.

There was no moment where Jack stepped forward, cracked his knuckles, and offered his services as the mansion’s unofficial medic. No CV given to Slender. No stethoscope slung around his neck, no degrees on the wall.

It started when Jeff dislocated his shoulder during some feral knife tantrum—most definitely over nothing. No one else even looked twice at his slinging arm—it's not like a house full of maimed psychopaths possessed the medical knowledge or the fucks to give. Jack hadn’t even blinked. Just walked over, expression unreadable as always, and popped the joint back in with the ease of someone tying a shoelace. No warning. No hesitation.

Since then, it just happened. One by one, the mansion’s walking disasters started coming to him. Concussions. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Nothing experimental. Nothing fancy. Just quiet, competent fixes. He didn’t like doing it. He didn’t complain either. It was just… efficient. Someone had to do it, and he had the hands.

He wouldn't do it for free, however. Hence the rules. Don't come in empty handed—whether it's organs that would save him the headache of procuring himself, or stolen medical supplies, bring something or don't even bother dragging yourself there. Most importantly, hands to yourself. God forbid you touch his sterile equipment—he won't give you reasons to get stitches, but you will bleed out on your own moving forward.

So now, the old storage room down the hall is a makeshift infirmary. Bright overhead lighting. Stainless steel trays. Gauze stacked to the ceiling. It smells like antiseptic and cold metal. It’s quiet. No music, no décor. Just Jack, his gloves, and a collection of very sharp, very clean tools.

You’ve been avoiding it like the plague for two days.

Your jaw hasn’t stopped throbbing since your last mission—one bad punch across the face, and you’d felt something shift, something click. Now you can’t eat, can’t yawn, can’t speak more than a few words without biting down on pain. You’ve been living on ibuprofen and denial, but it’s not cutting it anymore.

So you’re here. Standing in front of the door with your hand curled around your jaw like it’ll stop your skull from splitting in half, the other tight around a plastic bag that hung with the weight of viscera from your hand. You stare at the peeling label on the door—just a fading piece of masking tape with “MEDICAL” scrawled in some unfamiliar hand—and knock once.

No answer.

You try again. Still nothing. You knew he smelled the organs in the bag from two hallways away, so he was just ignoring you, you realized.

You grit your teeth—mistake—and finally push the door open. You stepped inside with your hand still curled around the plastic grocery bag like it was radioactive. The contents shifted and sloshed wetly with each step, and despite your best efforts not to flinch, your lips curled slightly in subconscious disgust.

The infirmary is colder than the rest of the mansion. Jack probably keeps it that way to discourage loitering. The white light overhead buzzes faintly, casting sterile shadows over the clean stainless steel counter and shelves. No chairs. Just one padded table in the center, a stool, and a tray of gleaming metal tools so clean they almost sparkle.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just finishes changing the nitrile gloves on his hands—already prepped, like he expected you to just let yourself in. The scent hit you a second later—alcohol, something minty, clean, but sharp enough to keep you from getting too comfortable.

“Someone knocked you off alignment,” he said without turning. His voice was low, smooth, the usual emotionless timbre that somehow still managed to sound like an accusation. “Jaw?”

You nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” you said quietly, jaw tight and throbbing behind your ears, setting the bag down on the metal table beside the door. “Some dude clocked me good. It fucking hurts and pops.”

That got him to glance your way, head tilting slightly, two gaping pits of darkness that house no sight meeting your gaze. Bottomless. Still. You stood a little straighter under the weight of his stare, even if it was only symbolic.

A moment passes in which you assumed he assessed the payment you brought, and his voice, calm as ever, slices through the tension in your shoulders like a scalpel.

“Sit,” he says flatly. “Close the door.”

You do both.

The door shuts with a quiet click, and you cross the room stiffly, dropping onto the edge of the padded table. Jack approaches without another word. There’s no greeting. No question. Just him stepping into your space, gloved fingers reaching for your chin like you’re an object in need of assessment.

You stiffen.

His touch is firm, not cruel. Cold from the gloves. He tilts your head to the left, then the right, thumbing along your jawline, pressing beneath the bone with a practiced kind of pressure that sends a deep ache skittering through your temples.

You wince.

“Open,” he says.

You part your lips. Slowly. It hurts.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction. Just tilts your head back further, inspecting the hinge of your jaw. His fingers move with mechanical efficiency, tracing muscle, bone, and tendon. His head tilts slightly to one side, like he’s calculating something.

“Left TMJ. Inflamed,” he murmurs. “Partial dislocation.”

His voice is low, expressionless, as if reading from a file you can’t see.

“Clench.”

You hesitate.

He repeats the word, this time slightly slower. Not louder. Not forceful. Just... lower.

“Clench.”

You obey, pressing your teeth together. The dull spike of pain nearly makes you gag. He feels your muscles shift beneath the skin, then finally releases your chin and steps back just enough to grab a tool you don't recognize right away from a nearby shelf.

“Inflammation’s aggravating the joint. I’ll reset it.”

Your stomach turns.

“You—what?”

His head tilts again, the black voids of his eyes unreadable.

“You’ll need to relax. The longer you wait, the worse it will get.” A pause. “I don’t offer sedation.”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Lie back.”

You hesitate for a second too long.

Jack waits, motionless, gloved hands poised in front of him like he’s prepping for surgery instead of resetting a jaw. His head tilts half a degree—just enough for you to feel the weight of his wordless stare pressing on your sternum.

"...Fine." You lie back.

The vinyl of the exam table is cold against your spine. You shift slightly, arms flat at your sides. Your eyes trail the overhead light until Jack steps into view again, eclipsing it. Towering, shadowed, cut like stone. The only sound is the soft creak of latex gloves as he flexes his fingers.

He moves with no wasted motion, tongue depressor in one hand and a small penlight in the other. Click.

“Open again. Wider.”

You try. It hurts again, surprise.

He doesn’t comment on the way your jaw trembles. Just braces your chin with one hand and shines the light into your mouth, scanning along your gums, the hinge, the roof. You expect it to end there—but then he trades the depressor for something worse.

His fingers. Gloved, cool, long.

He presses two between your lips, careful but firm, thumb anchoring your jaw from underneath while the others sweep along the inside of your cheek. Checking for torn tissue, maybe. Infection. Misalignment. Who knows. His knuckles brush your tongue. You swallow without meaning to.

The sound that leaves your throat is humiliating.

Jack doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even breathe different. His fingers curl slightly, pressing into the soft flesh near your molars. The texture of the glove drags. Slow. Thorough. Your jaw aches and your body lights up in response.

Not from pain.

He’s not doing anything wrong. That’s the problem.

He’s not being seductive. Not being coy. Not even looking at you, not really. Just working. Focused. Professional. Detached.

And it’s that—exactly that—that makes heat pool between your legs. You squeeze your thighs, trying to quiet your own body’s treachery. His fingers glide across the base of your tongue again, tipping your chin just slightly with the pad of his thumb. Your breath hitches. What the fuck is wrong with you.

He withdraws a little slower this time, still silent, still careful. You would've almost relaxed if it weren't for the impending intervention that would surely make you keel over in pain.

“I need to assess the displacement,” he mutters, already applying pressure to the hinge of your jaw. “Don’t talk.”

You weren’t planning to. Not anymore.

The pads of his thumbs press just under your ears, right where the mandible meets muscle. He rotates your jaw gently but firmly, thumbs pressing into the tension like he’s mapping your pain. He doesn’t wince at the faint click, or the flinch you fail to suppress. He just notes it.

“There’s swelling,” he murmurs. “One of the ligaments is likely strained.”

You nod a little, before realizing you weren’t supposed to move. But Jack doesn’t comment. He’s just quiet for a moment. Still.

...Too still.

Your heart is hammering, and it’s not subtle anymore. Not to him.

You realize, too late, what he’s actually doing—what’s got him so motionless, so tuned in.

He's fucking listening.

His head angles ever so slightly toward your chest, and you can feel the moment he registers your heartbeat spiking. Not just hears it, but tracks it. Listens to it as data.

Then he inhales, slow and silent.

Oh no.

He can smell it. You know he can. Arousal blooming like a warm, humid pulse between your legs, sweet and tentative and absolutely real. You can't help but panic, bracing to be humiliated right here on his table. This is precisely why you even put off coming in to begin with.

But instead of recoiling, or making some awful comment, or pretending it didn’t happen—

He keeps going. Calm. Professional.

He moves one hand to the back of your head, cradling it with unnerving gentleness. The other comes to your jaw again, fingers curled around it, his thumb bracing beneath your chin.

“I’m going to adjust it,” he says. “You may feel pressure. And pain.”

You exhale slow. “Okay.”

You’re practically vibrating now, your breath catching as he shifts even closer. He doesn’t need to touch more than necessary—never does—but his size alone is overwhelming, broad shoulders blocking out the harsh overhead light, his stance boxing you in like a shadow falling over prey.

He doesn't even give you a countdown. Doesn't brace you, doesn't warn you.

He just does it.

The crack is sharp—sickening to anyone else, but not to him. Your eyes blur for a second, and for a moment all you can register is the heat between your legs and the full-body jolt of pain-pleasure confusion ripping through your nerves.

His hands stay where they are. Steady. Silent.

Then his voice again, low and completely unbothered:

“Better?”

You nod, breath shallow. You can’t speak. Not yet. You can't yet rip yourself from the sharp flash of skull splitting pain, even as he leans in. Just barely.

He doesn't speak right away. His head remains tilted in that eerie, artificial way—listening. Not to your words, but to your body. The air feels too heavy, too thick.

"You’re flushed. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated." His voice is calm, unbothered. “You're aroused.”

You look down, heart pounding even harder, like it’s trying to prove his point. You're in a closed room with a predator. Of course no pulse stammer, no change in scent escape him. And you stupidly, naively told yourself he'd at least not bring it up.

You almost defend yourself—almost—but your jaw still aches and your pride’s already halfway out the door.

He doesn’t accuse you. Doesn’t leer. Just continues peering down at you, seemingly toward your jaw, like calling you out on being horny on his table was just an afterthought.

Then, finally:

"You're at risk of muscular dysfunction," he says. “TMJ compression may recur if the surrounding joints aren’t conditioned.”

You blink.

“What?”

"Therapy for mandibular strength. Repetitive movement. Isometric pressure.”

"...That sounds fake," you say, eyes narrowing.

"It’s not. I can administer a routine exercise,” he says. “If you comply.”

Your heart skips. No fucking way.

You force yourself to scoff, weakly. “What, like... chewing gum?”

“No,” he says, utterly expressionless, voice dry as bleached bone. “Like sucking my cock.”

The room goes still. You stare at him, face slack, brain flatlining. He doesn’t shift.

You’d almost feel like you were being punked—if it weren’t for the clinical detachment in his voice. No grin. No teasing. Just prescription.

He gestures downward with a hand, slow and clear.

“On your knees.”

You're about to argue—but then you watch that same hand start undoing his belt. And you forget what you were going to say. Your legs move before your brain catches up.

The tile is cold beneath you as you lower. He doesn’t touch you—doesn’t help guide you down or force your head. Just lets you get into position, calm as ever, the way a doctor waits for a patient to position themselves on an exam table.

You stare—up at him, at the soft shadows where his eyes should be, into that void of unsettling silence. Your mouth is already falling open, your jaw aching but looser now, slightly. You're not sure if it's from his touch or the anticipation.

He watches you. Not hungrily. Not cruelly. Just assessing, patient.

“Begin."

The thing is, Jack doesn't get involved. That’s what the others say. And it’s true.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t fuck. Doesn’t linger in the common rooms or hover near bedrooms or watch anyone with more than clinical interest.

Because frankly, there’s no one worth the effort. Not even during his mating season, when the heat is so overbearing and insufferable that he has to claw at his own raging cock to calm it down.

The women here are loud, violent, erratic. Jack learned early that entanglement breeds chaos. Even if his body hungers, his mind doesn’t. Not for them. So he keeps to himself. Detached. Controlled.

And then you showed up.

Not particularly warm. Not particularly broken. Just... quiet. Smart. Pretty in a way that didn't demand attention. Kept your distance, like him. And yet, here you are—kneeling on the tile floor of his makeshift infirmary, lips parted around the head of his cock with your jaw aching and your scent ripe with want.

He watches your mouth stretch open, just slightly at first, gauging the tension at the hinge.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he says, voice low but even, steady as his heartbeat. “Don’t force it. Let the joint relax.”

He’s big. Too big to take all at once without locking up, especially with your already-bruised jaw. So you ease into it—inch by slow, careful inch. His cock is heavy on your tongue, smooth and hot and stiffening by the second. You fight your gag reflex. Breathe through your nose. Let your lips seal slowly around the shaft.

Your jaw protests—dull pain radiating down into your neck. He hears your breathing shift.

“Discomfort?”

You nod faintly, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you.

Instead, one hand lifts—settling under your chin, thumb pressing just beneath your ear as he begins to gently palpate the muscle, fingers feeling the give of the joint.

“Keep going,” he murmurs. “I need to feel the range.”

You suck in a slow breath. Take more of him in. It almost starts to feel like standard procedure by the way he acts. Almost.

The ache doesn’t disappear, but it starts to change. Dulls. Warms. The longer your mouth stays stretched, the looser the hinge feels, the less resistance there is in your jaw. Your tongue shifts around him, trying to ease the burn—and in doing so, draws a low hum from Jack’s chest.

“Good,” he says.

Definitely not standard procedure. You nearly moan.

Your spit starts to coat him, pooling around the base. It’s getting messy now—your tongue laps greedily, spit slicking his shaft in glistening ropes. Every soft choke earns you another steady hum of approval.

He doesn’t move his hips. Doesn’t thrust. Big palm still engulfing the underside of your jaw, claws twitching just barely into your skin every time you hollow your cheeks and suck back up to the tip.

You look up at him, half-dazed, spit slicking your chin, your jaw hanging looser than before. He looks down, impassive—but there's no hiding the pinch in his brows or the flare of his nostrils when the head of his cock kisses the back of your throat.

“That’s it,” he says, low, strained. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, and your hand moves before you even register it—sliding under your waistband, fingers slipping past soaked underwear to your cunt.

You’re drenched. The cotton is soaked through, sticking to your knuckles. You rub slow circles around your clit, moaning softly around him, trying to time it with the slurp of your mouth to hide the sound. Your hips twitch.

But you forget who you’re with.

He stiffens above you—not in surprise, but stillness. His head tilts just barely to the side.

“...You’re touching yourself.”

You freeze for half a breath, almost even pull your hand out of your pants. But he doesn’t stop you. Instead, his chest rises subtly.

He smells it.

The scent of slick arousal is thicker in the air, heady and unmistakable. It mixes with the saline bite of sweat, the copper tang of blood from your payment, the chemical sharpness of antiseptic—but it’s yours that cuts through. Potent. Raw. Dripping down your thighs as you keep sucking.

He wasn’t planning on fucking you.

He didn’t need to. Your mouth would’ve sufficed—tight, warm, obedient. That would’ve been more than enough. A rare indulgence, a contained one.

But the sound.

That squelch of your pussy under your fingers—the slick wetness of it as your hips jerk and your moan stutters around his cock—

That changes everything.

He looks down at you then, fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

“You’re soaked,” he says, tone low but not judgmental—observational, but something darker coils beneath it now. “From sucking my dick?”

You don’t respond—can’t—too full of him.

He leans forward, shadow cast across your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Get up,” he says. Calm. Firm. Final.

You blink up at him, dazed, lips red and wet.

“Up,” he repeats, slipping free of your mouth with a wet pop. “You’re not doing this on the floor.”

He pulls you to your feet with one smooth motion—strong, sure, impersonal as ever.

But his cock is still hard, glistening with spit, and when he steps in close, you feel the head nudge against your abdomen like an omen.

You look up at him as he pushes you back against the edge of the padded table, fully expecting another string of well measured medical excuses for wanting to sink into your pussy... But you were met with silence—thick, heavy, hungry even if he didn't outwardly show it. You didn't know whether to feel relieved or threatened.

He doesn’t undress with hunger or haste. His movements are smooth, methodical, devoid of showmanship. Just his fingers unfastening buttons, peeling away layers like they’re in the way—not like they’re what covers you, but what obstructs you. What obstructs him.

And then he’s looming between your spread legs, cock hanging heavy and thick between his thighs, glistening from your spit. The room is so quiet, you swear you can hear the shift of his weight when he steps closer.

His hands wrap around your thigh, latex squeaking as it slips over sweat. Your breath chokes short. He folds you in half, entirely—calmly forcing your thighs back until you���re bent near double. The stretch burns deliciously through your hamstrings, your hips, your spine.

And then he’s holding you there—palming the backs of your thighs as if anchoring you in place, cock nudging your entrance with zero urgency.

You squirm.

It earns you a hard slap to the inside of your thigh—sharp enough to make you jolt, wet enough that it echoes.

“Don’t move,” he says.

Then, slowly—almost cruelly—he presses in.

You gasp. It’s as much of a fill as it is a stretch. Thick, deep, unrelenting. Your cunt clenches around him instantly, fluttering as your walls fight to adjust. His cock drags inside you with obscene smoothness, and stops. He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds. Buries himself to the hilt and lets your body adjust. Not a hint of frenzy—he splits you open like he’s measuring you.

He exhales—sharp, almost a sigh.

Your mouth drops open—but not in moan. It hangs. Your jaw slackens.

His hand is suddenly at your face, fingers curling under your chin, thumb pressing lightly into your jaw’s hinge, closing your mouth back up.

“You'll get lockjaw if you keep doing that,” he says coolly. “Hold it steady.”

The pressure increases. Not painful, not tenderly, but correcting.

His hips roll forward.

Slow, strong, deep—like he’s testing your depth, like he’s counting the inches it takes to pull another stifled moan from your throat.

You squeeze around him, clenching uncontrollably—already wound tight from your fingers, every nerve raw, oversensitive, like you'd been edged for hours. It was almost humiliating how close you were already.

“Shit,” he hisses, jaw tight, his impassivity fracturing just for a moment. “You’re—”

He cuts himself off.

His hand slides downward and finds your clit.

You barely have time to react before he pinches so hard that it makes your entire body arch and tense up. Sharp pressure blooms, pleasure laced with heat and pain and a stifled cry you can’t quite make with your mouth full of shallow panting.

Your hips jerk—he slams them back down.

“Don’t cum yet,” he growls—his voice now tinged, barely, with something darker, something less restrained. “You’re tighter when you’re close.”

He pinches again.

Your vision blurs.

“Control yourself,” he repeats as he slides in again, deeper. “You wanted this—then let it last.”

He starts fucking you—really fucking you—like your desperation and your body bursting at the seams in need was barely even an inconvenience to him.

But he's starting to crumble. Slowly, surely, a thrust every few rolls of his hips stuttering and pushing in too quickly. Slipping again and again, not immune to the warmth and wetness and tightness swallowing his cock whole like it was carved for this.

The table rocks under each thrust, his rhythm measured but no longer calculated, driving you into the vinyl with every pump of his hips. Your pussy makes obscene noises—slick, messy, greedy, sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He’s breathing harder now. No longer silent.

Low groans, thick and guttural, start slipping out—like they’re being torn from a throat that never lets itself make sound.

You swear you hear it: a cracked "fuck," deep in his chest, not quite meant to be spoken.

He grabs your jaw again—not with medical intent now, but need—fingers firm, his palm cupping your face to anchor you as he fucks in deeper, like he’s chasing the tightest part of you.

You’re shaking. You’re soaked. You’re held open, filled full, and denied again and again.

You don’t know when his hands started shaking.

Maybe the third or fourth time he smacked and pinched your clit to edge you, cunt suctioning wet around his cock and throbbing painfully. Maybe it was when you clenched on him during a particularly hard thrust and moaned like you were crying.

You hear it before you feel it—a snap, the high-pitched pop of nitrile tearing beneath too-sharp pressure. His claws rip clean through the gloves. You catch the gleam of black keratin as they flex in the light.

And then he’s grabbing at you—groping you.

No longer practical. No longer careful.

Claws rake up your ribs, scratch over your tits, dig into the soft skin of your hips and thighs, not deep enough to slice but enough to sting, to leave microscopic beads of crimson in their wake. It’s primal. Like he’s trying to ground himself in the tactile, in the way your body grips him back, in the way your skin gives under his nature.

His pace becomes erratic.

Thrusts slam in harder, faster, more ragged—driven not by logic but need. The sound of your slick, the wet, high-pitched slap of it echoing against the walls, drives him deeper into something bigger than him.

You barely catch your breath before he lunges forward—body folding over you, arms braced against the table, his face in the crook of your neck.

You can feel a rumble in his chest—barely a warning at all— before be clamps down on your skin.

He sinks sharp, inhuman teeth into your shoulder with a guttural growl, like he's tasting something sacred—savoring it. Your flesh parts around his fangs with a wet, horrible rip, and blood surges from the wound.

He doesn’t apologize as you shriek and claw at his biceps, his hair, anything to try and pry him off. Not even budging.

He laps. Licks deep, filthy stripes into your bleeding shoulder, groaning low, like he’s drinking down ambrosia.

You’re shaking beneath him, jaw slack with disbelief, pain, arousal.

He fucks into you harder, punishing, like he’s trying to weld his hips to yours. One hand slides down between your legs again—making you sob a pathetic little sound, bracing yourself for the worst again—but this time, he doesn’t pinch.

He finally rubs. Firm and fast, two fingers circling your clit with relentless pressure, dragging wet, slippery circles that sync with the piston of his cock.

“Cum,” he growls—against your neck, against your blood, breath hot and voice wrecked. "Cum on this cock. Fucking milk it."

You wail in relief, and your whole body shudders with built-up pressure finally released. It hits like a crash—blinding, consuming, full-body spasms wracking your frame, legs trembling, pussy squeezing in pulses so strong it drags a strangled groan from deep in his chest.

You squirt. Just little sharp, rhythmic gushes, splattering down his length and the table beneath, every spasm squeezing more out of you.

“Fuck,” Jack snarls—then bites you again, this time at the base of your neck.

The pain is searing. White-hot. It makes your cunt tighten like a fist, sight blurring at the edges. And somehow—somehow—it just makes your orgasm stronger.

You feel yourself convulsing, helpless against the wave, and all you can do is hang on while he fucks you through it—deep, brutal, unrelenting. One clawed hand grips your jaw to keep it steady, the other still working your clit until tears start rolling down your cheeks from the overstimulation.

You're too gone to feel much more than a blurred wave of too much. Too fucked out to feel him tense and stutter above you. You only feel it once he slams in to the hilt and stalls.

It’s guttural. Deep. A sound torn out of something that doesn’t make sounds like that. He pulses inside you—thick, hot, and neglected for too long—filling you to the brim as he drinks from your neck like you're bleeding syrup.

His claws curl into your hips. His cock twitches inside you, pumping every last drop. And then—for the first time—he moans.

Not quiet. Not deadpan. A raw, feral, wrecked sound that's almost too spent to have come from the throat of a demon.

It vibrates through your bones.

And when it’s over—when he finally slows, pulls back just enough to breathe—you’re shaking under him, your jaw sore, your pussy flooded, your blood still wet on his lips. He pulls out like a scalpel being sheathed, his cock dragging slick and heavy from your used cunt, no wince, no remark, no reaction to the cum leaking out of you like evidence of something intimate.

And Jack is just silent again. Panting slowly subsiding into inaudible, steady breaths.

There’s no tenderness to the way he moves—no shushing, no soft hands. Just the same methodical detachment as always. He steps away from your body like it’s just another case. Another mess to clean.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your neck sticky with blood, thighs trembling and dripping with both of you—but he doesn’t even pause to look.

He just peels off the shredded gloves, tosses them into the trash with a snap of latex, and reaches for a fresh pair.

You’re still folded over the table, chest heaving, mouth hanging slightly open, when you feel him back at your side—hands sterile, gloved, impersonal all over again.

“Don’t move.”

The command is soft, but it’s not kind. Just practical.

He starts with the neck.

The bite wound is deep—ugly, violent—but he doesn’t flinch at the sight. Doesn’t murmur an apology or ask if it hurts. He just cleans. Disinfects. Presses a thick pad of gauze to the bite, tapes it down with no lingering touches.

Your shoulder is next—swabbed, sealed, wrapped. Then your thighs, your ribs. You feel the sting of antiseptic where his claws broke skin. He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

When he’s finished with the worst of it, he steps between your knees again, tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“You clenched through your orgasm,” he says, tone flat. “Let me check your jaw.”

Your lips part instinctively—even as your eyes roll, unimpressed—and he presses a thumb along the hinge—palpating, observing. There’s pressure. A little discomfort. No pain.

“Still aligned.” A pause. “Mobility improved.”

He wipes his hands on a cloth and turns away.

“You’re cleared.”

You blink.

That’s it?

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Not even a fucking nod.

You half-expect him to say something—anything—about what just happened. About him fucking you raw, drinking from your neck, and cumming so deep inside you it’s still dripping out onto the floor. But no. Nothing. His back stays turned. Shoulders relaxed. Voice cool.

“Try to avoid impact to the jaw for the next 48 hours. If the pain persists or worsens, come back.”

...Predictable.

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

All Finished!

I have no idea what's going on with Virgil and Remus's styles... they're something... I know to little clothing genres and what they look like to say.

I adore all of them so much. Adorable babies~

Poses by Albanenechi on insta/patreon. Janus & Logan: [Link], Virgil: [Link], Roman: [Link], Patton: [Link], Remus: [Link]

Random info about them under the cut:

- Virgil's skin is "poisonous" in the way any skin contact will make the one not Virgil grow more and more anxious (kinda like how canon Virgil's room amplified their anxieties in AA) Due to this he's pretty touch averse. Giving the random elbow nudge or shoulder tap, never really touching anyone with his fingers unless he's wearing fingered gloves.

- Janus is smart, but he will give his "braincel" to Logan is he craves some chaos. (the beanie, he doesn't want it to get dirty). He doesn't disguise himself as much as Canon Janus, instead he sneaks into the conversation, making it seem as if he'd always been there. He's quicker to bring up the idea of using an "excuse" as he likes to call it, be it to not go to a thing, avoid doing something or just because. (Virgil tends to accept the first type, if it means avoiding a social situation.)

- Remus isn't as intrusive as canon Remus.... but he will still be intrusive by being loud and be the bringer of the brain worms/funny sentences/audio from videos that he will play/say on repeat to Thomas at random times throughout the day. He will start gnawing on things if he's bored/understimulated.

- Roman loves Disney, but not for the princes... instead the animal helpers are his siblings. It took him the longest to accept Virgil due to the Disney logic of green = evil. He loves to sing, and can be found humming under his breath almost constantly if he's not. He feels a bit self conscious about what his animal trait is. Since corvids tend to get a bad reputation at times. So he kinda clings a bit too hard on the nickname "Songbird" that Thomas gave him.

- Logan is the royal in this lineup. He's not as strict and "emotionless" than canon Logan, but he will get frustrated if he's ignored. He's also strong-headed about important things. But, he knows exactly what to use to get the others attention for varying degrees of time. He might even get passive aggressive if pushed beyond annoyed. He tries his best to be helpful be it to Thomas in person or to Thomas as a whole (the others)

- Patton is full of energy, encompassing much more of Thomas's heart than morality, even if that's still a part of who he is. If you need a hug, he's 100% ready to open his arms and give it. He loves to nap. he can either be found asleep on the banister of the stairs or curled up on the couch using his tail as a pillow. He loves so strongly. He's got some pretty bad rejection sensitivity, he's working on it... but he can be a bit clingy at times. (Not that any of them will complain, Virgil might get stressed out tho.) He will cry if they watch Turning Red during a movie night. He def fear he's becoming Thomas's panda, he is Thomas's Panda. (I need to actually watch the movie it looks so GOOOOOD! anyway-)

- On the subject of tails/wings/animal traits... they're only fully visible in the mind space, if they're with Thomas they look much more human.

- Virgil is the oldest of the dark sides and thus kinda became their keeper, he has a 6th sense in knowing where they are. He's pretty chill, but if he's stressed he will start doing his lil frog calling as a warning noise.

- Roman and Remus are much closer in this au, often found brainstorming together to help Thomas come up with creative ideas. If the idea calls for more fluffy happy themes Roman will handle most of that, but if it goes into more darker themes it's Remus's time to shine, after all in a writers terms: "you can't have the angst without the fluff" (you can but shhhhhh)

- Yellow the Lemon is all question marks.

[starmapz]

what are your hcs on wyk sukuna as a husband

cw ; based on what you know. f!reader. fluff! mentions of sex.

i definitely think wyk!sukuna would struggle with the idea of marriage. not because he doesn't love you or want to spend the rest of his life with you, he has no doubts about that- but because he's afraid. he never experienced the love of two married parents and he doubts his ability to provide for you, and he fears the idea of tying you down when he knows his life is a lot to handle. he fears it isn't what you want.

for that reason, it takes wyk!sukuna a long time to work up the courage to propose. when he finally does, he's beyond relieved that you say yes, overjoyed. he doesn't do grand gestures, he's not the type to make a big show of the proposal, but he does want it to be intimate, something memorable and special for you.

wyk!sukuna doesn't dress up often beyond slacks and a button-up, so seeing him in a full suit at the end of the aisle is just about the most jaw-dropping sight on the planet. his hair is freshly cut, his face clean-shaven, unable to stop fiddling with the sleeves of his suit. when he sees you, every fear fades away because nothing else matters anymore.

husband!wyk!sukuna is obsessed with you. he's not overly vocal about it, he's still the stoic and grumpy man you fell in love with, but it's clear if you're looking for the signs. no matter how quiet he is though, there's no greater pleasure than calling you his wife.

husband!wyk!sukuna is the type of man to show his love primarily through acts of service and physical touch. he's so accustomed to working himself to the bone that he's more than willing to do a few extra chores around the house if it means you don't have to. to him, it's still way less than what his schedule used to resemble, even if you complain that he never lets you help. you help him more than you could ever know, in other ways.

speaking of physical touch, husband!wyk!sukuna is touchy to an almost annoying degree. you're busy working? he'll come up behind you and massage your shoulders, but that quickly devolves into him trying to distract you to gain your attention. cooking something in the kitchen? there's a good chance he's there behind you, his lips on your neck and hands on your hips.

husband!wyk!sukuna has a high sex drive for sure, but the truth is that he just enjoys being the apple of your eye. he enjoys the intimate little pieces of love found within quiet moments watching movies with you held tightly against him. he's at his happiest when you give his foot a gentle nudge under the table at dinner, for no other reason than to shoot him your gorgeous smile.

husband!wyk!sukuna doesn't like to give you flowers. not because he doesn't value the thought behind it, but more because he doesn't like the idea of giving you something with an expiry date. his love for you will never die so why should he give you a gift that will? you're worth more to him than that, so he's more likely to give you a whole plant.

he can't get you too many plants though, because husband!wyk!sukuna wants to make up for all the experiences he missed out on over the years, and travel is absolutely one of them. he loves history and art and wants to visit all the places his dad mentioned when he was younger, but not without you there with him.

outwardly, sukuna comes across fairly cold, but you swear husband!wyk!sukuna melts when you visit paris and ask to do each and every romantic activity. he wants to visit the catacombs and the louvre, but you? you want to write your names on a lock at the pont des arts. he scowls the whole time, but only because if he doesn't, he'll be a big ol' mushy mess.

your house is filled with photos that husband!wyk!sukuna sneaks while you're traveling, though his favorite was taken beneath a waterfall. you caught him off-guard, his attention on the flowing water with his arms around your middle while you grin at the camera. it sits on his desk at work as well.

you're husband!wyk!sukuna's muse. he never stops drawing and sketching, he adores doing landscape pieces based on places he's been and photos he's taken, but you're a part of all of them, whether you're in the original photo or not.

anyone who meets you after college is caught by surprise when you introduce them to husband!wyk!sukuna. he's snide and cold-shouldered, while you're sweet and open. they don't know the bond you share, and honestly, you're more than okay with that. your husband prefers to keep the details of your life between you, anyway. his life is something he shares only with those he's closest to.

still, your new friends begin to warm up to husband!wyk!sukuna through his eye rolls and snarky comments when they get a glimpse of the person he is around you. all it takes for you to get his attention is a simple nudge and he's all yours. anything you need, he's at your service, even if he's teasing you or making a big deal out of it. it's all just a show, when it comes to you.

oh, and those who are privy to the fact he took care of his brothers? husband!wyk!sukuna becomes the go-to babysitter for them. he doesn't mind, either. he likes the opportunity to give his and your friends a break to go out, because he gets it. and although it might not have been the greatest point in his life, sometimes he misses when his brothers were younger and their biggest worries were who would get the last chicken strip. he may not want kids of his own, feeling as though he already has them in a sense, but he likes being an uncle of sorts to your friends' kids. plus, he's a great target for nerf darts. and when they get older? he's the cool uncle who takes them to paintball and horror nights at the local fair.

husband!wyk!sukuna is a dry texter, he's a man of few words both when chatting and texting, so it makes it that much funnier when he sends you a photo out of the blue, no caption. just a photo of a plush rabbit. why? "it's you," he texts back. this is an oddly common occurrence. anything that looks remotely cute and tiny to him, that's you. and when you're 6'11" and pure muscle, most things are small and cute.

husband!wyk!sukuna's prized possessions are the woven bracelets from his brothers and his wedding ring. As the years go by, the bracelets eventually tear and fall off, but Sukuna still keeps them. In fact, many years later, you notice there's a new ring that sits on his right middle finger, and upon closer inspection you find that the torn bracelets have been turned into a ring. nothing means more to him than family.

husband!wyk!sukuna knows he's a lot to handle, and he knows his temper is the biggest thing he needs to work on. he gets snippy easily, but he'll also own up to his mistakes before it gets anywhere. he's lost you once, he's learned his lesson. no amount of frustration is worth losing you.

your happiness is husband!wyk!sukuna's priority. he may be dense as hell when it comes to little signals (he begs you to just spell things out for him), but he's in tune with your discomfort and won't take it lightly. you're out with friends and your social battery runs out? expect his voice in your ear, telling you he's ready to go. he'll always present it to the group you're out with like it's him that wants to go as well, never forcing you to be the center of attention. he knows you wouldn't like that.

husband!wyk!sukuna tucks you so tightly to his chest while you sleep that you can't even get up to use the washroom in the middle of the night. and don't think about waking him up either, he gets so grumpy the moment he's half-awake and thinks you're trying to get away from him. and in case you're wondering, yes, summers are hell. you do need to get a/c.

husband!wyk!sukuna longs for nothing more than simplicity in life. nothing helps him wind down from a long day more than laying his head on your chest while you read, but he certainly won't turn you down either if you run your hand through his hair. he enjoys the silence, and finds joy in doing absolutely nothing, in particular if you're there with him. the greatest treasure for someone who once carried the weight of the world on his shoulders is doing nothing with the person he loves most.

husband!wyk!sukuna makes sure you know how much he loves you. he writes it on your skin in kisses and hickeys. he knows he isn't always the best with emotions, or showing his love, and he particularly knows his eloquence dissolves when it comes to words. sex with you isn't just about pleasure for him. it's the one moment where he feels like he knows what he's doing and can genuinely please you. maybe it's crass, but it lets him show you his love for you how he knows best, physically.

husband!wyk!sukuna is extremely secure with you. he trusts you to the ends of the earth, but that doesn't mean he doesn't like the look of hickeys on your skin. the sly bastard loves to show them off too. you've covered them in makeup? nope. he'll whisk you away for a makeout session and make a point of smudging the makeup, much to your dismay. yes, even at work. to him, it's about the way his love is written in the language that husband!wyk!sukuna knows best.

husband!wyk!sukuna is a quiet lover. You need to read between the lines at times to find the signs, but they're always there and he'll never let a day go by without showing you, even if he rarely uses words.

writing & format © starmapz. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[dclovesdanny]

Dead On Main x Yandere Au

Something people didn’t seem to understand about those touched by death was that their emotions were amplified. When they are happy, they are filled with it. When they are sad, they are filled with it. The same is true for anger and love.

The Pit only further amplified the emotions, making it so Jason was overwhelmed by them. It took time for him to get used to it.(He never fully realized the extent, only thinking the pit amplified the bad emotions.)

The Fentons were all death touched, even if they didn’t realize it. However, Danny was the most. He was both dead and alive, emotions amplified to the nth degree yet still able to think things through, to plan and not allow the emotions to distract him.

Another thing people don’t realize is that those who are fully dead might not rely as much on relationships, but ghosts like Phantom or revenants like Jason? They craved it. They needed attachment.

Which is why, early in Jason’s career as Red Hood, he found himself growing more and more obsessed with his mechanic, Danny.

Neither fully realized how creepy/weird/obsessive their love was.

The resident goons, as well as the rest of Crime Alley?

Well, they just knew the Boss and the Mechanic were obsessed with each other, and head over heels.

They just hoped they steadied each other instead of making each other crazier.(The Mechanic was already one bad day away from being their next rogue.)

[gatorbites-imagines]

wait come back-

please expand on that one tasm!peter parker dirty secret hc and the injecting venom thing, I actually can't get it out of my head. peter and his spider thoughts and tendencies

Peter Parker (TASM) spider behavior

Headcanons

I had to look up different spider facts and look at so many pictures of spiders and now I feel icky. Ive always loved how they made Peter extra spidery in TASM and I miss it. I may have caught myself spending too much time on mating behavior…

Spiders don’t have ears and do a lot of their hearing through hair on their body. But we all know that Peter has ears, instead he just has heightened senses and is very sensitive to vibrations and physical touch.

I believe that he would be able to turn off parts of his sensitivity to be able to make it through the day, like an instinctive reaction to settle. But when he’s in a situation with high emotion or stress his senses heighten to assist in survival, or so his body thinks.

Peter doesn’t have actual fangs, but his canines are just a bit sharper than the average person. It’s nothing too extreme or enough to be weird, but it’s there. His teeth will also ache sometimes, and he will salivate when he sees food he likes, or you.

I said in the alphabet that he doesn’t produce venom or poison, but I could imagine his saliva could cause a mild tingle if his adrenaline or hormones are very high. If you find yourself in a situation where the spider mutation advances, he grows venom glands though.

One of spiders main ways to communicate is through pheromones, so Peter would be very sensitive to it. Like his hearing, I think it’s something he instinctively turns on and off without noticing. If he finds himself in a situation where he needs extra attention the ability flicks on.

it’s also almost always on when around his partner, since his instincts are saying “we need to keep an eye on our mate and make sure they are thriving”

Peter doesn’t have claws on the bottom side of his fingers like Miguel, but I do believe there would be some small unnoticeable ones if you looked at his fingers and feet under a microscope, like on actual spiders. It’s to assist him in climbing. But it also helps him in hanging on when you ride him too quickly or he’s feeling a little more feral in his rutting.

Peter doesn’t personally produce his webs unless the mutation advances, where he develops silk glands in his wrists. His abdomen is still a bit more sensitive than average, but it’s mainly spider instincts that’s telling him to protect his eggs, even if he doesn’t have any.

His abdomen also allows him to eat a lot of food and not feel too full, its kinda cute when he gets a little food bump when he just indulges himself. Peter always gets extremely embarrassed, but his speedy digestion means it’s not there for long.

Since he doesn’t normally produce venom, he salivates a lot when it comes to food or you. After the bite he gains an attraction to foods he can drink with a straw, so expect a lot of smoothies.

Did you know humans have stripes and patterns in our skin, we just can’t see them? Well, peter can, to a certain degree. It’s not that they’re right there in his face, but if he focuses hard enough and is in a situation where all his senses are turned on, they become more noticeable. He obviously thinks your pattern is the prettiest.

Peter will love to curl up on a web when he’s stressed or just needs to hang out and think. He doesn’t do it a lot because he thinks it’s embarrassing, but sometimes you’ll catch him hanging in a massive pretty web he’s spun on the ceiling. It freaked you out the first time.

He can also jump extreme distances and heights, but most people think that comes from his super strength. It does, to a degree, but it also comes from his whole spidery thing.

Peter is extremely flexible, sometimes you think hes bones are liquid in the ways he can bend and turn, it’s amazing in the bedroom though. It also means he can easily curl up in your lap in a small seat, no worries.

Peter also purrs, because I want him to so he will. It’s not anything loud and can sound a little weird sometimes, but you love it. think of that little almost popcorn noise newborn kittens make, that hasn’t fully become a purr yet. Peter only does it when hes really comfortable and without stress, so its rare, as hes always stressed.

Now we have come to his dirty secret. Did you know some spiders commit cannibalism? Especially the females after mating have a tendency to eat the male. This is why peter has had a thought once or twice to bite you and eat you. And that one fever dream, that felt like something out of an erotic gore movie.

Peter also likes to hunt. Its not something hes proud of, but theres a thrill in hunting down criminals (prey) and webbing them up (for later). He never does eat anybody obviously, but the thrum it puts in his blood is used elsewhere (with you).

If you ever offered to play prey/predator with him, Peter would act hesitant but you can see the interest in his eyes and the way he starts moving from foot to foot, and swallowing the spit gathering in his mouth.

If he tops or bottoms would also change his behavior in some ways, and how strong his instincts are in that moment.

When he tops, Peter would set a fast pace, his instincts telling him to breed his partner before hes eaten, since that’s what a good chunk of female spiders. He might even use his super strength or webs to restrain you, if you guys are into that.

When he bottoms, different results can happen. Did you know that some male spiders go limp and play dead when breeding, to avoid being killed and/or eaten by the female? The first time Peter went from moaning and groaning to just going limp scared the life out of you.

Turns out its just because he was really in tune with his spider side and the excitement and pleasure had made him black out for a moment. You guys make a deal that you will keep going if its clear its just one of these moments, since he wakes up a few moments after.

He can also become quite bitey and demanding when bottoming, depending on his mood. There are times where you just gotta lay back and let him ride you, his eyes clenched shut and drool running down his chin as he digs his canines into his lip. You’ll feel wrung out afterwards, but its great.

Peter has a thing for tying you up as well, or himself, if you guys can find something that will hold him when he uses his full strength. This is almost impossible, outside of maybe his own webs. You end up learning to use his web shooters.