snail-day

[snail-day]

Househusband! Suguru has a sinful little ritual, one he never strays from: the moment you step through the door, you’re his prey. Honestly, you don't even know why you married such a sinful tease.

He’s still in that ridiculous pink apron, tied snug around his lean waist, fabric dusted with faint flour prints from whatever he’s been baking with the twins. His dark, silky hair is twisted into a lazy knot, glossy strands catching the warm light of the living room. And those twins, those cherubic little traitors, are babbling happily in front of the TV, utterly oblivious to the way their father is already zeroing in on you with the predatory patience of a fox.

You barely have time to toe off your shoes before he’s there, large frame filling your space, violet eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and demand. His gaze drags from your lips, slow and indulgent, before snapping back to meet your eyes. Your breath stutters in your throat.

“Haven’t kissed me all day,” he purrs, voice dripping with velvet heat as he backs you toward the wall.

Your shoulder blades meet it with a soft thud before you even realize you’ve been cornered. His hand comes up to your cheek - broad, warm, fingers splayed just enough to make your breath catch. His thumb strokes along your jaw in a slow, languid line, coaxing your chin up with maddening gentleness, like he’s guiding a rabbit straight into the fox’s jaws.

The heat of his body presses into yours, anchoring you there. You suppose he’s gotten a little softer since the twins were born - just a bit more to hold, more warmth to sink into - but he still overpowers you so easily. The sheer size of him. The way his presence wraps around you like gravity.

His other hand braces against the wall beside your head, fingers tapping idly, as if he's giving you a moment to catch up while your thoughts stutter and scatter like startled birds.

You can’t think. You can’t breathe.

He looks too good like this, hair falling in soft, silky strands around framing his stupidly perfect face. There’s a mock-serious pout on his lips, but you can already see the smirk tugging just beneath it, like he knows exactly how hot your face is right now.

“Am I not enough for you anymore, love?” he asks, voice saccharine and wounded as his head tilts. “Is my beloved wife really neglecting me?”

You don’t know what to do with yourself, your pulse fluttering wildly, so you do the only thing your scrambled brain can muster: you lean up, trying to press your lips against his. A shaky kiss, your silent apology, your poor attempt to soothe his dramatics.

Your lips part, but no words come out, just a soft breath that catches in your throat. He’s too close. Too warm. Smells like butter and sugar and whatever he’d been baking for the twins, all of it wrapped in that sinful scent that’s uniquely him.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you reach up to cup the sharpness of his jaw, tentative, almost shy, aiming to press a kiss to that pretty, pouty mouth of his - to soothe him, to distract him, to gain the upper hand.

But Suguru only tsks softly, low and indulgent.

He shifts just enough that your kiss grazes the corner of his mouth instead. Close, but not enough. His hand slides from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, warm and steady, holding you in place like you’re something indulgent he plans to savor.

“Not a kiss?” he mocks, voice almost a purr. As if he didn't pull away before you got the chance. “After I spent all day missing you?”

Then he kisses you - finally, fully. Slow and maddening. His lips press into yours like he has all the time in the world, like he’s drinking in every ounce of fluster in your body. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you lightheaded, your knees softening, hands fisting helplessly in the fabric of his apron.

He breaks the kiss with a soft, satisfied hum, forehead resting against yours. You barely register the world around you anymore, just the heat of him, the curve of his mouth, the velvet of his voice when he speaks next.

“I wasn’t asking for a kiss.”

The words ghost against your lips. You blink up at him, breathless.

“I was thinking…” His thumb traces your bottom lip, a tender little drag that has your thighs squeezing together. His smile deepens - lazy, lethal. “It’s time we gave the twins another sibling.”

You make a soft noise, flustered and too stunned to reply, and he leans in just a little more, brushing his nose along your cheek.

“What’s wrong, dove?” he murmurs, smirk curling like smoke. “Fox got your tongue?”

You just had to marry a sly fox, didn't you?

Thank you @raspberrietreats for helping me <3 mwahhh sending you smoochies

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Dubcon, Mean Geto, Smut, SatoSugu, MDNI

Yandere!Outlaw Suguru, the one man in the territory you’re not supposed to cross. And yet somehow, you did. You finally pissed him off.

No one ever said you were smart.

His voice was calm when he dragged you by the wrist into the sheriff’s office, but the fury was there, in the set of his jaw, the twitch in his scarred knuckles, the glint of something wild in those violet eyes. And when he tied his bandana around your mouth to stifle those pathetic little cries, it still tasted like gun smoke and blood.

Fresh off a train heist. Hands still stained from rough work. And now, you. Bent over the sheriff’s desk, skirts bunched at your waist, the wood creaking beneath you with every cruel thrust of his hips.

“Drippin’ all over the goddamn floor,” he mutters, voice like honeyed whiskey right up against your ear. Not even breathless from how hard he's fucking that slick cunt of yours. “Gonna lick it up when I’m done with you, ain’t that right? My good girl knows how to make it right.”

Your legs shake, your mouth stuffed full of cotton and smoke and humiliation. You’re not even sure if you're moaning or crying anymore.

“Coulda been gentle,” he grits, landing a sharp smack to your ass, sending a jolt right through your body, toes curlin' in your boots. “Coulda had my fingers in you slow and sweet back at camp. But no, you had to go screamin’. Had to go runnin’.”

And just when your eyes roll back, the door swings open.

Sheriff! Gojo, white stetson tipped back, sun catching on that cocky grin like he ain’t just allowed a renowned outlaw to roam free.

“Well, look what we got here,” he drawls, already unfastening his belt like the showboating bastard he is. “Told ya I’d buy you some time, Suguru.”

Suguru doesn’t even glance back. Doesn’t need to. Just keeps driving into you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out, like if he fucks you hard enough, deep enough, you’ll finally learn your place.

Gojo’s voice is a distant thing, all amusement and mischief, but Suguru’s focus is singular. You. Bent over the sheriff’s desk, gagged and wrecked.

And as you sob around the bandana, drool slipping past your lips onto avoided paperwork, Suguru’s thoughts are far from sweet. Already thinking maybe he should brand you for real, press iron to skin, carve his mark somewhere you can’t ever hide. Because this? This is what happens when you ruin one of his jobs. When you go screaming like a dumb whore who forgot who you belong to.

You want to act like trouble? He’ll treat you like it.

“Gonna put my initials right on that pretty ass next time,” Suguru mutters cold as death against your neck, more to himself than you, “so every damn outlaw and lawman in this territory knows you’re mine.”

Gojo’s pearly white boots click steadily across the floor, the sheriff in no rush. He pauses beside you, eyes raking over the sight, your wrists trembling against the desk, holding on for dear life, your thighs slick and shaking, Suguru still grinding into you like he’s breaking you in for the first time.

“Looks like you’re in for a long night, sugar,” Gojo hums, sweet as sin. “My office, my rules. Least you can do is show some gratitude for lettin’ you both walk free.”

He tugs his gloves off finger by finger, slapping them down on the desk beside your dazed face. Then comes the low scrape of leather and metal, his belt flying open, the sound sharp in the silence.

“Now,” he drawls, unbuttoning his jeans like he’s easing into a warm bath, “let’s see if you’re smart enough to say thank you with that mouth of yours… or if Suguru’s already fucked the manners outta you.”

Looks like you won’t be seeing daylight ‘til your throat’s as raw as the desert wind. Maybe, if you beg real sweet… they’ll be a little nicer to that pretty cunt of yours.

Based on my hankering need for Arthur Morgan and Geto Suguru at the same time

[snail-day]

TW: Peeing mentions, mdni

I forgot to add, obviously he’s not making you take all twenty at once. That’d be ridiculous (and honestly, such a waste of money). No, it’s three every morning, sometimes two if he’s feeling generous. And he’s right there with you, always watching against the doorway with a soft smile. Not because he cares about something so crass as watching you urinate, but because he wants to be there every single step of the way. For the baby. <3

Don’t mind the pictures, alright? He just can’t help himself. You should smile, really, remember that you wanted this!

Yandere Nanami has consumed my every thought these past two days and I just can't get over the idea of a willing reader. Just imagine his (happy) surprise when we don't try to flee or throw a tantrum or grumble about the cameras everywhere. I could just see him being at work, his phone being connected to the cameras all throughout the house. Imagine if reader would occasionally smile and wave at a camera ahhhh??? This man would be so happy

Ah....good ol' yan! Nanami

TW: Yandere, Captivity, Mentions of breeding, MDNI

I could easily see a darling trying this with him, acting willing, playing along, just to win back a little freedom. Maybe if you’re good enough, he’ll let you go to the grocery store again. Maybe he’ll even let you call your parents.

But your plan backfires spectacularly. Because to Nanami, your sudden obedience isn’t a ploy, it’s proof. Proof that you love him back. Evidence that you’ve finally accepted your place.

And so, the locks stay on the doors. The windows remain bolted shut. You aren’t getting your freedom back; in his eyes, you’ve simply stepped into the role of the wife he’s always wanted.

That’s why, when he drops twenty boxes of pregnancy tests onto the bed one night, your face drains of color. You hadn’t realized that “being willing” came with this price. That, in his mind, your willingness is the same as consent to bear his children.

But really, you should have known. He told you from the very first day he chained you down to your marital bed: he was going to make you the perfect wife. And giving him kids? That’s just part of the plan. <3

Good luck, babe.

[snail-day]

haiii i was just wondering if u had any plans to continue the story where reader can’t tell if jason wants to date or kill them cuz it’s so good! i love how awkward he is lol!

So far, I’ve got two parts done, and I’m hoping to have the actual date finished sometime this week. Trust, I have not forgotten about that hunk of a man who couldn’t flirt to save his life. I even saw a TikTok the other day that totally reignited my need to write more of him

Anyways in case you missed it, part one, part two

[snail-day]

Snaily, how are you, I hope everything is going great with your new home

Heres my unhinged thought of the day

Yan Clark would probably take a mental screenshot of you ever call him daddy, I feel like in the traditional sense, he's not really a "daddy" type, more so just a dad of that makes sense lol. He definitely does treat reader like a child who simply doesn't know better and is incapable of malicious intent or deliberate rebellion. Kinda like how sharks are too dumb to be evil while dolpjins are smart enough to be capable of it

AHHHH!! Home is good!!

ANYWAYS. I don’t think Clark gets off on being called “daddy” it’s more like, if a darling says it once, he just chuckles and goes, “whatever gets you off, love.” Like, he's not pushing it, but he's also not stopping you.

That said, he does treat you like a child. Especially if you end up in a Superbat scenario. In that dynamic, Clark totally leans into the “mommy” role, nurturing, patient, insufferable smothering.

Meanwhile, Bruce is in the “daddy” category. No hesitation. He wants to hear you say it (but isn't asking). He’s not as openly patronizing as Clark, but he takes pleasure in that sense of control, especially when it involves bending you over his knee and making sure you remember who you belong to.

Clark wants a wife. Bruce collects broken things.

Different flavors of fucked up, really. <3

[snail-day]

But then again... Kori is pretty hot so knowing she doesn't love me too would be a little sad :( like you're already kidnapped and somehow fumbling the bag.

literally like yeah they kidnapped me… but damn I’m kidnapped and I still can’t get bitches? Damn. I’d like to believe that over time she falls in love with the darling separate from her love for Dick lol I need her so baddddd

LOL when the person who's yandere for you isn't the one you want :(( Lemme hit Kory, one chance pls

[snail-day]

Yandere Nanami has consumed my every thought these past two days and I just can't get over the idea of a willing reader. Just imagine his (happy) surprise when we don't try to flee or throw a tantrum or grumble about the cameras everywhere. I could just see him being at work, his phone being connected to the cameras all throughout the house. Imagine if reader would occasionally smile and wave at a camera ahhhh??? This man would be so happy

Ah....good ol' yan! Nanami

TW: Yandere, Captivity, Mentions of breeding, MDNI

I could easily see a darling trying this with him, acting willing, playing along, just to win back a little freedom. Maybe if you’re good enough, he’ll let you go to the grocery store again. Maybe he’ll even let you call your parents.

But your plan backfires spectacularly. Because to Nanami, your sudden obedience isn’t a ploy, it’s proof. Proof that you love him back. Evidence that you’ve finally accepted your place.

And so, the locks stay on the doors. The windows remain bolted shut. You aren’t getting your freedom back; in his eyes, you’ve simply stepped into the role of the wife he’s always wanted.

That’s why, when he drops twenty boxes of pregnancy tests onto the bed one night, your face drains of color. You hadn’t realized that “being willing” came with this price. That, in his mind, your willingness is the same as consent to bear his children.

But really, you should have known. He told you from the very first day he chained you down to your marital bed: he was going to make you the perfect wife. And giving him kids? That’s just part of the plan. <3

Good luck, babe.

[snail-day]

https://www.tumblr.com/snail-day/791978648807849984/httpswwwtumblrcomsnail-day791865430733111296?source=share

WAIT PLEASE PLEASE WRITE THIS I SWEAR ILL STOP BUGGING YOU AFTER OOOOHHHH I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS I JUST THOUGHT OF THIS (this is the perfect way to make Kory fall in love with the reader/darling) but you know what’s really scary with the way you wrote this? The fact that Kory doesn’t actually love them, she only “loves” them as long as Dick loves them, as you said. I’d imagine that the darling has picked up on this fact and it terrifies them. Because if Kory only loves them if Dick loves them… what happens if Dick stops loving them?

Now obviously we the readers know that Kory being the kind and bubbly superhero that she is would probably let us go free and unharmed if that were to be the outcome, but that doesn’t mean that the darling knows this. For all we know as the darling, this mighty warrior alien is only kind to us because she’s putting up with our presence in Dick’s heart. In the darling’s paranoid mind, we’re thinking that the second Dick even slightly indicates that his love for us is waning, Kory will end our existence.

Obviously she wouldn’t do that because that’s not her personality, but that’s how the reader perceives her anyway.

So it becomes sort of a lose lose situation in which on one hand the reader hates everything about being Dick’s obsession because they miss their old life and friends, etc, but on the other hand, they have this paralysing fear that if they don’t keep themselves in Dick’s good graces, Kory will end their life swiftly.

Meanwhile Kory is just chilling lol just a chill girl

Anyway, back to what I was saying, imagine that because of this fear that the darling has of Kori, the darling starts trying to get in Kory’s good graces as well. Trying to be all good for Kory, starts trying to impress her by putting in more effort when Kory tries to teach them something, etc, maybe like in training or in bed or something, just trying to please Kory out of fear. It’s obviously very very hard for the darling because they’re so much weaker compared to her, hell, even compared to Dick.

Now Kory notices this sudden change in the darling’s behaviour and finds it quite… adorable. This little meek human is trying (so pathetically and desperately) to woo her in a way? That’s so oh so cute. Dick’s little fragile and weak darling doing all of this and over exerting themselves to impress her (and him too)? She’s starting to understand what it is about you that’s so appealing to Dick after all.

Their little weak darling.

And obviously Dick’s over the moon about this, his new love “loves” his love and vice versa? Perfect.

YES YES YES THISSSSS RIGHT HERE. You're so right anon. I am smooching your brain.

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Captivity, Slight Pet Play, MDNI

I love the idea of a reader who starts out absolutely terrified of Kory. (I mean, who wouldn't be a little scared of a hot babe of an alien, I mean whatttt who said that) Anyways, our poor darling is tiptoeing around her, flinching whenever her eyes narrow, apologizing profusely just for breathing too loudly. And Kory has never once raised a hand to you. She just watches, blinking those pretty green eyes all slow and unbothered, genuinely confused why you keep bracing for impact like a stray animal. Seriously, she wishes you'd cling to Dick like how you're currently clinging to that wall.

Because in her mind, she does love you. Not romantically, no, but with a kind of warm, sisterly affection. At first. And doesn't understand why you keep flinching around her.

But when you finally start trying. Sitting up straighter when she’s in the room instead of looking for the nearest exit. You keep your eyes on her instead of at the ceiling, and moan prettier when Dick or she touches you. You hold their gaze longer, kiss them back. And when she compliments you, even in passing? You glow and she doesn't know that you're just doing this for survival. She thinks it's really working. Like she somehow has a connection to you.

That’s when the dynamic shifts. She stops seeing you as Dick’s lover and starts seeing you as her own little pet.

You’re so weak. So mortal and pliable. But you're finally learning what’s expected of you. And when you make her cum, when you manage to keep up with her rhythm just enough to hear her purr your name, she coos at you like you’ve brought her a dead bird. “Good girl,” she murmurs. “Learning so well.”

And you smile, dazed and shaking, like that praise is the sun itself.

Meanwhile Dick is just… thrilled. Absolutely loves that you’re finally kissing him before bed. That you’re clinging to both of them a little tighter now. He has no idea you’re doing it out of fear. No idea that your sweet little compliance is born from survival instinct, not affection.

To him, this is just progress.

To Kory, it’s discipline. Positive reinforcement. A pet who finally knows their place.

And to you, well, you're just trying to make do with captivity.

[snail-day]

Me everytime I see you write angst(but I still eat it up everytime especially the most recent Clark Kent one UGHHHH)

AHHH!! For some reason, writing angst for lover boys like Clark and Dick feels too good. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s that wicked little part of my brain whispering, “they’ll always come running back anyway, so why not break their hearts a little more?” It’s toxic, sure, but god, it feels so good.

[snail-day]

🤓 Yandere Pattinson! Batman does not have sheets on his bed ☝️

And you might be thinking, “Snail, I’m pretty sure Alfred would put sheets on his bed.” Trust me, he’s tried. But Bruce never takes off the dark, smudged makeup, never even bothers with basic hygiene, and Alfred, at this point, has resigned himself to the idea that Bruce is going to die a virgin. So while you may be kidnapped, just know Alfred is secretly relieved that the Wayne legacy might finally continue. Good luck with no sheets, soldier.

[snail-day]

Lover Boy

Yan! Dick Grayson x Reader

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Dubcon/Noncon (pretends to use protection), Drugging (needle use), Breeding Kink, Toxic Relationship, Mentions of Insecurity, Rough Sex, Angst, MDNI WC: 1k A/N: Sorry if this is rough. I'm still hella sick, but we thrive on thirsty thoughts of Nightwing and breaking his little heart and not thinking of the risks of doing so.

There are cons to falling back into routine with your ex. Because loving Dick Grayson is dangerously easy - so easy that your heart aches knowing things will never be the same. It’s the way he still shows up at your door with that boyish smile, like his heart was never shattered in your hands. The way he answers your texts in seconds, no matter how late, no matter how short the message. How he calls you puppy, even after nights you’ve ignored every one of his voicemails. He keeps slipping back into your arms, as if heartbreak was never enough to teach him otherwise.

It always ends the same: you texting him late at night, a simple “I miss you.” And you do. God, you do. But you also know this thing between you will never work, because he’ll always choose to bleed for the city, and you’ll always come second.

Still, the moment you open the door to your apartment, there he is. That dorky, devastating smile on his face, his voice soft and stupidly hopeful, “Hi, puppy,” and then your lips are on his, tongue swallowing down every insecurity, every truth you don’t want to name.

Because the only reason you called tonight was that you saw him on TV with Batgirl. And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. The selfish, gnawing ache that makes you dig your nails into the strong planes of his back, cling to him like a storm, desperate and needy to prove he’s still yours.

His hands find you as if they had never forgotten. Fingers sliding into the plush curve of your thigh, squeezing just hard enough to pull a gasp from your lips before he’s hauling you up, legs locking instinctively around his waist. The motion is seamless as always. His mouth stays glued to yours, greedy, salt-stung kisses that taste too much like tears for you to believe the lie you tell yourself. You pretend it’s sweat. Pretend it isn’t his heart breaking all over again against your tongue.

“Missed you,” he mumbles into your mouth, voice thick, ragged around the edges. And isn’t that just so him? Always the lover boy, even when he’s broken.

He lays you down on the bed like a bride, his weight hovering above yours, his mouth trailing down the column of your throat in worshipful kisses. Each press of his lips feels like penance, like prayer, like he’s memorizing you again. His body slots against yours as his hands move with trembling certainty, one digging into his back pocket for the foil crinkle of a condom, the other sliding lower, lower, until he finds you open and waiting.

Two fingers sink inside with ease, curling in that perfect way only he knows, thumb rubbing gentle circles over your clit until they shift, sharp and insistent, spelling his name into your skin. A brand. A reminder.

You can’t help it - you arch for him, back bowing prettily against the sheets, a mess already. Your breath stutters, your thighs tremble around his hips, and he just watches with that lovesick look, as if he could live and die in this moment alone.

And your body remembers him. Oh, it remembers everything - the way his calloused hands glide over your skin like they were made for you, the warmth of his breath against your throat, the way his hips rock into yours like they never forgot the rhythm. Even when your heart begs you to forget, your body still opens for him like muscle memory.

Maybe you were a fool to believe that the dog never bites the hand that feeds it. A fool to believe he never would. Because it's Dick Grayson - smiling, sweet, golden boy Dick. The one with the dimpled cheeks and ocean-blue eyes that still make you dizzy when he looks at you like you're the sun. Who's holding you so tight, like he never might let go.

You swore you heard the crinkle of the condom. Felt the brush of latex as he kissed you like he meant it, as if love dripped from his tongue, and you were too blissed out to question the way he sank into you raw, whispering broken little things against your jawline.

His thrusts are hard, fast, starved - his toned chest slick with sweat, raven hair damp at the edges, falling into his eyes. His hands are everywhere - one pressing your thigh back until it nearly touches your chest, the other wet and trembling as it finds your mouth again. Two fingers shove past your lips, prying you open, and he groans at the way you gag around them.

The neighbors will complain in the morning. You’ll be hoarse and trembling. But right now, he’s whispering into your skin like confession: “I love you.”

His cock drags against that sweet spot deep inside you, a filthy moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down around him, split wide on his length. “Just - fuck - ”

His hips falter, just for a beat, blue eyes glassy, voice cracking when he chokes out, “Missed you. Missed this. Missed us.”

Each thrust is soaked in yearning, ragged with need. His gaze never leaves yours - those wide, broken eyes staring like you’re a miracle, the only thing that’s ever saved him. His pace stutters, not from mercy, but from being overwhelmed by the way you clutch around him, dragging him deeper. He fucks you like he’s trying to carve himself into your body, like if he spills deep enough, you’ll stay.

When he finally pulls his fingers from your throat, he replaces them with a kiss so soft it makes your chest ache. His lips brush yours, trembling, as he breathes a single broken whisper into your mouth: “I’m sorry.”

And then you feel it.

The searing heat of him spilling inside you - bare, raw - makes your body tremble, but it's the second sensation that steals your breath. Something sharper. A sting at your neck, cruel and sudden, striking just as your climax crashes through you and you tighten around him with a choked cry.

A needle. Cold. Quick. Precise.

You flinch, instinctively, but his body is already pressing down over yours, keeping you pinned in place. His forehead drops to yours, his skin hot and damp, his dark hair clinging to his temple as it falls into his eyes. Those big, pleading ocean-blue eyes. The ones you always fall for. The ones that still shimmer like you hung the stars inside them.

He chokes on the words, breath ragged, voice cracking like he’s the one in pain. “I just - ” he gasps, lips brushing yours, “I need you. I need a piece of you - always.”

His fingers tremble where they cup your cheek, holding you like you're fragile, like you're everything. “If we had a family,” he whispers, “then I’d never have to worry. You’d always be mine. We'd always be connected.”

And by the time the weight of his words sinks in, by the time you realize what he’s done, it’s already too late. It’s already in your blood.

A precaution. That’s what he calls it. His whisper curls around your ear as your body begins to drift, weightless, unsteady.

It starts behind your eyes, a gentle pressure blooming, the edges of the room fading like a watercolor left out in the rain. His face is the last thing that stays sharp. Blue eyes wide and wet, lashes clumped with sweat, dark hair dripping down his forehead.

“Just keeping you safe,” he murmurs. “Taking you home.”

Your limbs feel heavy, syrup-slow. Your breath stumbles. The sound of his voice stretches - distorted and distant, like it’s echoing through water.

You try to hold onto something - anything - but all you feel is the steady press of his body, the way his thumb strokes your cheek, like you’re already halfway gone.

Dick Grayson has always been a lover boy. He just finally decided love means never letting go.

[snail-day]

You alive?

💀 baby girl I posted like yesterday...

But health wise absolutely nah, somehow got strep throat AND the flu. Thankfully im on antibiotics now but lots of sleepies for me!

[snail-day]

SUPERMAN (2025) Directed by James Gunn

[snail-day]

Finally finished Pattinson Batman (why is it three hours long?), and ohhhh, no one told me this man was born to be a yandere. He’s definitely unwell and broody. This isn’t the suave playboy from the cartoons. This is the man who would follow you home in the rain, drenched and silent, just to make sure you locked the door.

The kind of man who memorizes your schedule down to the minute. Watches you from rooftops. Tracks your heartbeat from a block away. And when he finally builds up the nerve to speak to you, it’s not as Batman. No. He wears the bruises of the city like a second skin and introduces himself as Bruce Wayne, voice low, eyes unblinking. There's no charm, just hunger under his skin. And when you say yes, because how could you not? He doesn’t take you on a date. He takes you home.

Wayne Tower.

Locked doors. No heater. No clocks. No phone. Just you, in a cage made of gothic concrete and windows that don’t open. The city looks so far away from up here. And maybe you thought he’d forget about you. Leave you alone. But he doesn’t.

He comes in late, dressed in the suit. He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, soaked in sweat and blood, watching you as you curl into yourself under the covers like prey. You’re not sure if he’s going to kill you or climb into bed.

Eventually, he does neither. Just walks closer. Peels off the cowl with shaking hands. His eyes look tired, too tired for someone who’s still so alert. Too tired for someone who can’t stop staring.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers.

As if that was ever the question. As if the real terror isn’t the bruises on his knuckles or the suit he refuses to take off, but the way he means it. Like he thinks this is love. Like he thinks locking you away, letting you freeze, watching you shiver, is the same thing as keeping you safe.

And maybe the worst part is… he’s not the villain you were warned about. He’s the hero you used to love. Still is, technically. Which just makes it harder to scream when he finally climbs into bed beside you and says “You’re warm. I missed you.”

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere, Dubcon, Blowjob, Sick! Reader, MDNI, slightly feral thought

Yandere! Gojo would be the worst yandere to end up with while sick. Because best believe, the second he hears that hoarse little voice and sees you sniffling in bed, he’s already palming himself through his sweats, murmuring something about how your sore throat must be extra tight right now.

“Oh? Baby’s all congested?” he coos, pushing your hair back, pretending to be sweet. “Don’t worry - I’ll put that pretty throat to good use.”

Because of course he thinks the mucus is nature’s lube and that your throat being raw and swollen just means his stupidly huge cock will slide in so much deeper and the walls of your throat will clench down on every thrust.

And he has the audacity to moan like you’re the one getting a favor out of it, holding your head still while he fucks into your sore, slick mouth, doing your job for you with a soft, tsk, like he’s disappointed you even need help. Something he’ll definitely tease you about later. The least of your concerns.

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. Please stay hydrated <3

[snail-day]

TW: Brief Smut (Riding), Subby Virgin Satoru, Manipulation, MDNI

Nerd!Satoru, poor baby, doesn’t stand a chance.

He’s never even been in a strip club before. Hell, he flinched when the bouncer slapped that bright pink wristband on him at the door. He came here on a dare - some half-baked, tequila-fueled bro’s night with Suguru - and now he’s sitting front row at Sukuna’s club, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, dick already half-hard in his jeans because you just stepped on stage.

You. With that wicked little smirk and perfume that curls like smoke into his lungs. You, in thigh-highs and a G-string that’s doing god’s least amount of work. And the way your eyes that flick down to his lap like you already know what kind of desperate mess he’s going to be for you.

He’s so screwed.

He tries not to stare. (Fails) Tries not to wheeze. (Fails harder) And when you strut over, slow and sultry, lean down with your arms braced on either side of his knees and ask in that velvet voice right against the shell of his ear, “You gonna tip, baby?” He nearly drops his whole wallet in your lap.

He gives you everything. Every dollar, every cent, every stupid little crumpled-up bill from his sad little Digimon wallet. Goes back and forth to the ATM all night long. He’s sweating, flushed, and dizzy from the lights and the way your body moves, and god, you smell good, and - okay. Maybe you are robbing him. In broad daylight.

But that’s fine. That’s so fine. Because you got a little pep talk from the house mom before your set. "If you want real money, sweetheart? You gotta fuck 'em. OnlyFans ain’t enough. Stripping? Cute. Camming? Even cuter. But if you want a condo and not a coffin, find a rich idiot and ride him ‘til you own him."

And wouldn’t you know it? You caught yourself a fish.

Didn’t even have to try that hard.

Because now Satoru’s in the VIP lounge, legs spread wide, blush red to his ears almost as bright as the seats, and trembling like a virgin sacrifice at the alter while you lower yourself onto his dripping cock with a smile like sin.

He whimpers when you sit all the way down, blunt nails digging into the plush of your thighs as you roll your hips, those pretty baby blues fluttering up at you all glassy and overwhelmed. You tighten your grip around his throat, just a little, just enough to make him whine, and lean in close so he can feel your breath when you whisper, “Be a good boy and moan for me.”

And oh, he does. Loudly. Shamelessly. Says your name inbetween broken whimpers and thrusts that lack any sense of rhythm. Tries to tell you his routing and account number between gasps, voice cracking with every rock of your hips, muttering something about “joint savings?” and “your name on the card?”

You ride him harder for that.

Dragging your hips in slow circles - milking him, draining every last drop from his leaking cock while keeping him pinned beneath you like the pretty little plaything he is. You don’t let him thrust up. Not once. Every time his hips buck, you press one hand to his stomach and hold him down, nails digging into the soft cotton of his shirt, because why the fuck would you let your money fuck you?

He’s not a man to you. He’s a wallet with a mouth. A walking ATM. And right now, well, he's crying.

Not sobbing in a real way, no, this is something filthier. His breath catches in his throat every time your pussy squeezes his length pressed against your walls. His hands scrabble at your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to worship or beg. His glasses are fogged, slipping down his nose, and he’s whimpering beneath you like this is the first time anyone’s touched him, because it is. What a sorry way to lose your virginity.

His lashes are wet, face flushed pink all the way to the ears, jaw slack and useless. You fuck him through his orgasm like it’s owed to you, just another transaction. You keep rolling your hips, slow and sweet and just a little mean, dragging out the overstimulation until he’s shaking.

And that’s when it happens.

When he breaks.

“I love you.”

Barely above a whisper. Scared you’ll hear it, but he needs you to. Voice cracked open, trembling on the edge of another moan as he clutches you tighter, burying his face against your chest like he’s trying to crawl inside you and stay there.

You don’t answer. You don’t stop. You just ride him slower, deeper, savoring the twitch of his spent cock and the soft little choked sob that leaves his lips when your cunt clenches around him again.

His cum’s leaking down your thighs, soaking the velvet seat beneath you. Hands shaking, reaching up like he wants to hold your face, wants you to say it back.

You tilt your head away, lips brushing his ear, and hum.

“Such a good boy.”

Maybe that house will be yours sooner than you thought.

[snail-day]

😭 I should have known that fuzzy brain on Monday meant I was getting sick. Curse my weak ass immune system!

Took being able to breathe for granted :(