#and it leaves just enough to the imagination

[girl-lostconnection]

So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?

Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho

Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂‍↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.

And that’s a really good question, anon!

You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.

I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.

It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.

Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.

Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.

(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)

So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.

But-

But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.

You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.

The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.

Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.

Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?

Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.

There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.

It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.

Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.

So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.

Gaz has never seen him like that.

Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?

Could they try?

Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.

Like you didn’t leave at all.

Like you are coming back.

Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).

Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.

Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.

It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.

Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.

What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.

Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.

Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.

Kyle feels like begging.

Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.

Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.

Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.

Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.

He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.

Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.

Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?

Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.

Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.

Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.

There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.

Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.

(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).

Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.

Ghost looks like how they all feel.

Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.

Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.

Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.

Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.

Taglist: @synthe4u

[ariichive]

LONG AWAITED

anaxa returns to the city of okhema with one goal in mind.

yan!anaxa x gen. neutral reader.

tw: slight yandere, 3.1 main story quest spoilers, kidnapping kinda, not proofread :'), phainon appearance

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

the air of okhema felt unidealistic as anaxa quickly turned away from the white haired chrysos heir, who's eyes held admiration and a hint of nervousness. anaxa could not blame phainon for being on edge, after all it's been some time since he's traveled far from the grove of epiphany; the tension with aglaea only intensifying.

phainon wasn't just worried about anaxa's distaste towards the dressmaster, but the fact a certain beauty happened to reside in okehma; one anaxa had a growing obsession with that aglaea had informed him about.

the scent of earth and lingering incense clung to the air as anaxa strode ahead, his pace brisk despite the weight of his thoughts. phainon hesitated before following, his fingers ghosting over the embroidery of his sleeves—a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. the streets of okhema were alive, yet there was an undercurrent of unease threading through the revelry, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

"...professor anaxa, with all due respect, you should probably go rest." phainon said nervously as he watched the annoyance grow on the professor's face he didn't put any effort in to hide. anaxa brought a hand up to his head, already feeling his headache increasing.

"still as unrelenting as ever," anaxa said more to himself than phainon (who knew not take that as a compliment).

phainon shifted on his feet, uneasy under the weight of anaxa’s sharp gaze. the professor’s silence was rarely comforting; it carried the weight of words unspoken, of conclusions already drawn and judgments already made.

“if you keep straining yourself like this, your mind will falter before your body does,” phainon tried again, forcing his voice to remain even. “and considering how much you pride yourself on your intellect, i imagine that would be a rather devastating blow.”

anaxa exhaled through his nose, a slow, deliberate gesture that conveyed both irritation and restraint. “you assume exhaustion is a state that can be remedied by mere rest. a rather reductive view.” his fingers pressed against his temple, as if attempting to physically restrain the inevitable onslaught of thoughts. “the mind does not cease simply because the body demands reprieve. if anything, it accelerates in retaliation. an unfortunate contradiction of existence. now then, i must be on my way. more time spent here entwined in aglaea's threads is less time spent with my [name]."

“if something happens—”

anaxa halted, turning just enough to glance at phainon from over his shoulder.

“then it will be because i allowed it.”

and with that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving phainon standing there, uncertain if those words were meant to be reassuring or a quiet promise of inevitability.

anaxa moved through the streets of okhema with a purpose, his every step measured, his every breath steady. the air here was thick with incense and candle smoke, curling through the alleyways in a way that made the city feel almost dreamlike. he ignored the idle chatter of merchants, the distant hum of music, the eyes that lingered on him longer than necessary.

his destination was clear.

past the winding streets, through the stone archways laced with ivy, beyond the courtyards filled with marble statues of nameless gods.

his mind churned through the possibilities of the night—outcomes, variables, countermeasures.

but then, as he neared the threshold of that familiar estate, he felt something tighten in his chest.

a presence.

not phainon. not aglaea.

you.

his fingers curled slightly.

the moment he stepped inside, he would no longer be professor anaxa, the ever-stoic scholar with a mind sharpened like a blade.

no, within these walls, he was something else entirely. something raw. something that could not be defined.

nothing about the outside of your residence has changed in the slightest. your same favorite greenery blooming by your door, the half broken pillar you have yet to fix, and even the familar sense of longing deep in anaxa's heart.

you were in there. goodness, how long has he deprived himself of your beauty?

with an almost shaking hand and a crazed smile, anaxa's hand slowly made its way to knock. one swift, sharp, knock.

the sound echoed in the still air, sharp and deliberate. anaxa’s fingers lingered against the wood for a fraction longer than necessary before he pulled back, exhaling through his nose in a measured attempt to steady himself.

he had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times—constructed dialogues, crafted perfect syllables, envisioned every possible reaction you could give him. but now, standing here with his heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against his ribs, he found himself at war with something far less logical.

and when the door creaked open, revealing you—bathed in the glow of sunlight, as breathtaking as ever—he felt it.

that intoxicating, maddening sense of possession.

how could he have ever let himself stay away?

meanwhile, you were in utmost shock seeing the familiar face of an old friend standing outside your door. "anaxa!" you were quick to take his hand and pull him inside. "y-you're okay," your eyes were quick to scan over his body for injuries.

you heard about the bustling news around okhema, the fall of many at the grove of epiphany by the newly announced flame reaver. with the news of no survivors being found, you were immensely relieved to see anaxa.

anaxa allowed himself to be pulled inside, though his expression remained unreadable, save for the flicker of something unreadable—relief, amusement, or something far more dangerous—when he felt your hands on his.

“of course, i’m okay,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he watched you scan him for injuries. “you underestimate my ability to persevere.”

but there was something strange in the way he spoke. something distant.

the warmth of your concern should have soothed him, but instead, it only deepened the ache inside him. you were still the same—soft, caring, unguarded in your worry for him. and he?

he still had this dark desire within him.

you, however, seemed oblivious to the turmoil beneath his carefully composed exterior. you cupped his face gently, your thumb grazing the sharp line of his jaw. “you’re burning up,” you whispered, concern lacing your voice.

anaxa let out a breathless chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. if only you knew.

“it’s nothing,” he dismissed, though he didn’t pull away. “simply the remnants of a journey longer than intended.”

your frown deepened. “you should rest. whatever happened at the grove… it must have been—”

his hand shot up, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not harshly, but with enough force to halt your words. his grip was steady, calculated, yet there was something almost desperate in the way he held you.

his thumb brushed idly over your pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his fingertips. a scholar by nature, anaxa had spent years studying patterns, deciphering truths from the subtlest details. and right now, your heartbeat told him everything—your worry, your hesitance, your trust.

trust.

his jaw clenched. did he still deserve it?

slowly, as if realizing the intensity of his own actions, anaxa loosened his grip, allowing his hand to drift away. “forgive me,” he murmured, his voice softer now, yet no less heavy. “it seems exhaustion makes a tyrant of me.”

you didn’t move for a moment, your eyes searching his, looking for something—an answer, perhaps, or reassurance.

maybe it was cerces playing a trick on him for his lack of belief in the gods. her former yearning for mnestia seeping through into him, enhancing his already deep need for you.

he took a slow, deliberate step closer, as though drawn by an invisible force, his presence closing the space between you without any words spoken. his eyes searched yours with an intensity that bordered on desperation, yet his expression remained calm, composed, almost as if he were fighting against something larger than himself.

“do you feel it too?” he asked, his voice a quiet rasp.

feel what? you wanted to ask. the tension in the air, the pull of something darker than you understood.

but instead, your breath hitched, something shifting within you as you stood there, uncertain whether to pull away or step closer. you couldn’t tear your eyes from his—this man, your old friend, your anaxa—but now, the person standing before you felt like something different altogether.

and suddenly, the truth was clear in the depth of his gaze.

he wasn’t here because of what had happened at the grove. he wasn’t here for the tragedy.

he was here for you.

and he wasn't going to leave without you.

“[name], you feel it too right? the gods won’t be here to save you either.”

[badger2025]

You and your battle buddy have been together since basic. Getting posted together was just dumb luck. You’re more than just good friends and take leave together…to finally get some quality alone time

It’s usually stolen kisses when no one’s looking…longing looks in the showers…legs touching while sitting next to each other in the DFAC during chow. You’re sitting there with a raging boner for him…pre cum stain in your trousers. The tension ratcheting up looking for release has been building ever since you met him and you can taste your desire

You hardly leave the hotel room for the three days that are yours and you can’t seem to get enough of each other. He lets you do every dirty thing you’ve ever imagined…that you’ve beat off to thinking about him in your bunk all those nights

In bed, you’ve lovingly tongued his pucker, taint and balls…him moaning into the pillow while grinding against your face…savoring every minute before mounting him from behind. You hold him close…groaning in his ear while he whimpers as your cock slides in and out of him…the sweet release when you finally pump his guts full

You love the way he looks you in the eye when he’s slobbering on your dick…making you buck when you shoot in his mouth. You can faintly taste your own spunk when he kisses you afterwards. “Jesus Evan…your mouth is amazing”

How you fucked him nice and slow in front of the bathroom mirror so you can watch his pretty face…see the pleasure you’re giving Him…his mouth partly open…eyes nearly shut focusing on your cock while you take your sweet time before unloading inside that beautiful ass…god his ass

You tell yourself “careful Jake…you’re falling”…but y’all are already planning your next leave

[leashybebes]

37 pls? 👀

pretend i've engaged with literally any vampire media since buffy, i guess 👀 (unless dracula daily counts). ALSO pretend this didn't accidentally run to like 1000+ words, what the hell.

It's almost a joke, really. A vampire who hates the taste of blood. Tommy's a loner - all vamps are if they have any sense, not so much because of safety anymore, but because they're territorial and temperamental - but he's run with enough clans over the decades, had enough contact with others to know it's not like that for everyone. He's heard people rhapsodize about the taste of honey and life and sunlight, which - he doesn't get how two thirds of that taste like anything. But to him, blood tastes like sucking on a penny. 

He's not an idiot - he needs it, he's not going to deny himself, especially when the twenty-first century is home to such civilized ways of getting it, but he's never going to lose his mind over it. He craves it if he goes too long without, but in the way he remembers craving food as a human, not the way he - very vaguely - remembers craving the taste of his mother's mutton stew. He's wondered a few times if that's what's kept him from going feral over the years. Maybe the idea of tearing throats out left and right would hold more appeal if blood tasted like ambrosia and whipped cream or whatever the fuck Sal was going on about for those few years they ran together in the forties.

But regardless, it's been a week, and Tommy has an appointment at the bank. It's not the kind of hidden away place that he and others like him used to be forced to frequent. It's a welcoming building, staffed by a mix of humans and vamps where humans can volunteer their services. Volunteer is a misnomer, though - people get paid. Tommy doesn't know the details of it, but he understands it's very satisfying. There are health checks, rules, security. Limits on donations. It's not enough to live on, but it's a nice supplement for a lot of people.

From the average vampire's perspective, it's pretty perfect - there are forms to fill out to state your preference in humans: gender, age, diet, things like that. Tommy always just checks any, but for a nominal fee (nominal relative to a couple centuries of accumulated wealth, anyway) he has a regular supply of blood and all he has to do is metaphorically pinch his nose and try not to taste it. It works for the humans, too, and not just the ones that get paid - rogue vamp attacks are at an all time low, and the sense of safety in the general populace has probably never been higher. Tommy wouldn't know. He tends to avoid the general populace whether it's human or vamp or anything else.

He checks in, scans the paperwork, signs off on Buckley, Evan, 28, no regular medication, non-smoker, occasional drinker, omnivorous diet and gets directed to one of the private rooms.

Buckley, Evan, 28 etc. etc., is already there, sitting cross-legged on the padded chaise and reading a book with an expression of concentration on his face. He looks up when Tommy opens the door and Tommy thinks, oh, beautiful. He's as big as Tommy - never mind that Tommy could throw him through the wall one handed if the mood took him - and he has stunning blue eyes, a splash of pinkish-red above one of them, and they crinkle in the corner as he smiles.

"Hi there. I'm Evan. Buck's fine, though."

Tommy tries not to wrinkle his nose. He's aware it makes him a rank hypocrite, but the human obsession with nicknames has always eluded him.

"Hi, Evan. I'm Tommy."

Evan folds down a corner of the page he was on and tosses his book aside, shrugging out of his zip-up sweatshirt to reveal a short-sleeved, slightly threadbare tee underneath. It leaves little to the imagination, and Tommy has a very vivid imagination.

"Elbow or wrist, pick your poison," Evan says, offering one arm. 

Tommy takes a seat next to him. Throat is quickest and would be his preference - get it over with before the taste can register too much - but it's frowned upon.

"Elbow," Tommy says, and cradles Evan's arm in his hands. He's so warm. So soft despite the muscle. He lowers his head and pauses. "Paperwork said non-smoker."

And look, he doesn't care, not really. It's not going to make it taste any better or worse, but if Evan's lied on his paperwork and something happens, Tommy could be liable.

"Firefighter," Evan says. "Sorry. I showered a bunch, but it lingers. And I guess with your sense of smell…"

"Yeah," Tommy says. "Okay."

He runs his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of Evan's elbow, lets his fangs descend. He feels Evan shiver, and it must be a reflex because the sour tang of fear completely fails to fill the room.

"On three," he says, and hears Evan chuckle.

"That's sweet. Thank you."

Tommy doesn't say that it's largely for his own benefit, to psych himself up for the awful taste to flood his mouth.

"One. Two. Three."

His fangs pierce the soft, pale skin and - 

He's -

In paradise.

He pulls away after the tiniest taste, looks up at Evan with wild eyes. Evan looks…concerned.

"You okay, big guy?"

"That - " Tommy says, the word coming out misshapen and slurred around his fangs, around that taste. "You taste - "

"Uh - should I - should I call somebody?"

"No!" Tommy's aware he said it too quickly, too emphatically. "You taste incredible."

"Oh." Evan looks weirdly pleased by that. 

"Set - set the timer," Tommy says. He never needs a timer. He has it down to a fine art - choke it down for long enough to sustain him until next time and get out, but - god, he'd take every drop if he could. He'd drown in that taste if he could.

"Already did," Evan says. "Clock's ticking."

Tommy groans and falls against him, his mouth returning to the pin-pricks of red at his elbow, lets himself bite harder, until that flavor bursts over his tongue again. And he gets it. He gets it. Sunshine and sugar and sex and heat and a thousand indescribable things. Buckley, Evan, 28, etc. is not only the most handsome creature Tommy's seen in decades, he also tastes like everything he's ever heard people rave about. 

The clock is ticking, and Tommy drinks and drinks and drinks, more in one go than he has in years, knows he's lost, knows he has to have this for the rest of Evan's life.

[angelfic]

never let me go.

PART TWO ➺ series masterlist

[jason todd x reader]

summary — you’ve returned to gotham after a few years away, having left as soon as you could to escape the constant reminders of your deceased best friend, jason todd. you expected to be haunted by the ghost of him the minute you stepped foot in the city, but certainly not like this — the city you call home has much more in store than you could have imagined. warnings — childhood best friends to lovers, mentions of death + mourning, angst, mentions of blood + violence a/n; this is going to be very slow burn (if i can help it) btw. thank you for all the love so far + lmk your thoughts <3

The drive up to Wayne Manor always feels like entering another world. The chaos of Gotham fades behind you, replaced by the quiet, eerie stillness of Bristol that might be relaxing for most people. You always find yourself unsettled when you make the drive alone, your ears ringing with the silence and lack of Gotham’s noise pollution that you need to be calm.

You’re starting to think there may be something wrong with you, especially considering how you used to yearn for nothing more than to leave the place. But, like you do with most things, you push this to the back of your mind to psychoanalyse another day. Far, far away in the future hopefully.

The road winds through thick forest, the canopy of gnarled trees overhead casting ominous shadows in front of you. Now it feels more like home, you think to yourself.

Your mom’s car is sturdy enough, but getting old and the wear and tear from over the years has you slowing down as the cracked pavement gets bumpier. It’s an old road, rarely used outside of visits to Wayne Manor, and Bruce has other, faster ways of making his own trips. You’re suddenly glad for the caution you have while driving that you definitely didn’t possess when you were younger as a fox runs out onto the street and you brake suddenly. You jolt forward slightly, one hand gripping the wheel and the other reaching next to you to prevent your bag from falling off the seat, contents threatening to spill out.

The fox glances over at you for a split second before scampering off and you nearly laugh to yourself, the deja vu hitting you like a truck.

“Come on, just keep going. Faster, come on—”

“Jason, shut up!” you shout, palms getting sweaty on the steering wheel where his own cover yours in an attempt to help you steer. “If you don’t can it, I swear to God, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? You gonna turn this thing around, sweetheart?” he asks, raising a brow. “Oh, wait, you can’t— because you don’t know how to reverse.”

If you weren’t so focused on the road ahead, you’d probably hit him for being so cocky. You knew this was a bad idea from the start. When your mom had come home from the night shift and tossed her keys on the counter before going to bed and immediately knocking out, Jason had shot you that look. It screamed trouble.

Fast forward to now, where you’re sorely regretting your short-lived burst of spontaneity and trying to control your feet which are hovering awkwardly between the gas and the brake.

Jason is slouched in the passenger seat like he’s got all the confidence in the world, grinning at you and totally unbothered by the fact that neither of you are supposed to be here.

Legally, neither of you can drive. But being Robin, he now possesses quite a few skills that most people your age don’t have. Bruce had long since taught him how to drive a car for emergencies and he was now great at it. He’d driven you guys out of Gotham and towards Wayne Manor, insisting it was time to teach you and that it’d be easier where there are hardly ever any cars.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” you mutter, fingers gripping the wheel tighter when he lets go and allows you free rein.

Jason simply laughs at your misery, tipping his head back against the seat. “Okay, first of all — you’re being dramatic. Second, wouldn’t you rather it be me teaching you, instead of some old guy who overcharges?”

“I’m seriously debating the old guy right now,” you grumble, ignoring his offended scoff. “What the fuck, Jay! This road is not straight.”

“It’s straight,” he insists, sitting up again to actually resume teaching you. “You’re nowhere near the edge, relax.”

You listen to him, loosening up a little and realising he’s right. You haven’t drifted in a while, and you are going in a pretty straight line. You won’t admit it, but it is kind of thrilling. The hum of the engine, the way the tires respond beneath you and the peaceful sense of freedom you have surrounded by nothing but trees and Jason. You test out the gas by pushing a little harder and speeding up, partly wanting to feel more control and partly so Jason doesn’t hound you about it.

“See, what’d I say?” Jason says, leaning back again and lightly nudging you. “You’re doing great…”

A flash of fur darts in front of the car and your breath hitches.

Your hands jerk the wheel, tires screeching against the pavement from the speed you were going at and you swerve hard to the right.

Jason slams one hand against the dashboard, his other arm reaching across your front to stop you going through the windshield, despite the fact you have your seatbelt on. “Fuck—”

The car skids to a stop, inches away from a tree. The animal — a raccoon, you realise with wide eyes — scurries off into the bushes, blissfully unaware.

You sit there, trying to remember how to breathe. From the corner of your eye, you see Jason’s shoulders shaking and you realise with horror that he’s laughing.

“Holy shit,” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “I really thought we were dead for a second.”

“We almost were!”

“Hey, you didn’t hit it. That’s a win!” He turns to you and grasps your by the arms, shaking you slightly and releasing the tension in your shoulders from where you’re all coiled up. “And do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?”

Jason smiles at you, but his eyes are concentrated on yours, his gaze unwavering. He’s trying to talk you off a ledge, but you don’t need it, not really. You know he’d never put you in actual danger.

Still, you groan, dropping your head against his shoulder and hiding your smile. The adrenaline still hasn’t left. “I hate you.”

“Nah,” Jason replies, easily. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, the other resting against your back and rubbing soothing circles. His voice is teasing, but warm. “You don’t.”

No, you think to yourself. You don’t.

Your mom has kept the same car since then, and you’ve never really wished for her to change it until you remember things like that.

You’re startled to realise that the wrought-iron gates of Wayne Manor loom ahead. They rise high, wrapped in ivy, intricate and imposing. Their black metalwork centres around the ‘W’ emblem which gleams in the daylight.

You get out your phone to text your arrival, but the security system whirs to life before you can, a camera adjusting overhead. Alright then.

The gate unlocks, swinging open slowly and deliberately and as you drive forward, the massive house rises up to greet you.

Your chest feels tight.

The manor towers over you, cutting sharp edges against the bright, clear sky. The windows glow faintly, but it’s a cold kind of warmth. Too big and grand for too few people.

When you park in the circular driveway, Alfred is unsurprisingly already waiting at the door for you and you try and control every muscle in your face to not physically wince with guilt.

“Miss,” he greets you, stepping aside to let you in. His voice carries the same steady patience as always, but there’s a flicker of something accusatory in his expression as he raises a brow at your appearance. You deserve worse, considering you’ve been avoiding these visits for months.

“Hey, Alfred,” you say, offering him a sheepish smile as you step past him. He takes your coat before you can insist you don’t need him to. You should be used to these things considering the majority of your friends happen to be the adopted children of a billionaire, the billionaire’s butler and, arguably, the billionaire himself. If you’re getting technical. Unfortunately, your less than privileged upbringing seems to be so completely engrained in you, and you still bristle at the rich people antics. You step back awkwardly. “Long time, huh?”

“Quite.” He gestures for you to follow him into the house and you obey, falling into step beside him. Despite the mildly reproachful tone, he seems pleased to see you. “I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten the way.”

Wincing, the excuse falls from your lips before you can even process the words. “I’ve just been so busy with work—” As soon as you say it, you’re grimacing, because this is Alfred you’re talking to.

If he had a nickel for every time he heard the same words from the inhabitants of Wayne Manor, he’d be able to buy his own Wayne Manor. Twice over. So, you at least have the grace to cut yourself off.

You sigh, turning to face him properly. “I’m sorry,” you say, injecting as much sincerity as you possibly can, because you are. And work has actually been busy, but you know that you could have carved out time to see Alfred. You just had a small problem with the meeting location.

You spent a good amount of time here when Jason was alive, but that wasn’t really the issue. If anything, you choose to surround yourself in spaces that feel like him — why else would you still be living in Crime Alley? Certainly not for the ambience.

After Jason’s death, you found yourself practically living here, unable to tear yourself away from his bedroom and retracing the steps the two of you would take together every time you ran around the Manor. And no one else really wanted to take you away either, taking pity on the teenage girl who couldn’t mention his name without crying for a whole year.

So, as much as you wish you could focus on the happier memories of this place, the memories of the time spent mourning your best friend seem to take priority in your brain.

Despite this, you suppose it’s time to grow up a little. It’s not like you’re having to physically fight the demons every time you step foot in the Manor, so what’s another migraine from having to fight them in your head over a couple dinners every month. You attempt a sincere smile towards Alfred. “I promise I’ll be better about visiting. I, uh… I should have come sooner, but… y’know,” you try and explain without words, vaguely gesturing to the high ceilings and polished floors.

Something in his expression softens. “Indeed.”

A beat of silence. Then, his lips twitch — just slightly and you relax.

“Well,” he says, stepping aside as you reach Bruce’s study. “I suppose there’s no time like the present.”

He nods once, before turning to walk in the direction of the kitchen, undoubtedly to make the dinner that he’s going to force you to stay and eat.

You adjust your heavy bag at your side and knock twice on the door, pushing it open when you hear Bruce calling for you to come in.

He sits at his desk, papers strewn everywhere and multiple mugs of unfinished coffee that have gone cold. He looks up when you walk in, offering you the closest thing he has to a smile — a subtle nod and a slight shift in posture that means he’s glad to see you.

“You made it,” he says, as if he was the one who invited you and not the other way around. You hadn’t had the position of Philanthropy and Outreach Co-ordinator for long, and who better than Bruce Wayne to go to when you want to ensure you’re actually doing your job at Wayne Enterprises properly. Not that it was a particularly easy task. He’s genuinely the busiest man you know and you’re lucky you were able to have a conversation with him about this that lasted longer than a few seconds.

“Shocking, I know,” you tease, dropping a folder on his desk. “Try not to look too excited.”

He huffs a quiet breath, flipping open the folder. Inside are the details for the upcoming Wayne Foundation gala — your latest, carefully curated headache. Bruce may hate the public-facing side of things, but he understands the necessity, which is exactly why he agreed to look over things for your first official project.

“This is a lot,” he says, skimming the notes. The lack of a frown on his face tells you that he’s complimenting you and you can’t help glowing inside. You feel like you’re fifteen again. “I’m sure you don’t even need me for this.”

“I just want to make sure it runs smoothly,” you say, letting out a nervous chuckle and crossing your arms, watching him. “Also, if I don’t get your input, I’ll have to deal with the board complaining about how the Wayne Foundation is ‘out of touch’ or whatever. And quite frankly, I don’t get paid enough to handle that and put up with your brooding.”

That earns you a half-smirk. Small victories.

“You’re still coming, right?”

Bruce doesn’t look up, but his hesitation is enough of an answer.

“Bruce.”

He sighs. “I’ll be there.”

You lean against the desk and attempt to stare him down. It’s a lot easier when you’re not having to physically look up at him — it was a hundred times worse when you and Jason were kids and you were practically looking up to the ceiling.

“You sure? I know how much you love playing host, but I really want this to go well.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Fantastic,” you deadpan. “That’s really the kind of enthusiasm we need to make this a huge success.”

Bruce pointedly ignores you. He flips to another page in your folder, skimming over the guest list. You watch his expression carefully, but he stays silent. He’s a man of few words, but when you’re in front of him, you seem to revert back to the girl you used to be and it’s hard to leave the silence alone.

“Well?” you ask, rocking back and forth on your feet — another old habit. You carefully selected the guest list with a whole myriad of purposes behind each individual, so you’re sorely hoping he doesn’t have a problem. “Guest list up to par?”

“It’s good,” he simply states, nodding and moving onto the next page. It’s just about decor and themes and you don’t think he has any interest in it, but he politely glances over it nonetheless. “No notes.”

You raise your brows, surprised with yourself. “What, no shady businessmen or criminals or undercover villains? You’re kidding.”

“Oh, no, there are plenty of them,” he clarifies, matter-of-fact. You deflate and he shakes his head, waving you off. “But, they’re nothing to be concerned about. They’re all major names and donors and they won’t be causing any trouble at an event like this.”

You know that he’s already run the calculations in his head, weighed the risks and is thinking five steps ahead like he always does. It isn’t the donors you care as much about. Sure, the money is a huge part of the fundraiser (It’s literally in the name. You do need the funds). However, it’s not as if Wayne Enterprises is running low on the stuff.

Your main agenda here is networking (the word makes you internally cringe a little, because God, you’re such an adult now), and while you’re not going to say no to the guests donating money, you’re in dire need of signatures. Unfortunately, Bruce doesn’t own every inch of land in Gotham, a fact that you’ve jokingly berated him for in the past. Planning permission for the children’s shelters and renovations and such that you have in mind will need the support of your seriously corrupt government officials.

Enter the bells and whistles needed to suck up to them — fortunately you aren’t too proud to use them. You’re not one of the Bats.

Still, inviting a bunch of them, littered with a whole group of hopefully normal, nice people, to your first event makes you something akin to nervous.

“Right…” you trail off, still unsure if you should be concerned or just accept it. “Good to know what the current state of Gotham’s most esteemed politicians and businessmen is. Really gives me faith in our city.”

Bruce’s lips quirk up and he closes the folder, looking up at you. Story of his life, you guess. The next words coming out of his mouth make you pause. “It looks good. You’re doing well.”

It’s not exactly Shakespeare, but it has the same effect as if he had just hugged you and recited poetry in your name. Praise from Bruce was something that never got old. You swallow, suddenly feeling an embarrassing wave of emotion come over you, but you quickly quell it down before Bruce gets awkward and doesn’t know where to look. “Thank you, Bruce. Really.”

He nods, satisfied. Although it does seem as though he wants to say something else, but appears to be struggling to find the words. Thankfully, for both of you, Alfred chooses that moment to interrupt.

“I do hope the two of you are planning to eat something this evening,” he says, standing at the door with his hands clasped behind his back. His stare makes you squirm.

You fidget, looking at Bruce who is conveniently looking through the same page in your folder he was looking at five minutes ago. “I mean, I—”

“Excellent. I’ve prepared a dinner that I’m sure will provide more sustenance than whatever processed meal you were planning to pick up on your way home.” His gaze shifts to Bruce. “It certainly trumps eating nothing at all.”

Bruce exhales. “Alfred—”

“Master Wayne,” he cuts in smoothly, already taking a step back to walk away. “I trust you will be joining us, rather than working… at the risk of being a rude host.”

You bite back a grin when Bruce frowns at you. You’ve never really been a guest at this house, so the idea of Bruce hosting you is a laughable concept that you’re sure he wants to argue with Alfred about. The attempt to stare his butler down is a good effort, you think. But futile, as it’s never been done successfully.

“…Fine,” Bruce mutters eventually.

Alfred has already set the table by the time you and Bruce step into the dining room which tells you he really wasn’t planning on leaving without the two of you. Everything is perfectly arranged, warm lighting softening the cavernous space, the faint scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air. It’s not a grand affair, but it’s practically a party in comparison to your usual takeout on the couch.

Damian is already sat there, feeding a piece of something under the table to his dog, Titus. He glances up at you, mild surprise flickering across his face before it settles back to expressionless. “I see. That explains all this.”

“Hello to you too, Damian,” you say cheerfully, pulling out a chair as Bruce does the same at the head of the table. His confusion doesn’t surprise you. It really has been a while since you visited, and it’s not as though either you or Damian hang out together on the regular. He’s thirteen years old. You aren’t that lonely.

You like to think he has a level of respect for you from a comfortable distance the same way you do. In a ‘Hey, I too, was once a misunderstood child running around this house with your deceased adoptive older brother that you never knew’ kind of way.

Damian huffs, picking up his fork. “I was in the middle of training, Father.”

“And now you’re in the middle of dinner,” Bruce says, raising a brow. “Eat.”

Damian grumbles, stabbing a piece of his food with a little too much force. “So, what is the purpose of this gala?”

You blink, not expecting him to take an interest. “It’s a Wayne Foundation event for youth outreach. I’m trying to encourage more scholarships, community engagement and all that. Get some signatures to build some more shelters in the near future.”

“And will I be expected to attend?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” you say, at the same time as Bruce who says, “Yes.”

Damian lets out a long suffering sigh. “Is Drake being forced to go as well?”

“I need him to come,” you explain, frowning. “He has connections.”

Probably the only twenty one year old in the world with the connections that you’re talking about. Damian seemingly accepts this, going back to his food without another word.

From across the table, Bruce leans back slightly and watches you. You feel like you’re under a microscope.

“You’re still living in Park Row?”

You tense. “You know I am.”

He doesn’t look away, his posture seemingly stiffer than before, if that were even possible. “You should move.”

Here we go.

You truly thought that this conversation was done with months ago. That Bruce had finally accepted you weren’t going to just pack up and leave your home just because he insisted. The Batman card wasn’t going to work with this.

You take a deep sigh, tilting your head back. “God, not this again.”

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s Gotham. Name one place there hasn’t been any trouble.”

Damian, who has been silently watching the exchange in a not-so-subtle way, chimes in. “It is a valid concern.”

You glance at him, raising a suspicious brow. “Since when do you care where I live?”

“I don’t,” he says bluntly. You don’t miss the way he exchanges a look with Bruce or how he sat up a little straighter when he mentioned Park Row. Like annoying father, like annoying son. “But you’re not exactly… equipped to handle an ambush alone.”

“Wow. Thanks,” you say, before turning back to Bruce. “I’m not moving.”

Bruce exhales, setting down his fork. No, you almost want to whine like a moody teenager getting a lecture again. Pick it up and go back to dinner and stop talking about this!

Being reprimanded by Bruce at twenty three years of age isn’t nearly as funny as it was back in the day. For one thing, Jason wasn’t here being on the receiving end of it. You were usually just there to tag along by his side hearing most of the scolding being directed towards him, with the occasional ‘I expect more from both of you.’ You sometimes felt like he just didn’t want to leave you out. Another thing being that you actually have a parent in your life who you hear enough of it from.

Bruce furrows his brows. “Your mother—”

“—is living in her nice little house in Burnley, thanks to you.” You point your fork at him. “She’s good. She’s happy. She also calls me twice a week to say I should move, so I really don’t need you doubling down.”

Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “She’s right.”

You sigh, dropping your own fork. It probably doesn’t have nearly the same stern effect as Bruce doing it, but damn it, a girl can try. “I like where I live.”

Alfred, ever the peacekeeper, smoothly refills your glass of water. But there’s a hint of something reprimanding in his own tone as he speak to Bruce. “I believe the young Miss is quite capable of making her own decisions.”

“Hear, hear,” you say, nodding at him. You know these vigilante types are stubborn, though and you’ve been doing some light research, reading some local newsletters about that Red Hood guy you heard about the other day. You’ve barely formed an opinion about him yourself, so you don’t know why you bring him up in an attempt to sway Bruce’s opinion on Crime Alley being a safe enough place to live, but the words are spilling out before you can think twice. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, anyway. I hear there’s some new guy hanging around and keeping people out of trouble, so…”

The mood shifts almost immediately. Bruce doesn’t look at you directly, but his hand flexes slightly before resting back against the table. Damian’s fork pauses again — not even for a full second, but enough that you catch it. Even Alfred stills, before going back to fussing around with the place settings.

“…What?” You glance between them. “What did I say?”

Damian looks as though he wants to say something, but a look from Bruce’s stormy grey eyes, which have turned hard and stern, has him turning back to petting Titus under the table. You don’t miss the way his jaw has tightened.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce says, allowing his shoulders to relax when no one says anything. You’re used to the weird silences around you when it comes to vigilante business. It had been going on since Jason was around, (although he would fill you in on most things privately, anyway) and it didn’t really bother you. The less you knew about things, the better. It doesn’t make this conversation any less tense though. “Just… keep safe.”

“Yes, sir,” you mumble, giving him a two-fingered salute and returning to your dinner as he does the same.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, as if on cue, Alfred clears his throat. “More vegetables?”

You drop your mom’s car off at hers, stepping in for an hour to catch up and letting her interrogate you about your eating and sleeping habits while you nod and lie, the occasional truth thrown in.

She insisted you take the car home, but after ten minutes of arguing, she’s convinced that you’ll make it to your apartment alive if you take a cab instead. You choose to omit the fact that you’re stopping at work to drop off your files for your boss to look over in the morning now that you’re happy with Bruce’s input and that you’ll walk the rest of the way home.

(You’ve got to get your steps in. Plus the weather is looking pretty good. Mental health walks are very important in the current state of the world and you like to think they cancel out the unhealthy eating and lack of sleep.)

You try your best not to walk home from work when it’s dark, because as much as your protests against Bruce and your mom may suggest otherwise, you don’t actually want to be murdered in Crime Alley.

The streets stretch out ahead of you, no longer slick with the remnants of the earlier light rain and you breathe in as much fresh air as you can before you start to enter the shadier part of town.

The buildings start to lose their shine the closer you get to home, turning older and angrier in the dark. The grime covered windows, rusted balconies and bricks, weathered by rain and neglect look like they could collapse in on you any second now. They won’t, though. They’ve been around longer than you’ve been alive.

The first sign of trouble comes as a sound.

A sharp, violent crack — the unmistakeable impact of a fist against bone.

You freeze.

Damn it, you think to yourself. Damn it all to hell, because you don’t want to live in a world where Bruce and Damian are right and you’re wrong.

You deduce that the sounds are coming from the alley across the street, which is unfortunate considering that’s the way to your apartment complex.

It’s the space between two crumbling brick buildings, half-lit by the flickering glow of a neon pink ‘OPEN’ sign hanging above a little beauty parlour that isn’t actually open, but the sign is always on. You shouldn’t look. You should just keep walking.

There’s just one little thing. If you take another route, it adds at least ten minutes to your journey and your feet are already dragging from exhaustion. So if you’re going to avoid going through your usual alley route, it’s got to be for a good reason.

You aren’t stupid. But you’re also a curious person by nature. And maybe you’re a tiny bit desensitised to these things with the crowd you tend to run with.

At least that’s what you tell yourself when you start to venture towards the noise, a single streetlamp dimly glowing overhead to light your path, revealing old cigarette butts ground into the concrete and a pile of shattered glass. There’s also something dark smeared across the concrete that, in spite of yourself, you lean in a bit closer to inspect.

The smell of stale beer, damp cardboard and the rot of garbage from the general vicinity suddenly wafts into your nose and causes a wave of nausea that has you standing straight again. That’s definitely enough of that.

At the same time, you catch sight of a figure shifting in the alley ahead of you.

It’s the Red Hood, you note with a hint of surprise.

You recognise him from your previous Google inspection, the blurry pictures not doing much justice to his imposing figure, but it’s definitely him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad-shouldered and solid. His black leather jacket shifts as he exhales, head tilting just slightly like he’s considering something as he looks down.

There are four guys. Or at least, four bodies. Two of them are on the ground, unmoving and the other two don’t look much better. One is spitting blood onto the pavement, another is trying (and failing miserably) to push himself upright. He groans something unintelligible. If Red Hood responds, you don’t hear it.

Instead, he shifts his weight, combat boots scuffing against the cracked concrete. He doesn’t look tired or out of breath and when he’s stationary, it’s a deadly stillness.

When he does move, the neon glow catches on his helmet, the deep red gleaming like fresh blood. You have to give it to him — it takes a really frightening figure to not look silly under bright pink lighting. You suppose the rusted fire escape to the side of building helps the image, considering the lowest rung is bent at an odd angle. There’s a man lying unconscious beside it. You can put two and two together.

Red Hood straightens, rolling his shoulders and breathing steadily. He looks at you.

Your pulse jumps. You should move, should pretend you didn’t just stop in the middle of a dark and creepy alleyway to gawk at a violent fight scene. Well, the end of one anyway.

But you can’t find the will to move your legs. From fright or something else, you aren’t sure. But there’s something about the way he stands; relaxed, but coiled beneath the surface, like a predator that hasn’t decided if it’s ready to pounce or not. His fingers flex at his sides before curling back into loose fists, and then he moves.

Not towards you, or anything in particular. Just a slight shift of weight, as if registering your presence and deciding not to acknowledge it further.

You take that as your cue to leave and take the long way home, tearing your gaze away from the white gleam of his eyepiece and slowly backing up. You’re still not running, just walking at a leisurely pace and trying to control your breathing until you get back onto the main sidewalk. It isn’t until you’re walking past other people that you feel like you can relax your shoulders and actually start thinking about what you just saw.

In hindsight, your survival instincts probably need some work, but hey — he’s meant to be a vigilante. Sure, you shouldn’t believe everything you read online, but if you can’t trust Google, then what hope do you really have.

Maybe it can’t hurt to look at some of those apartment listings that Tim is always sending you.

tag list: @sakur4ii @theendofthematerialgworl @daughterofthemoons-stuff @staraniseed @harbours-lighthouse @eli-com @flanhog @catsaresillyasheck @wafflez-009 @straight-n-arrow @ydkmsstuff @alikkatz @doperthanabitch @wadehowl3tt

© angelfic. 2025

[fattyjabbers]

Ok, Id like you to imagine something.

Termites are eating your house. Very rapidly chewing through the structural beams. You hire an exterminator to stop the termites from doing this. You leave your house for a week while he bombs the place.

When you return, you find out that he didnt do that. He decided that the best way to deal with the termites was to put a large pile of wood in your driveway and try to tempt them to eat that instead. He gets very angry when you point out to him that he didnt get rid of the termites. He points to the large pile of wood and asks "Do you know how heavy that was?. How much time and effort it took to get this wood into your driveway? I cant believe youre reacting like this!"

When you go online to tell the story, are you going to just talk about how termites suck, or are you going to focus on how the man you hired to get rid of termites decided to fuck around with a wood pile and cooperate with the termites instead of taking more decisive action.

The posts getting angry at dems that Ive seen are not saying "Dems are destroying the country" they are saying "Dems arent doing enough to stop republicans from destroying the country"

The complaint about republicans is built in to the complaint about democrats. We've been saying for a long time that it is unacceptable that their strategy for stopping fascism was "Win every election forever" and not doing anything to codify safeguards or push against conservative underhandedness, and now we are seeing the results of that inaction.

obey Takei.

[messenger-of-babel]

Could you write about the sweetheart grips? Soldiers in ww2 used to put photos of their lovers on the grips of their guns and I think that would be cute with Jason.

Eye for An Eye

Summary: Jason keeps a photo of you in his gun to keep you close to him, even in his hardest moments. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.7K

Notes: dear anon I really, really wanted to make this sweet. But then I got an angst idea and- I tried to do it justice without too many tears. Forehead kisses for you because as soon as you sent this in I legit thought about this idea for like three days straight I fell in love with the concept. I might use it again for other Jason fics you got me hooked (I was a MASSIVE military history nerd). Warnings for description of violence and injury, character death, some choppy writing. Back onto my angst train, I'm so sorry y'all (I'll write this concept sweeter sometime, I SWEAR).

ALSO HAPPY 100 POSTS. It's crazy when I remember I'm still a baby blog. <3

Enjoy~! RiRi xoxo <3

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Bruce had never been one for guns, and while Jason was Robin, he hadn't either.

He didn't consider himself a particularly violent child or had any real craving to use weapons. After all, he never really hit anyone who didn't deserve it, and he got great satisfaction of getting back at people who thought they could hurt innocent civilians just because they were bigger and older than him.

That was until he was taken by Joker and showed just how much hurt someone older and bigger than could inflict.

April 27th, the date that the Joker killed Jason Todd.

Now, he couldn’t imagine his hands without the comforting grip of his pistol. The grips were designed just for him, slotting into the contours of his fingers and worn away in the areas he instinctually rubbed. They were wide so they sat snug in his large palms, with a coarse texture in the areas he habitually flexed. The grip allowed it to stick to his gloves for a steadier shot while it would simply irritate anyone else who tried to hold them.

Everyone knew that those guns were Jasons, but nothing said it quite like the new addition of the faded photo tucked into the grips. The colt's had originally come with wooden handgrips, which were quickly removed while he made his modifications.

"You know the Bat isn't gonna be happy with you getting another set of guns." Dick calls out, approaching his worktable in the cave. Jason just grunts at him over his shoulder, making sure he keeps the screws where he can see them.

"Bruce can honestly suck it up." he huffs, the mention of the Bat souring his demeanour immediately. Jason had wanted to do this in his apartment for this exact same reason. He knew Stephanie would annoy him with questions if she caught sight of him, and that Tim would interject constantly with 'improvements' he deemed necessary. Duke he could deal with, and Cass would leave him well enough alone.

Dick and Damian just managed to piss him off simply existing sometimes.

Mostly when he was already in a bad mood.

His older brother trots down the stairs, a frown forming on his face as he puts his hands on his hips to observe.

"Quiet." Jason mumbles flatly, knowing the older vigilante was giving him a disapproving stare. Dick ignores him, eyeing the photo tucked up near his water bottle.

"Jason," he says, voice a warning tone.

"I said quiet." he cuts off, wiping the area down with a damp cloth. Dick just sighs behind him as Jason gingerly picks up the photo, rubbing his calloused thumbs over it. Dick wants to say something as he eyes the photo but can't bring himself to speak above the block in his chest. He watches the tension ease from his brother’s shoulders, the muscles that had been stiffly held by his ears for weeks. The scowl he wore softened slightly, and he could actually hear him exhale for once instead of wondering if his chest actually was moving or not. Instead, Dick sighs in reluctance, giving in. Dick watches him with sad eyes, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a slight squeeze. "Don't forget to, you know," he leans forward slightly and draws a circle with his finger on a certain point of the photo. Jason's face ripples with a flash of pain, but he watches his younger brother grit his teeth and nod.

"Look after yourself, Jay." he murmurs, pulling back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Jason waits a little bit before turning back the photo, ensuring that Dick had left the cave. A still silence settled over the dim space once more. It didn't help the hum in his head, making his fingers and muscles shake, the white noise refusing to settle in his conscious. He gently drew on the photo of you with pencil, tracing the shape that he needed for the grip and ensuring that you weren't cut out by accident.

It was a favourite photo of his, taken at one of Bruce's galas. He hadn't wanted to go, hardly showing to the events in the first place. "Full of rich idiots trying to get even richer." he had told you, tossing a look over his shoulder to you. You were standing at the door, holding the invite that had been slipped through the mail slot. You waved the thick cardstock, a small smile on your face. "Aw, but I was kinda looking forward to going." you say, looking over the details. "I think it'll be fun."

"The only one who thinks those things are fun are Dick and Steph if she's around. Tim will get bored and probably turn into a loan shark if left unattended too long. So yeah, fun." he grumbled.

"What about Dami?"

Her turns around, eyebrows raised.

"I’m sorry?" he asks. "When did we start calling the demon child, Dami? We're on nickname level now?"

He hates how his heart flutters in his chest when he hears you laugh, melting away his annoyance.

"He's sweet, just a little prickly. like you." you grin, coming to wrap your arms around his neck, pecking him on the lips.

"Yeah, he's sweet to you, he's a little shit to everyone else." he grumbles.

"Sounds like someone else I know." you tease.

He can't help but grin, sighing out through his nose softly. "Fine. we can go." he grumbles, knowing he won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.

The photo he traces was from that night, you tucked into his side. You're staring at the camera with a sparkle in your eye, lips pulled back into a wide grin. You're wearing black to fit the theme of the ball, with red accents, matching him. He’s got his arm around your shoulder, taking the photo with you pressed up against him. He thinks you look stunning, eyes twinkling at him from the page.

He takes the exacto knife and gently runs it over the image, cutting himself out so that he can focus on you. The piece pops free, and he trims the edges. His heart thrums as he slides you onto the handle, fluttering with a tame delight.

"Don't forget to, you know..."

Dick’s voice floats back into his mind, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards once more. Reluctantly he pulls your photo from the handle and reaches for a screwdriver to his left, bringing it above the paper. He feels like he's about to stab you, the way the metal tip hovers above the image smiling back at him.

But he does it, heart clenching with each scrape across your eyes, slowly erasing the twinkle he loved so much. There's something sickening about the feeling of scratching your face out, the gritty sound of the photo tearing and leaving white streaks in its wake making his stomach flip. Finally, it's done, stark white lines blotting out your gaze. All that's left is the upturn of your lips, and the soft smile you wore.

With a heavy sigh Jason slots it back onto the handle, placing the clear protector over you. At least nothing could damage you more than he already had. He told himself it was for the better, as he cleaned his hands on a nearby rag and bit the inside of his cheek. You weren't the most supportive of his guns, but you liked that they kept him safe. You had had a few conversations with him about it but never an argument. He wanted to keep you close, but he knew he wasn't going to be an idiot about it. He wanted to protect you, hide your identity from any eagle-eyed thugs.

"Besides," he thought to himself. "Don't want em seeing what I'm about to do."

Maybe it was for the best that he covered your face for this.

His body hums with adrenaline, still alone in the Batcave. With scarred fingers he screws the cover onto the grip, clear cover sitting flush and keeping your photo secure. Jasons tosses it a few times in his hand, getting used to the feeling of the new colt pistols and making sure you weren't going to shake loose. When he was content, he looked over his shoulder, scanning the shadows for movement.

He knew that Bruce would condemn his actions, he didn’t even need to ask on that front. Dick would be understanding but try to hold him back, and Tim would try to talk him out of it. The only person he felt that silently agreed with him was Damian, the pair of them fostering an unlikely bond in the last few weeks.

Everyone in the manor knew what Jason was thinking.

What Jason was doing spending his nights in the Batcave, the one place he had grown to hate ever since coming back.

What he contemplated as he haunted the halls of the manor, the place he often traded in for the comfort of his downtown apartment.

Everyone knew what Jason was going to do tonight, yet none of them were game enough to say it out loud or stop him.

Therefore, Jason took their silence as compliance because he knew somewhere deep down, they wanted him to do it.

Or was he deluding himself?

He shook the thought from his head, holstering the newly decorated pistol. He was already dressed and strapped for this mission, no turning back now. With heavy hands he donned his helmet, taking a deep breath as he pushed Jason aside to become Red Hood. The air was still, as if the Batcave was filled with spirits watching him in silence as he mounted the bike and pressed the key for the garage door, speeding out.

He was already haunted by too many ghosts.

The streets of Gotham were relatively quiet, the usual alleys he stalked devoid of the thugs he would have expected. It seemed that even the city was holding its breath, civilians tucked safely inside. He knew where he was going.

He had been receiving mocking invites in the mail for the last week, notes attached to crime scenes in a gory fashion just to mock him. So really, it was no surprise when he arrived at Gotham cemetery, parking outside and not even bothering to kill the engine. He wasn’t going to be long anyways.

Just past the cemetery was the crumbling shell of Arkham, ivy covering the brickwork and roof caving in. His boots crushed broken panes of glass as he entered the decaying mental hospital, leaves scattered through the building from wrinkled trees that had cracked through the floors. He slowly made his way to the upper floor, where he had seen the lights.

Instinctually he reached for his gun, and he felt his heart calm sliding his hand over your picture secured into his sweetheart grip. He hadn't felt this anxious fighting in a while, unused to the way that his pulse thudded against his neck or the dryness that crept into his mouth. The corridor felt like it stretched on forever, making his vision swim trying to reach the light at the end.

Candlelight flickered weakly at the end of the hall, luring him in like a moth. As he stepped in he took note of it, hand tightening. Jason knew he was going to play with him, taunt and torture him. The images of you taped up on the peeling walls were enough. Photos that spanned back months, photos of you on dates, at work, in his car, in your apartment, blurry photos of you and him in his bed. His thumb instinctually placed itself over your eyes, despite them already being scratched out.

He didn't need you seeing the messy patchwork of your life.

Jason didn't even mind the photos, knowing the sadist would be doing something like that. What he did mind though were the images of you from three weeks ago, the same images that Dick had refused to let him see, that Tim wiped off the Batcomputer hard drive and Babs had removed from the GCPD database. The ones displaying the blood, the bone, the bruising.

Your eyes, unseeing.

Everything that was so familiar to him, but so foreign on you.

Everything that that one curved piece of metal had caused way back when, stained a dark brown. The same piece of metal that was sitting in the middle of the desk at the centre of the crude shrine, drying with a fresher coat of oxidised red.

He felt his heart rise to his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was bile in his throat or the taste of blood from his bitten lip. His grip turned white, muscles flexing under the skin and pressing unnaturally hard. He felt the green tinged mania inside him rear its head, threatening to take over his mind and act purely on instinct. The Lazarus pit clawed and pulled at his soul harder that it had in years, gasping at him like a beggar, screaming for a shred of violence to feed it.

He knew the game. He knew all of this was to provoke him, try to get Jason to release the rage inside him. The monster wanted to see him squirm, see him struggle to keep himself in check. He wanted to watch Jason Todd fight against the Red Hood, watch the Bats moral code play out on his face.

Well, Jason wasn't Batman. He wasn't Bruce.

As soon as a skinny figure moved from the shadows to his right, his pistol was out in a flash. His free hand ripped the mask from his face, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed, but he felt more relaxed than he had been in ages.

He was no Batman. He was Jason Todd.

And Jason was going to do the one thing Bruce had always been too much of a coward to do.

With one crisp bang the clown couldn’t get a single word out before he was splayed on the floor. As Jason stepped over the body he regarded it apathetically, barely biting down the urge to step on it. The bastards’ lips were pulled back in a wide smile, even in death. Maybe he had expected Jason to do this, maybe it was his last hurrah as an asshole, but Jason didn't care.

He didn’t even feel scared at the idea of the aftermath as a retraced his steps out of the abandoned building, mounting his still-running bike.

There hadn't been a single gloat before the gun cracked through the night, not a single joke or pun or taunt to leave the devil’s mouth. Bruce might have entertained it, let him play it out, but not Jason.

For Jason, everything that needed to be said had been said in actions.

The air was strangely cool, devoid of the humidity that nomrally hung in the streets. The city itself seemed to be sighing, taking a breath like the chord holding the city on a leash had been cut. He relished the feeling of it on his skin, the cracks in his suit letting the breeze run across his knuckles and where his mask met his neck. He imagined the cool fingers were you, cradling his face and whispering for him to take a rest, and he let his eyes flutter closed briefly.

 As he hit a red light he took a pause, reaching his hand down to pat where you were, tucked tightly under his hip. He didn't care what the reaction was going to be when he reached the manor, or the screaming match that was likely going to destroy what was left of his relationship with his pseudo father. All that matters is that he had done right by you, that he had done what he wished someone had done for him.

April 17th, the night Jason Todd killed the Joker.

[linoxpudding]

Matchmaking Mission- Kim Seungmin

summary: your friends had enough seeing you and seungmin being oblivious pabos— tired of the back-and-forth, they take matters into their own hands, setting up a series of schemes to finally get you two to admit what’s been obvious all along

pairing: seungmin x reader, bsf!jeongin x reader

genre: fluff, drama, friends-to-lovers

fic type: written + text

a/n: had so much fun writing this request, included a bit of forced proximity trope too

Masterlist

~°~

Seungmin prided himself on being a composed person. He didn’t get overly emotional, he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, and he certainly didn’t get jealous.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Until you walked in.

At first, you were just Jeongin’s friend. An old classmate, someone from his past who had somehow found a way into their present. It was easy to ignore you at first. But then you kept showing up. And then you started talking to him. And that’s when it became a problem.

Because you were funny. And smart. And kind. And you made fun of him in a way that made his stomach feel weird.

And then, worst of all, you started sitting next to him.

That’s when he knew he was in trouble.

The Lovebirds Texts

The Bestie Bickerings

The Matchmaking GC

Operation 1: Denial and the Jealousy That Definitely Didn’t Exist

“Y/N, have you ever considered how muscular Changbin is?”

Seungmin’s head snapped up so fast he almost got whiplash.

Felix, who had casually thrown out the question, smirked as if he had planned this.

Completely oblivious to the brewing storm beside you, you tilted your head. “I mean, yeah? It’s kind of impossible not to notice.”

Seungmin felt his jaw clench.

“Oh, yeah,” Han chimed in, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Changbin has insane arm muscles. I bet you would feel so safe if he carried you, right Y/N?”

You laughed, playfully nudging Changbin. “Guess I’ll have to test that theory.”

Seungmin nearly scoffed out loud. What kind of dumb theory was that? What, was Changbin a chair now?

He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to leave the room. Or flip a table. Either one.

Instead, he opted for silence.

Hyunjin obviously noticed Seungmin’s weird behaviour and turned to him with a teasing grin. “What, bro? You look grumpy.”

Seungmin’s eye twitched. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Hyunjin asked.

“Positive.” Seungmin grumpily replied.

“You look like you want to throw something.” Chan pointed out.

“Just thinking about how dumb you all sound, especially Y/N.” Seungmin shrugged.

You gasped dramatically. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he replied.

The others were watching with thinly veiled amusement, Felix whispering something to Jeongin, who immediately burst into laughter.

“Seungmin, are you jealous?” Minho smirked.

The room fell silent.

Seungmin’s ears burned. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Changbin pressed.

“Absolutely.”

Jeongin smirked. “Then you wouldn’t mind if Y/N sat on Changbin’s lap, right?”

Changbin choked.

Seungmin looked ready to set the entire apartment on fire. “What kind of nonsense—”

“You just said you weren’t jealous.” Jeongin said.

“I’m not. I just think you’re making Y/N uncomfortable.”

You protested, "No, I'm not!"

Han snickered. “Sure, buddy. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Seungmin glared at him. “Shut up.”

You just leaned back, amused. Is he really jealous? You felt sudden goosebumps. But you quickly shoved that thought out of your mind. You were just imagining things. Seungmin? Jealous? Over you? No way.

Beside you Jeongin grinned, whipping out his phone and texting in the group, "Step one of the plan is working. Time for phase two."

Operation 2: Forced Proximity

Over the next few days, you and Seungmin mysteriously found yourselves seated next to each other at every possible opportunity.

Lunch? Next to each other.

Movie night? Stuck on the same couch.

Car ride? Squished together in the backseat.

“Why do I keep ending up next to you?” You frowned, staring at the now very cozy seating arrangement.

“No clue,” Seungmin mumbled, trying not to focus on how close you were.

Meanwhile, the rest of the boys sat across from you both, giving each other secret thumbs-ups.

“Okay, maybe if they get physically closer, they’ll realize something,” Jeongin whispered.

Han grinned. “Should we ‘accidentally’ trap them somewhere next?”

��Dude. That’s genius.”

Operation 3: The Classic ‘Oops, You’re Locked In’ Trick

You frowned as you tugged at the balcony door. “Why is it locked?”

Seungmin groaned. “I swear, if this is them again…”

“Probably,” You muttered. “Can’t they not annoy us for one minute?”

Seungmin let out an exasperated sigh. “Apparently not.”

After a few more attempts to open the door, you gave up. “Great. Locked in here.”

Seungmin rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the floor, then up at the sky, feeling the awkward tension in the air. “I guess... this isn’t too bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

Seungmin hesitated, his voice soft. “Well... it's peaceful out here.”

You smiled, noticing the shy look in his eyes. “Yeah. It’s actually kinda nice.”

Seungmin turned his gaze away, trying to hide the soft blush creeping on his face.

Just as the moment lingered, Minho’s voice rang out from the other side of the door. “Ouch! You stepped on my foot, you idiot!”

You and Seungmin froze, exchanging an exasperated glance before laughing.

“You know, maybe they should lock us in here more often,” You joked, and Seungmin chuckled, feeling the warmth in his chest grow.

But still, neither of you acknowledged the growing feelings between you both—at least, not yet.

Before Seungmin could speak again, the door suddenly exploded open with a loud crash, as if a small stampede had broken it down.

Minho, along with the rest of the boys, stood on the other side, all of them pushing and shoving as they tried to listen to your conversation...accidentally broke the door.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS!" Changbin yelled, holding his hands up as the door swung wide open.

Seungmin stared at the wrecked door in disbelief. “You guys broke it down?”

You couldn't hold in your laughter. “Great job, guys. You’ve officially destroyed the door. What now?”

Minho quickly said, “You’re welcome for getting you two out of there. We basically saved your lives.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes, “I can’t believe you guys...”

You, still laughing, added, “At least I got some peace and quiet for a bit before you wrecked it. Nice try, though.”

As the boys all started blaming each other, Seungmin and you exchanged a look—and shared laughter.

Mission: Failed.

Operation 4: Pretend One of Them Is Interested in Y/N

“Alright,” Chan sighed, rubbing his forehead. “We need another new plan.”

The rest of the boys nodded solemnly.

It had been weeks. Weeks of painfully obvious flirting, of stolen glances, of lingering touches.

And yet?

Nothing.

Not one confession. Not even progress.

They were sick of it.

“They need a push,” Felix declared.

“They need a shove,” Minho corrected.

Han nodded. “We have to make them more jealous.”

“They already are jealous,” Jeongin pointed out. “Seungmin just refuses to acknowledge it.”

Hyunjin smirked. “Then let’s force him to.”

They all finalised a plan and went to the living room. Felix was chosen as the 'fake-love-interest'. He went to sit beside you while you were munching on a peanut butter sandwich.

“I think Felix has a crush on Y/N,” Jeongin said sitting beside Seungmin on the couch.

Seungmin, who was casually scrolling on his phone, froze.

“…What.”

“Yeah,” Jeongin continued. “They’ve been texting a lot. He even told me Y/N looked extra pretty today, like look at them.”

Seungmin felt his eye twitch. He looked over the dining area and—yep. Felix was leaning in just a little too close to you.

“Are you serious?” Seungmin scoffed. “Felix is just nice with everyone.”

“But what if he actually likes Y/N?” Hyunjin smirked joining them.

Seungmin slammed his phone down.

“Then I’ll—” He stopped himself.

The group silently leaned in.

“…You’ll what?” Changbin asked, grinning.

“…Nothing,” Seungmin muttered. “Because it’s none of my business.”

You, still oblivious, walked over. “What are you guys talking about?”

Jeongin smirked. “Oh, nothing. Just Seungmin—”

Seungmin kicked his shin. “Shut up.”

Operation 5: The Breaking Point & The Confession

The group finally gave up when they realized Seungmin was never going to confess first.

So naturally, you snapped first.

It was late. Everyone was hanging out, and once again, Seungmin was sitting next to you, being his usual sarcastic, annoying self.

“You really love bothering me, huh?” You muttered.

Seungmin smirked. “It’s my favorite hobby.”

And suddenly, you had enough.

“Okay, listen to me, I can't take this any longer,” you blurted out, standing up. “I have to tell you something."

“What's wrong?” Seungmin looked confused.

You let out a nervous chuckle, “you know what, forget it.”

“No, tell me.”

“Let it go.”

“You know I won't, so just spill it already—”

“I LIKE YOU, I like you, alright? Like a lot. And I swear to god, if you make a joke right now, I will throw you out the window.”

Silence.

The room was dead silent.

Seungmin just stared.

“…You—”

“Yes,” You huffed. “And if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine, I’ll just—”

Seungmin suddenly grabbed your wrist.

“…Who said I didn’t feel the same?” His voice was softer now.

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I thought you knew,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… didn’t think you’d actually like me back.”

The room collectively exploded.

“OH MY GOD FINALLY.”

“IT TOOK FIVE OPERATIONS.”

Jeongin fake wiped a tear. “Our hard work… it paid off.”

Hyunjin clapped dramatically. “And that, my friends, is a successful matchmaking mission.”

Seungmin groaned. “You guys are the worst.”

You just smiled, feeling your heart race as Seungmin’s hand lingered in yours.

“You two better be happy now!” Changbin teased, laughing. “Operation success!”

Seungmin glanced at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips as the group continued to celebrate their victory. The tension that had been building between you both for so long was finally gone, replaced with a quiet but undeniable warmth.

You smiled at the group, but Seungmin wasn’t done yet. Without missing a beat, he took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers in a smooth, almost secretive motion. He then leaned in, voice low but sincere. “Let’s get out of here.”

Before the others could react, Seungmin gently pulled you away from the group, heading towards his room with you in tow. His grip on your hand was firm, yet gentle, as if he was afraid of letting go even for a second. You felt giddy.

The boys, still celebrating, watched them leave in silence, eyes wide in surprise. “Did… they just…” Hyunjin started, his voice a little stunned.

“I guess they did,” Minho said, shaking his head with a smirk. “Mission accomplished, I guess.”

Meanwhile, Seungmin and you found yourselves alone in his room, the door clicking shut behind you. The noise of the celebration faded away as Seungmin turned to face you, a small but warm smile playing on his lips.

You looked at him, heart racing in your chest, a shy smile forming on your face. “So, this is happening, huh?”

Seungmin’s smile widened as he stepped closer, gently brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Yeah, it’s happening.” He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, “Finally.”

You met him halfway through and pressed your lips in a loving, sweet kiss filled with the unspoken connection that had been growing between you two for so long.

-----------------

Taglist:

@4ng3l-ch1ld @dolphin-scream-s (added a bit proximity trope here, will be posting for others soon!)

[revelboo]

no requests, just wanna show my appreciation for your transformers x reader stories and your writing in general. keep up the amazing work and take time for yourself when you can 🩷

also have a sillie meme cuz your starscream x reader content feeds me well lol

Thank you! 💕 I’m glad you like my nonsense!

Bottom Feeder Pt 7

TFP Starscream x Reader

• Yawning, you settle more into the crook of his arm as he strides down the hall. Almost positive that he sees you as the alien equivalent to a tiny, purse dog and you want to be offended by that, but no one’s ever fawned over you like he does before. And it’s kind of nice even as a part of you is aware that you should be trying to escape for the sake of your dignity, not playing pet to an alien. “Oh, he acts all high and mighty,” he’s saying in his raspy voice as he rubs a servo between your shoulder blades. “But everyone knows he’s fragging Breakdown.”

• “No,” you whisper, sounding absolutely scandalized as you look up at him and his wings flick. Nodding at Knockout snarling at a couple of Vehicons for getting in his way and when you make a noise. Watches you break into a grin, barring those little teeth at him. And you’re cute for a little savage. How long has it been since he’s had this? Someone to talk freely with without the fear of them running to Megatron to repeat everything he says? He’s missed this. “You know you have to explain fragging.” Wings flaring slightly, he almost stumbles. “I need context.”

• Your big turkey somehow knows all the alien gossip. And he’s too eager to share. There’s just the issue of words not translating right. Like fragging. Because it almost seems like it’s alien slang for fucking and if these guys have sex, you’re morbidly curious about it. How does that work exactly? Oh, it absolutely means sex. It has to for how flustered he looks, grimacing and looking around like he’s afraid someone will overhear. “Don’t be obscene,” he hisses and you bite into the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Definitely sex.

• “You can’t just leave it at that. Inquiring minds need to know,” you counter, grinning up at him. Not caring. And that’s something he’s already figured out about humans, you’re inquisitive. Constantly asking about everything. “Do you guys have stuff downstairs?” Wings tucking close to his frame, he vents. Are you really asking about spikes and valves? You really are a little savage.

• “This isn’t an appropriate conversation,” he growls, looking nervously around. And he almost looks like he might blow a gasket, wings flicking. Alien sex and alien dick? He’s not going to just pretend he didn’t bring it up. You absolutely have to know now. Fascinated as you try to imagine if it’s actual dick or if it’s some weird, sci-fi lovecraftian horror going on downstairs.

• “That’s what makes it awesome. I need details,” you insist and he swallows a groan. Why had he let that slip about Knockout? Knows you well enough by now that you’re not dropping this ever. “Can I see yours for scientific reasons?” And he almost drops you, his loud, horrified ‘no!’ drawing everyone’s attention. Heads turning to stare at him as his wings tuck close to his frame. Speed walking away and pressing a servo over your soft mouth in case you blurt out any more wholly inappropriate things, he shudders. Don’t you have any sense of propriety? You don’t just ask to see someone’s spike. Who does that? Humans apparently.

Previous

[finchlits]

Just the name of reality shifting alone should sound dangerous enough, and worse that it's a trend to young people.

Seeking out to leave the current reality people perceive to think, feel, and act should be questioned alone. Why leave? If it is for reasons rooted from escapism, don't do it. If it is for reasons rooted from simple curiosity or a desire to further interact with imaginative concepts, do not do it rashly.

In my opinion, in a developmental perspective, making reality shifting a habit in around ages 13-15 or as far as 9-17 have high risks of psychological damage, mainly because this is the age range where brains still aren't fully developed yet actively seeks out the environment and social circles to foster their personality and behaviors. Disrupting this by intentionally altering the consciousness to supposedly enter a different reality also affects their sense of time and space, and as this takes up a lot of time, any social responsibilities will also get compromised, including school, work, chores, hygiene, etc. I may as well say that it takes discipline for a minimized risk in reality shifting.

Seeing a few posts about reality shifting, I appreciate the attempts of handing out advice for beginners. But none of what we saw emphasized the risks for something so lacking of readily available scientific evidence to at least assure minimized harm.

This is your periodic reminder that "reality shifting" is an extremely dangerous concept especially for young people! Not in an "oooh the spiritual world can get you" kind of way, in a "this is just extremely maladaptive behavior with spiritual lingo sprinkled on top of it to make it look pretty and unassuming" kind of way. People online sensationalize it and pitch it to people in a way which can cause real psychological damage.

[elstattoo]

MEN DNI, MINORS DNI

“𝑺𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝑰𝒕 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒅”

WC: 780

Content: 18+, dom! ellie, sub/switch! reader, face fucking, strap usage, masturbation, degradation, use of the word slut

Author’s Note: Another drabble…. Ellie Williams I want you. So bad.

“Yeah, use that pretty mouth of yours,” Ellie groaned, hand tightly fisting your hair. Her grip never loosened on the strands, if anything it got tighter.

You stared at her from in between her legs, cheeks pink from the obscenity of the situation, your tongue lolling out to smother the plastic dildo in your saliva. Ellie watched as you did this, her stomach rippling with desire, her pussy tightening around the strapless strap-on buried within her, doing very little to prevent the wetness spilling out, messily down her legs.

The wetness was from not only your spit, but the precum leaking from her hole. You bit back every desire to just suck her puffy, glistening clit hidden behind the strap. You preferred her pussy over this any day, but Ellie practically had been begging you to do this for months… And you finally gave in.

Since she wanted to see this so bad, you’d give her a show. One hell of a show. You opened your mouth, taking little by little into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip. Your eyes never left Ellie’s, she bit her bottom lip almost enough to draw blood. Her fingers tightened slightly in your hair, you moaned around the silicone.

The vibrations sent a chill up Ellie’s spine, she squinted her eyes shut. Both her hands falling from your hair to your cheeks, you paused upon the contact, lips still wrapped around the toy. Your own hand was gripping one of her legs for stability, the other shoved down into your panties playing with yourself.

Ellie felt herself dampen even more at that, she sighed contently before speaking. “Can I fuck this mouth, baby? What do you think?”

You hummed in agreement, mouth still stuffed, your knees pressing into the pillow previously placed — for this exact reason. Ellie shook her head, pulling your lips off it for a second. “No, I need words. Gotta hear you say it for me, ‘kay?”

Your lips were wet from your own spit, you sat there momentarily thinking over the idea, which spiked something within you. “Yes, I want you to fuck my mouth. Do whatever you want, Ellie. Use me.”

Ellie felt your hand tighten on her leg, nails digging into the flesh, enough to leave indents. She hissed, the pain easing quickly into her already built up desire for you. “You’re so good for me, baby. Always put that mouth to good use, huh?”

You licked your lips, then opened your mouth for the toy — signaling to her you were ready. Ellie quickly moved your head closer to the strap, your lips enveloped what length you could, before Ellie pulled it back out and roughly back in.

As she continued to fuck your mouth, gagging sounds could be heard from you, muffled over the strap. You continued playing with yourself, fingers quickly rubbing against your clit, desperate for friction.

Your jaw ached, but nonetheless you felt soaked from how hot it felt to be used like this — like a toy. Ellie gripped your cheeks tighter, moving her hips to fuck your mouth. She internally was rejoicing, finally fulfilling her fantasy, finding it way better than her imagination. The gagging sounds she pulled from your lips was music to her ears, and so were your muffled moans at the hilt of her strap.

The same strap that was pushed into her from the other end, filling her weeping hole — begging to be filled by your fingers or tongue. Ellie wished she could feel your lips, body twitching at the very thought. But she couldn’t help but savor this, not knowing if you’d do this again anytime soon.

Ellie smirked, finding your noises pleasing. “Yeah, you fucking suck my dick so good… I love this fucking mouth of yours. Such a slut with how you’re still playing with yourself.”

Your fingers sped up hearing those words slip off her tongue, fingers never stilling their movement. You moaned against the strap, loving how it felt and how her words made you feel. Your pussy gushed, your own wet pussy growing wetter.

Spit was gathered down your chin, even somehow on your cheeks. Ellie rocked the strap in and out of your mouth a few more times, then pulled it fully off your lips with a pop. She looked down at you on your knees, face messy with saliva, and chest rising and falling as you caught your breath. Breathing through your nose only did so much, and Ellie just ate up the sight of you.

Her right hand softly reached to cup your cheek, thumb running along the surface of your skin. “God, you look good like this.”

[dykeforhire]

Emily Prentiss Headcanons

Top!Emily Prentiss x reader

[NSFW 18+]

A/N: this is basically just me talking to myself, so enjoy !!

- Emily is the biggest softy outside of the bedroom, she loves to cuddle and give lots of affection. Physical touch is definitely one of her biggest love languages. The early days of your sex life with Emily reflected that soft nature, but the harder you fell for each other, the more she let loose.

- Emily definitely has a strong libido, she can go for literal hours upon hours. Every position on every possible surface.

- She’s a very generous lover, no matter how stupid that saying might be… it’s definitely true for her. She absolutely loves getting you off. Your pleasure is her top priority, she loves listening to the sounds you make and how your body reacts to the way she touches you.

- Emily is the ultimate champion when it comes to giving head. The woman’s mouth is literal magic, her tongue is so soft and attentive, and she loves to practically bury herself in it. Just rubbing her face all up in there, using her nose, her lips… phew!

- on the topic of Emily giving head, she definitely loves it when you sit on her face. She wraps her arms around your thighs and forces you to put your weight on her… guiding your hips over her mouth and y’know that nose comes out to play!! She does not care if she suffocates… she will die and happy woman.

- Emily is also very skilled when it comes to handling a strap on. She definitely has lots of motion, and she knows just how to hit those perfect spots.

- She loves it when you ride her strap, just so she can stick her face between your tits, kissing, licking, biting, sucking hickeys all over your chest and playing with your nipples. She also loves being able to watch your face above her, just the sight of you so deep in pleasure is enough to get her off.

- Doggy is where her true talents lie… she loves to just absolutely man-handle you. Wrapping her arms around your stomach and just plowing away. She definitely also uses your hair as grip, pulling you up against her chest so her free hand can run over your body, teasing and groping

- She’s definitely vocal during sex, talking you through it… asking if she’s doing well, if she feels good inside you, what you want her to do… she makes a lot of sounds when she’s fucking you too; panting and groaning in your ear while she fucks you with her strap… whimpering when she feels just how wet you are for her.

- She’s a biter, whether it’s as a simple gesture of affection or when you’re actively having sex. She loves the marks her it leaves on your skin, and the moans and whimpers you let out when she does it.

- BIGGEST TEASE EVER!! She loooooves getting you all worked up, and god knows she’s good at it. She loves coming up behind you in the kitchen and putting her cold hands under your shirt, running her fingers along your waist band (imagining this meme), leaving innocent little kisses on your neck, knowing just how much they rile you up.

- Emily can also be very needy when she wants to be. Sometimes she just needs a break from control, and she loves letting you take care of her. She makes the prettiest sounds when she cums, tiny little whimpers and pants as she claws at your back, pulling you in for that extra pressure to ground herself.

- She’s very possessive when it comes to you. She might not let it show to the public, but she gets very jealous when people try to flirt with you… that jealousy often leads to very long nights of aggressively passionate sex… her leaving marks all over your body and fucking you into the mattress to the best of her ability.

- when she gets rough during sex, she gets rough. She can be quite fond of impact play, whether it be slapping your ass or your face with her hand, or using a paddle or flogger on you… she is also a fan of choking, not so much breath play, more so giving you that delicious light headed rush.

-eye contact. God those eyes… she loves holding eye contact when she eats you out and especially when she fucks you in missionary.

…

A/N: let me know if I should make a pt.2 of this… 😈😈

[girlyyypawp]

Tear drops on the dining table

"You think a house runs by itself!? Everyday I work DAY AND NIGHT like a dog to make this house into a home and this is how you repay me??" You said, voice filled with agony and frustration.

" I..." He holds eye contact with you for a moment before turning away.

" Are you fucking serious? How much effort does it take to ACTUALLY be present huh?" You point your words at him with sharp, arrow-like precision as you hit him on the chest with the rolled up newspaper.

" All I ask..." You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing "All I ask is for me to not be the only one present in this marriage."

" I'm... trying sweetheart, but you know work keeps me busy." This time he looks at you, really looks at you—hoping that somewhere deep down you might still forgive him.

A smile breaks into your face as you break character and tell him-

"Man I was hoping you would be more of a bitch."

" Well I'm trying but it's hard to be a bitch to my girlfriend when we're playing pretend husband-and-wife darling" He says while chuckling.

"....This wasn't intense enough, do you think we should go for a scene where you cheat on me-"

Before you can finish your sentence, your words register in his mind as a scrowl develops on his face.

" I would rather not even think about it, let alone enact it with you"

"Man...you're boring as hell, - 1000 aura."

" My apologies for being a good boyfriend and not arguing with you much."

A moment of silence passes by as you tell him your next move, which to your dismay, doesn't gain his approval.

" what if you were my step-"

" fuck no"

" I could be stuck in the washing machine-"

" Sweetie we have a vertical one"

Am image of you being very unsexily stuck in your tall ass washing machine comes to your mind as you cringe at thought. You rack your brain as you try to come up scenarios to act out.

"... What if you were my teacher?"

" Weren't we supposed to be fake arguing rather than enacting porno scenarios?"

" C'mon be a little sex positive dude" you tell him as you latch onto his arm.

" Ain't nothing positive about your sex life" He snorts.

Now this is not how you imagined it to go when you suggested a teacher role play, here on the dining table with your books laid out, which you had done so to make it more immersive, being oblivious to what effect it might've had later on.

"How the fuck did you pass high school?"

You grip your pen a little tighter as your boyfriend, now chides you for doing your work wrong. At first you were happy he was getting into the whole teacher thing but you hadn't assumed that he would ACTUALLY start teaching you.

Vietnam War flashbacks come back to you as he ask you

" When was the Harappan civilization found?"

" I- uhh"

"Let me give you a hint." A sigh of relief leaves your lips, thankful at his mercy-

" WHEN WAS THE HARAPPAN CIVILISATION FOUND?"

He yells the same question louder as if doing that will make you remember the date.

As you sit there, with your notebook filled with tears of not remembering the fucking date of an age old civilization, you make a mental note to yourself to never ask him to role play with you ever again.

LMAO I rlly dk wtf I just wrote but I hope yall like it😭❤️💀

Reader wanted to fake argue with the boys since they're such green flags that arguments are rare 😭💀

[dollbrbie]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ onlyfans ft, oliver aiku

💌 headcanons for oliver with an onlyfans, smut mdni

onlyfans!oliver who loves being a little whore on his onlyfans while he’s not playing football, showing his supporters exactly what they want to see

onlyfans!oliver who posts photos of his bare cock, videos of him stroking it, and even videos of him cumming with sound on, even though he’s confused why everyone loves it

onlyfans!oliver who’ll regularly make content with other onlyfans creators, being super excited when he was told your manager offered to collaborate with him

onlyfans!oliver who thinks you’re so incredibly sexy, and who then purchases a monthly subscription of your onlyfans, fisting his cock at your solo videos, imagining himself making you moan like that

onlyfans!oliver who meets you the next day, acting polite as ever like he wasn’t just masturbating to the thought of fucking you while watching you finger yourself on your onlyfans

onlyfans!oliver who wastes no time, asking you what you’re into, what you’re boundaries, etc

onlyfans!oliver who eats you out like a starved man before fucking you, surprising all his subscribers since he’s never seen eating girls out before you

onlyfans!oliver who just has to make you come at least twice on his tongue before even considering himself, it’s the gentlemanly thing to do considering you’re his guest (he’s just obsessed with you)

onlyfans!oliver who nearly cums straight away as soon as he’s inside you, having to hold himself back

onlyfans!oliver who fucks your from behind, making you watch yourself get fucked by him through the camera

onlyfans!oliver who is constantly looking at your pretty face and the expressions you’re making through the camera

onlyfans!oliver who doesn’t even realise how much he’s praising you, so drunk on your pussy

onlyfans!oliver who gives you the best orgasm you’ve experienced yet, leaving you so fucked out of your mind that oliver even offers to shower with you

onlyfans!oliver who then fucks you so gently and sweet in the shower, without cameras and knowing he could be crossing a line but not even caring anyway

onlyfans!oliver who so desperately wants to offer you to stay the night, but knows he can’t cross that line yet

onlyfans!oliver who can’t get enough of you after that, making sure to get your personal number before you leave and gently kissing your lips and saying, “we should do that again sometime.”

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[spiderb00]

- Fam out #6

Sophia Laforteza x reader 

“You and Sophia never fight, so imagine Yoonchae's surprise when she found out she would have to postpone her plan for a few more days” 

Genre – Fluff     Warnings – Sophia and Yn fight, but it's the usual fam out cuteness 

(request) 

Now playing – Compass, by The Neighbourhood 

The towel on the bed was grabbed roughly, Sophia's hands squeezing the fabric tightly as she hurried downstairs. It wasn't the first time it had happened, but Sophia always let it go, every time it happened she just took a deep breath and put the towel away, talking to you about it and listening to the embarrassed apologies that came out of your mouth. But this time, she was tired.   

As soon as you appeared in Sophia's field of vision, the towel she was holding was thrown over you, covering the view you had of the television. “Seriously, Yn!”   

You quickly tried to get the towel off your head, but it seems you weren't quick enough, because now your character was on the ground, while some other player was stealing the items that were yours. “NO! Sophia, you made me lose.”   

“I don't care about your stupid game! How many times have I told you not to leave a wet towel on the bed? Seriously, Yn. How old are you? Five years old?” Running a hand through her hair in frustration, Sophia watched you get up, while throwing the towel on the sofa.   

“Yeah, but what was the point of waiting until I'd finished the match?” You say, barely having time to react when the video game controller is snatched from your hand and thrown onto the sofa.   

“I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR GAME!” Sophia says, coming closer to you, making you automatically take a step back. “THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU'D PUT THINGS IN THE RIGHT PLACES!”   

“I PUT THINGS IN THE RIGHT PLACES!” The look Sophia gave you made you think about all your life choices, and lower your voice the next second. “I mean... I put things in the right places.”   

“No, you don't! I've been complaining about your towel on the bed for weeks, but what do you do? You keep leaving the towel on the bed!” Sophia says, making your head spin.   

The shouting, the complaining, you know it's your fault, but it was all making you a bit dizzy. “I just forgot...”  

“You didn't forget. You're acting like a damn child, you were addicted to this stupid game and you're simply forgetting the basic things you used to do.” Sophia said.  

She was frustrated too, not just about the towel, but because she'd missed you lately. You were spending so much time on your video game that you were forgetting about her. It had been weeks since you and Sophia had gone out together, weeks since you had done anything nice, or romantic, or even “family”. All because of that stupid video game.   

“Well, I have the right to have a bit of fun too. Maybe I'd like to be with my company, be alone for a bit too!” You say, without thinking.   

Laughing sarcastically, Sophia pushes your chest, making you fall onto the sofa. past you, the Filipino girl picked up her phone, putting on her shoes and texting someone. 

“What are you doing?” You said, getting up from the sofa quickly.   

“I'm going out. You want your space, have your space!”   

The deafening slam of the door was the last thing you heard, trying to follow Sophia only to see an Uber pull up in front of both your houses.   

It was Thursday, the silence in the house bothered you, any noise could be heard, and that made you feel empty. The days have gone by very slowly, since your fight with Sophia, you've been getting more and more upset, the thought that things didn't have to come to this, the thought that it was all a stupid fight, the thought that you could have avoided it. It was stupid.   

You wanted to make up with Sophia, to tell her that you'd been an idiot, that you'd been childish, that she was right and that she could come home now, because you missed her so much. But unfortunately, since that day, you haven't been able to see Sophia, you've respected her space, but you couldn't lie in saying that your heart didn't race every time she sent you a message.   

“Yoonchae is waiting for you.”  

“Come back at eight, we have appointments the next morning.”  

Parking the car in front of the Kats' house, you waited for Yoonchae to get out, seeing the younger girl running towards you. “Hey, kiddo! I missed you.”   

Yoonchae didn't really understand why you and Sophia were fighting, she just assumed it must be something serious, since you've never fought before. How wrong she was... “I missed you too. It's very strange to see you and Sophia apart.”   

As you got into the car, you sighed at Yoonchae's words, you knew that it affected her too, even if only a little. She was used to you and Sophia going out together, spoiling her constantly, looking after her like two mother tigers look after their cubs, and now, it was like she was missing out on part of a good thing.   

“I know...” You say, starting to drive through the streets towards the mall, where Yoonchae would spend all your money. “I'm sorry about that, it was just a stupid fight...”  

“But you'll fix it, right?” Yoonchae's question made your heart skip a few beats.  

Honestly, you had no idea. You and Sophia had never fought like this, you'd never gone more than a day without speaking to each other, you hoped it would never happen, and if it did, it wouldn't be because of something stupid you'd done.   

Giving a tight-lipped smile, you glanced at Yoonchae briefly, only to see the younger girl already looking at you for some kind of confirmation, anything that might reassure her. “Yeah, of course.”  

Boy, you were so lost.  

The clock on your wrist read 8:30 p.m., and you knew Sophia was going to kill you. Damn it, she was already mad at you, and now this? But it wasn't your fault that you were having so much fun with Yoonchae, the younger girl's happiness was making you forget your responsibilities.   

“You're late!” Sophia was already at the door, she was probably spying on the car through the window, and when you parked, she was already ready to unleash the dogs on you.   

“Sorry, we lost track of time...” Yoonchae tries to explain, lifting the shopping bags as if that justifies everything.   

“We have appointments early tomorrow morning, and you know she has trouble getting up early, Yn!” 

“I don't...” Yoonchae tried.  

“I know, I'm sorry, we were just having fun. It's been a while since we've seen each other.”  

“You could see more of her if you came here. Or were you still glued to the video game?”   

“Guys...” Poor maknae.  

“Why do you have to be so mean?”   

“Because someone has to put this family in order!” Sophia said, sighing before pointing in the direction of the bedrooms. “Yoonchae, go get ready for bed, we have a busy day tomorrow.”   

“But...”  

“Do what she's saying Yoonchip.” You say, giving a small smile to the younger girl, who was hesitant to leave you two alone.   

“Are you guys going to fight?”  

“No.”  

“No.”  

Looking at the two of you skeptically, Yoonchae sighed, knowing that she couldn't win the 2x1. Waving goodnight, she headed for her room, leaving you and Sophia staring at each other awkwardly.   

“Sorry.” It was the first thing that escaped your lips. Sophia's sigh was heard, and you took it as a chance to continue. “I know I was wrong, and I'm sorry for that. We've never spent so much time fighting, and that scares me.” You said, pausing, wondering if you were bothering her or if she was ready to have this conversation. “I miss you, baby.”  

Looking at you, Sophia's eyes softened, coming closer to you, she hugged your shoulders. “I miss you too, baby.”   

The truth is that you both recognized how silly it had all been. You knew you'd made a mistake, Sophia was right to complain to you about your sloppy attitudes, since you'd never been like that and seemed to be in a kind of constant black hole with that new game you'd picked up. And Sophia recognized that perhaps she had stressed herself too much, getting overwhelmed with the job of leader and all the things she had to deal with on a daily basis.   

“I'm sorry for yelling at you, and leaving...” Sophia began.  

“It's okay, baby. I understand, you were overwhelmed.” You said, placing a kiss on her forehead. “I love you.”   

“I love you too.” Sophia said, moving closer and sealing her lips with yours.  

The kiss was full of love, saying all the things you've wanted to say to each other for weeks, killing all the desire you've felt all these days.  

“How about we say goodnight to Yoonchae, and you take me home?” Sophia said, looking at you with a look full of love.   

“I think that's a wonderful idea.”   

Yoonchae's voice was muffled, but the two of you could hear her saying “Come in” right after you knocked on the door.   

You could have sworn you saw Yoonchae's eyes light up when she saw you and Sophia's hands intertwined, finally getting the confirmation that everything would return to normal that she so desperately wanted.  

“We came to say goodnight.” You said, approaching and kissing the forehead of the youngest girl, who was lying between the warm covers.   

“Are you all together again?” Yoonchae asked with a smile on her face.   

“Yes, everything's fine.” Sophia said, kissing the back of your hand as you smiled at her.   

Your cloud of love was soon broken by Yoonchae, who coughed falsely to get your attention. “Well then, since you've made up, I think it would be a good time for you to meet Evie.”   

Frowning, you looked at Sophia with a slight smile, seeing that she didn't know what Yoonchae was talking about either.   

“Who's Evie, Yoonchip?” Sophia asked, a confused smile on the Filipina's face.   

Looking at the two of you, Yoonchae took a deep breath, relaxing her shoulders, only to make yours tense at her behavior.  

“My girlfriend.”  

Holy shit.   

“YOUR WHAT?”  

Hey babies, how are you?

It's been a while, hasn't it? We're already on part 6 of fam out, and I'm surprised this series has so many chapters.

Anyway, I've been very busy these days, I have some asks to answer, and I'm going to answer it!

just a quick stop around here, drink some water, stay safe

xoxo, spider

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Not on the carpet! | The Salesman x Wife!Reader |

Notes: Different from the other ones. Reader knows what his husband does for work.

Summary: Your dear Husband comes home with blood and all you want is it to not touch the dam carpet!!

Warnings: Blood - Canon Violence - Suggestive -

The Salesman knows he is not looking his best right now. Not after having to kill some people who were getting too close to the truth of the games.

And he knows what his dear wife will say once he opens the door. Instead of a warm smile a look of panic will be there. Not for him.

"Dont let that blood fall on the carpet!" You tell him in a stern tone coming to greet him when you did hear the door open but stopped after seeing the blood on him.

"Hello my Love. I hope your day went better than mine" He says pulling off his suit jacket but not moving from the entrance.

Last time he did get blood on the carpet not only was he forced to clean it himself. He was banned to the guest room (no problem the bed its comfortable). But his lovely wife banned him of sex. For a week. And she did nothing but keep temting him all week. Wearing pajama shorts that barely covered her ass and let him see her legs. Light colored shirts that let him see her tits and nippels.

Oh, how he wanted to just throw you over the table and fuck you nice and rough. Make you forget your name and only know his. He wanted you to regret it.

But he had to demostrate he did have some self control. So on the last night exaclty when the clock did hit the final time he was on you like a dog in heat. Pulling you over his lap, touching all the exposed skin and leaving bruises behind.

And while that sex was amazing. He would prefer to not be on another week without sex.

"Here" You did appear again giving him a big plastic bowl so he could put his dirty clothes in. "I will wash it later. I can only imagine how much of a pain its going to be" Your face did show the small anger towards it.

"Sorry Love. But the blood of these worms seems to be as dirty as them" He responded removing his tie too.

"You are not injured, right?" You asked seeing some blood on his cheeck but he just dismisses your question with a move of his hand. "Good. Let me get you some cotton and water then"

"Im finally allowed inside my home?" He half joked as he saw you go then do a stop and look back at him. "It did not get on my shirt I promise"

He remembers that one time when it did get on his shirt. He had to sat for then minutes of you scolding him.

"...Then come. But you know what will happen if I see a single blood drop!"

The Saledman groaned following you into the big bathroom taking a seat on the toilet. "Not sex ban again my Love" He begged pulling you close so he could get his face against your stomach "Jerking off to pictures of you or videos of us its never enough. I need the real thing" To add his point he gives your ass a firm grip.

You try to ignore him as you get some water and cotton to clean off the blood from his face.

"Dont be a baby" Its your response as you slowly clean his handsome face. Glad to see that there are not injuries but just dry blood as he said. "And you did make up for it when the week ended" You added the memory still fresh on your mind.

"I came so fast" He says his eyes never leaving you. Him falling for you soft touch. "I was inside you and then I just filled you up so fast" he sounded so dissapointed with himself.

"You did. But it was a lot. I believe we should let your balls get as much cum as they can so you can fill me up really nice"

The Salesman let out a small sound between a laught and a groan. "Dont make me pull you against that wall...I still need to shower so you dont get the smell of these men"

You smiled at his possessive nature giving him a kiss on the head once you were done cleaning him.

"And I havent finish making your favorite food. So looks like we both will have to attend diferent things before I can greet you properly"

"You are my favorite food. You always taste so divine. I wish I could be between your legs all day. Making you cum over and over again. Getting all of hit on my face and chin. I will lick it up so good. You would be crying from how much stimulation you are getting. But I know you would not care about it. You would let me keep going, because you love me. And you love what I do to you"

You blushed hard under his gaze and his smirk. He was not wrong. And that scene did happen once. You were so wasted after it...you could barely walk let alone think straight. You were like a doll and he loved it. He loved being the cause of your pleasure.

"Yeah well. Maybe later" one look from him made you crumble. There was not a "maybe" it was a "defenetly" and part of you believed he would not wait till you ended dinner.

"Its a promise my Love" He said kissing your hand and wrist. He closed his eyes as he smelled your skin. Oh how he loved it. It was just...you and it was all he needed. "Go and try finishing that dinner for me. But...maybe I will skip it and go for the special plate of the house"

You let out a small smile your face burning. "Go on, get on that shower first" You said leaving him to be "I will bring you a new set of fresh clothes"

"Thanks Love" Your Husband responded removing his shirt in order to get inside the shower, his mind already thinking on the idea of having you for himself once he removes the smell of these worms from himself.

And, oh how much he is going to enjoy every second of it.