#but you also feel it because you could have taught them better

[taelophone]

Fashion Nova. Luigi Mangione x Fashionista! Reader HCs

Ok so this is my first headcanons post on this acc.

Starting off strong, because you are so interested in fashion, I could see you being some sort of sub-genre of alternative. REMINDER!! Alternative does not equal emo lol. Alternative is literally any style other than the norm, which is why its called ‘alternative.’ This includes Twee, goth, mcbling, gyaru, hoochie mama, renaissance core, etc etc. I can really see Luigi loving an alternative fashion partner.

You more than likely met Luigi through a friend of a friend! When he first met you he was so intrigued by your style. If you lean more unconventional/haute/camp, he’s so intrigued by your styling methods. It’s a lot, but somehow together it all makes sense! If you lean more conventional/simplistic, he’s in awe with how you make simple accessories stand out. 

One thing, however, he’s a little intimidated by you. Toxic trait incoming lol but he didn’t really like to stand next to you for too long because it makes him feel inferior a little. He’s not insecure about what he wears, but you looking so good in contrast to him, it keeps him on his toes a bit.

My favorite topic is coming up again! Psychology. When you feel intimidated by someone, you tend to try and adopt little pieces of their traits in an effort to feel more confident or gain approval. This is called identification!

And I imagine this is way before you start dating, too. So you’ll gradually begin to notice Luigi dressing a little bit better. You say you hate skinny jeans? He doesn’t even remember when he threw his out. You mention a niche aesthetic? He’s looking into it two weeks later without realizing. You mention your favorite fashion trend of the decades? He’s suddenly very interested in this topic a little bit later.

When you start getting closer, you start talking more and more about how you shop. He really enjoys listening to you ramble about how you found your style and what fashion school was like (if you went).

You probably taught him about color theory, how to style certain items of clothing, all about silhouettes and frames, etc etc.

He realizes a little later that you REALLY know your shit, and starts facetiming you when he gets something new or wants your opinion on an accessory/thing he wants to buy.

Cue the “I got these new jeans, but I have no idea what to do with them…” “What do you think would look good with this shirt?” “Can you help me get ready for this event I'm going to? Please?

Now when you start dating, he just completely lets you take over in dressing him. He’s been flamed in the past for his dogshit outfit skills, but he also likes when you try out various aesthetics/styles on him.

His favorite, BY FAR, was old money (which IS ALTERNATIVE, CHAT.) or model off-duty for himself. He’s never been one to care about what he wears too much on regular days, but he’s noticed a difference in how he feels and looks when he’s styled just right every day.

One of his favorite things that you do is adjust his collar, nitpick at his tie, position his rings, give him some glasses, etc etc.

Every time he reaches for that Bali shirt or monochrome adidas hoodie, you have to grab his hand and tell him no more.

Bonus points if you know how to sew. His zipper broke? His darling girlfriend can repair it! Rip in a sleeve? Never fear, his woman is here.

He loves shopping with you now! You’ll go to the mall, the bins, second-hand stores, etc etc. He likes taking you with him especially because you see so so much potential in the most mundane/crazy looking pieces ever.

He loves going to Victoria’s Secret with you istg. He’s a little shy/embarrassed cuz we need to be honest, what man isn’t, but he loves seeing you light up over all the pretty bras and accessories.

On the topic of accessories, sometimes you share! It’s taken hella convincing, but sometimes he’ll wear a very casual and small hair clip if he’s behind on a haircut. Courtesy of you!

He loves his lil fashionista she’s literally saved his ass from so many ugly ass outfits !!

[fightingthetides]

“I’m still learning a lot from Rav, and it is taking me time to truly understand. Hopefully you both can be patient with me, as I have very little experience.” Nunnally had more experience and knowledge than him, probably. He only knew what he did because Ravein had been teaching him. Just as how Roberto was teaching Ravein how to adjust to a regular civilian lifestyle, Ravein was teaching Roberto some tips and tricks to dealing with the underground folks.

He’d prefer that he wouldn’t have to use any of the knowledge he was taught, but if it was for the sake of Ravein’s safety, he’d do well to learn. Ravein was the only remaining legacy of his cousin who had passed way too early in life due to unfortunate circumstances.

“Thank you, Miss Nunnally, I’ll try not to intrude on you two too much.” Roberto chuckles. He didn’t have any children of his own, but somehow- he felt that accompanying them would feel like if he was a chaperone on a date for a young kid. Not that either of these two were kids… but it was just a vibe he got.

Roberto didn’t mind taking some time away from the café to accompany these two young adults on an outing together. One may say that he was overstaying his welcome as an older man, but there was a part of him that felt uneasy, and another part that understood that Ravein needed another emotional pole to cling onto if he ever got overwhelmed.

Ravein wasn’t sure how to proceed. He wanted things to be easier, but she was also telling him not to change on her account if it was what was comfortable for him. Still, Roberto made a good point, he had to make an effort if he truly wanted to acclimate to living a ‘normal life,’ one that he’s always wanted since he was young. He was making baby steps towards that effect, and he could stand to write a couple more words if it would help communication.

[Will try harder]

…

He flips another page over as if he thought of something as an afterthought.

[Communicating clearly]

It would take small steps, but he’ll get there, and they’ll slowly learn how to communicate and understand each other better. Roberto could feel relieved in the fact that Ravein was going to continue trying to improve so he can acclimate to living an average life, and that Nunnally was understanding and patient enough to allow Ravein to adjust at a comfortable pace.

He was happy to know that Ravein trusted the young woman, taking the chance to introduce him to her, so that he could see Ravein’s first friend since wanting to start a new life. He got lucky meeting Nunnally, he thought.

“Do you have any ideas on where you would like to go, Miss Nunnally?” Roberto asks her, thinking that she may be more knowledgeable of malls or shopping plazas that should work for keeping Ravein safe. Or perhaps it was just a place that she personally enjoyed shopping at.

Nunnally appreciated Roberto’s explanations, but she still felt, somewhat, lost. And that irritated her. Coming here with her background (and with her father being who he was), she should have better recognize the threats, and better understand the implications of places and behaviors. And it wasn’t even that she had not received some training in the past. As much as Nunnally’s relations with her father were complicated (and sometimes she was sure he cared little about her), he did train her to ensure her safety. And it was only her negligence that she didn’t learn as much as she should have. This knowledge would be so useful now!

But what was done, it was done, and Nunnally couldn’t simply come back and ask for additional guidance. That would have been too suspicious; and she knew it.

-- (( Though sometimes Nunnally wondered, if her little escapades were allowed, or truly if she was so good at sneaking out. That worried her a little, but after all Ravein was not on her father’s enemy list. Right? Right. )) --

Actually what Roberto was explaining to her was not that different from the little techniques (or tricks as Nunnally called them), she was using to “disappear”. Crowds were good, and especially if one was wearing the outfit that was rather plain and hence was not standing out, it was quite easy to blend with others. And loose whoever was following you. Again, not that she was sure that she was being followed at all.  

“I…I think I understand. Or perhaps rather get the general idea.” – it was probably too nuanced so that she could immediately comprehend everything but as long as she was listening to Ravein (and Roberto), and following their guidelines, it should be all right? Well, that was the least she could do.

Being comfortable among others…

Nunnally understood what Roberto meant, but then probably she wasn’t the best person to help him with that. She stopped being comfortable with others…long time ago. And when her thoughts just drifted into that directions, Nunnally remembered why she'd rather be alone. After that fateful day, when she had come so dangerously close to meet her end, she had feared that she might be a d a n g e r to those she cared about. Cutting bonds was the easiest solution and as inexperienced as she had been back there, she had done it with her father’s support (but as the time passed Nunnally had leant her father had no use for these kind of relations. Unlike she.).

Had she been a threat back then? Was she a threat now?

But instead sharing these disturbing thoughts with Ravein and Roberto (after all they probably knew enough about her), she opted for keeping the conversation relatively light (and not ruining the day). Yes, Nunnally would often think that speaking up her mind could ruin the day: --

“It will be nice to have you around Roberto. Rav and I need some time to learn how to communicate properly. But we’re getting better, isn’t it right Ravein?” – she looked at the younger man hoping he’d nod his head in agreement. After all, even if the progress was small, there was a progress!

And all right. They would shop for more. Maybe she could get something for Ravein? Nunnally would actually enjoy buying him something. Though maybe she didn’t know him well enough to know what he’d like (and wear)? But that was an opportunity to change it!

Roberto went away, and came back, and the three of them could finally enjoy their drinks. Though Nunnally was insecure in may areas of her life, she knew she was good at making tea and coffee. So, even if they were to dislike it (though Nunnally hoped they would actually like their drinks), she knew it would rather be the matter of what they were fond of than her skills.

But…they did like them!  

It made her feel warm and cozy. At least she could make something nice for them.

With the explanation that followed, Nunnally felt called for a response or at least for a comment. But truth to be told, she wasn’t sure what to say: --

“Well… Yes, sometimes I feel like…like…”

“Sometimes I don’t understand you well Ravein.” – she finally opted for a simple and not-overthought reply – “But I also think you should not change anything that makes you comfortable…for me. I am happy with how the things are.”

“Like we are still learning about each other and that’s just all right…?”

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O5

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Explicit, 18+.

→ DATE POSTED: February 18th, 2025. (Hobi’s birthday special — 2 chapters! <3)

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: After-hours anatomy lab demonstrations, oral examinations taken to new extremes, medical supervision that's definitely not just supervision, educational objectives getting thoroughly derailed, practical assessments of oral capacity, and empirical proof that some lessons are better taught hands-on | after hours encounters, anatomy lab setting, oral examinations, size kink, medical supervision, practical demonstrations, educational roleplay, academic authority, late night studying, clinical instruction, private tutoring, teaching kink, clinical corruption, throat training, oral capacity testing, deepthroating, oral sex (m).

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: So… this happened. Started writing a normal anatomy lab scene and somehow ended up with… whatever this is. Shoutout to everyone who's ever stayed late in a lab for "extra credit" - this one's for you. Also, apologies to actual medical professionals - I promise I'll stop corrupting medical terminology eventually. (No I won't.) Anyway, if you need me, I'll be in confession.

PLAYLIST

The anatomy lab in SNU Medical's west building feels different after hours. 

The place where he assists Professor Kim with first-year dissections now seems more intimate without thirty other students around.

Emptier. 

Like a liminal space where normal rules don't quite apply. 

The preserved specimens float in their jars, casting distorted shadows under fluorescent lights that seem too bright, too stark without the buffer of other students.

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling around the strap of your bag. The clock reads 6:47 PM. Late enough that most faculty have left, early enough that the cleaning staff hasn't arrived.

Perfect timing. 

(Too perfect?)

Hoseok looks up from the desk, glasses reflecting blue light from his laptop screen. His smile is warm, welcoming—the kind that makes you forget why you've been avoiding this.

"There you are." He closes his laptop with a soft click. "I was starting to think you'd skip again."

Heat crawls up your neck. "I wouldn't—"

"No?" His head tilts, curious. "Three weeks of creative excuses suggest otherwise."

You clutch your bag tighter. "That wasn't—I mean, I had—"

"Commitments?" The word curves around his mouth like he's tasting it. "Other obligations? A sudden bout of seasonal allergies?"

Your face burns hotter. You had used that excuse last week.

"I—"

"Relax, Chip." He stands, rolling up his sleeves with methodical precision. "I'm not upset."

But there's something in his voice—something that makes your stomach twist even as he maintains that gentle smile.

He gestures to the empty lab bench.

"How's the paper coming along?"

You blink. "What?"

"Your vagus nerve study." He moves closer, each step measured. "The one requiring... practical assessment."

Oh.

Oh.

"It's—" Your voice cracks. "Fine. Good. I mean—"

"Citations?" 

You nod too quickly. "Working on them."

"Mm." He's closer now, close enough that you catch the faint scent of antiseptic and something warmer underneath. "Still need to conduct those clinical trials?"

Your lungs forget how to function. Because he can't mean—he doesn't mean—

"The gag reflex data," he clarifies, innocent as morning. "We never finished collecting your baseline measurements."

You should say no.

You should absolutely say no.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper: "I thought—the lab equipment—"

"Is right here." He reaches past you—so close his chest almost brushes yours—and opens a drawer. The metal tongue depressor catches the light. "Unless you'd prefer a different method?"

"No!" Too loud. Too fast. "This is—this is fine."

His smile softens at the edges. "Hop up then."

You stare at the lab bench. It's higher than the exam table in his office, cold steel instead of crinkly paper.

Your thighs will definitely stick to it.

(Why are you thinking about your thighs?)

"I can grab a stool," he offers, reading your hesitation wrong. Always wrong. "Though the height differential might affect data collection."

You shake your head and boost yourself onto the bench. The metal is freezing through your thin scrubs, making you shiver. Or maybe that's just him—standing between your knees now, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other tests the depressor's weight.

"Cold?"

You shake your head again. Lie again.

"Your skin suggests otherwise." His knuckle brushes your jaw, clinical and devastating. "Goosebumps."

You can't breathe.

"Open," he murmurs, and you do—automatically, embarrassingly fast. His thumb settles at the corner of your mouth. "Wider."

The metal slides past your lips, cool and smooth and nothing like what you've been imagining late at night when you can't sleep. Not that you've been imagining anything. Not that you've been thinking about his hands or his voice or—

"Focus, Chip." The depressor presses deeper. "You're distracted."

You make a strangled sound that might be denial.

"Breathing's irregular." His thumb shifts, almost slipping past your teeth. "Try to relax. Like last time."

Last time.

Last time, when you'd gone home and touched yourself until your fingers cramped, thinking about his voice saying good girl and his thumb so close to—

"Swallow."

You do. Your throat works around the intrusion as his eyes track the movement.

"Again."

Saliva pools under your tongue, threatening to spill. You swallow harder, fighting the urge to gag as the depressor slides deeper.

"Remarkable improvement." His voice stays perfectly level even as his thumb edges closer to your tongue. "Your oral cavity seems more... receptive today."

You whimper.

"Pain?" Always concerned. Always gentle.

You shake your head minutely.

"Then what?" His glasses slip slightly as he leans closer, examining your reaction. "Excess stimulation?"

You can't answer with your mouth full. Can't tell him that you're thinking about other things that might stretch your throat this way. Can't admit that you've been practicing with your own fingers, trying to suppress your gag reflex for reasons that have nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with the way he's looking at you right now.

"Your pulse is elevated." His free hand finds your wrist, thumb pressing against your racing heartbeat. "We should document these physiological responses. For research purposes."

The depressor shifts angle slightly, and you—

You moan.

The sound echoes in the empty lab, bouncing off specimen jars and steel surfaces. Mortification floods your system as Hoseok goes very, very still.

"Interesting," he breathes, and something shifts in his expression—pupils expanding until only a thin ring of brown remains. His throat works as he swallows, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

The depressor pushes deeper.

"Let's... test your limits." His voice sounds different—rougher, like it's being dragged over gravel. "See how much you can take."

You whimper as the metal hits the back of your throat. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you don't pull away. Can't pull away. Not when he's looking at you like that—intense, focused, hungry.

(No. Not hungry. Clinical. This is clinical.)

"Good girl," he murmurs, the words falling heavy between you. "Just like that."

Your vision blurs as you gag around the intrusion. His thumb catches a tear tracking down your cheek, the touch impossibly gentle.

"Breathe through your nose." His own breathing sounds uneven, which is... strange. Hoseok is never uneven. Never anything but perfectly controlled. "Focus on relaxing your throat."

You try. You try. But all you can focus on is the way his chest rises and falls too quickly, the slight tremor in his usually steady hands.

"Perhaps..." He withdraws the depressor slowly, watching your lips drag along the metal. "We should try something different."

Your heart stops.

"Different?"

His teeth catch his lower lip—a gesture so uncharacteristically uncertain it makes your stomach flip.

"Something more... anatomically appropriate."

Heat pools low in your belly. Because he can't mean—

"The depressor's angle is too rigid," he continues, setting it aside. "We need something with more... give."

You're going to die. You're actually going to die right here on this lab bench.

"What—" Your voice cracks. "What did you have in mind?"

His eyes drop to your mouth. "Something longer. Thicker." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something that can... adapt to your oral cavity."

You can't breathe.

"For accurate data collection," he adds softly, but his voice has that breathless quality you've never heard before. "If you're willing to participate in a more... thorough examination."

Your thighs press together unconsciously. His gaze tracks the movement, pupils blown so wide they look almost black behind his glasses.

"I—" You swallow hard. "Yes."

"Yes?" 

"For... for science."

His smile is different now—darker, hungrier. "For science," he echoes, stepping closer between your spread knees. "Then open your mouth, Chip."

You do.

His thumb slips past your lips.

It rests heavy on your tongue, pad rough against sensitive flesh. You stay frozen, unsure, until his voice drops to a whisper:

"Suck."

The command shivers through you. You close your lips around the digit, drawing it deeper as his other hand grips the edge of the lab bench. The metal creaks under his white-knuckled grip.

"Good," he breathes, watching your mouth work with half-lidded eyes. "Just like that."

His breathing grows heavier as you hollow your cheeks, tongue testing its path around the pad of his thumb. A muscle jumps in his jaw—it’s the only tell he’s not fully unaffected as his expresión suggests.

"Your oral fixation is..." His voice catches as you try sucking harder. "...remarkably developed."

You whimper around his thumb, heat pooling between your thighs at the strain in his voice. His free hand moves to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the quiet lab.

The metallic clink makes your breath catch. His eyes flick over his shoulder, landing on the chair by his desk. A soft chuckle escapes him as he gestures toward it.

"Perhaps we should continue somewhere more... comfortable?"

Your thighs clench involuntarily. 

Is this happening? Is this actually happening?

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for your response. You nod—too eager, too fast, probably looking desperate but you can't bring yourself to care because holy fuck this is real.

The belt slides free with a whisper of leather. He settles into the chair with easy grace, legs spreading to make space for you. Your knees hit the floor before he can even ask, positioning yourself between his thighs like you belong there.

His cock strains against his slacks as he works open his fly. You stare, transfixed, as he frees himself.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your mouth goes dry.

Because he's—he's huge. Thick and long and already leaking at the tip. Your hands look tiny where they rest on his thighs, and the thought of fitting him in your mouth makes you dizzy with want.

"Having second thoughts?" His voice stays gentle even as his cock twitches under your gaze.

You shake your head frantically. "No, I just—" Your voice cracks. "You're... big."

His thumb traces your lower lip. "We'll go slow. Test your limits gradually."

You sigh softly, leaning into his touch as his other hand wraps around his base. The sight of his surgical fingers barely meeting around his girth makes your cunt clench.

"Ready for your practical exam, Chip?"

You lean forward, tongue darting out to taste the precum beading at his tip. His breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

"Start shallow," he instructs, voice remarkably steady despite the way his cock jumps against your lips. "Focus on breathing through your nose."

You obey, wrapping your lips around his head. The taste is heady—salt and skin and him. His hand cups the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there as you take him deeper.

"Good girl." His thumb strokes behind your ear. "Now hollow your cheeks—yes, just like that. Notice how your soft palate accommodates the intrusion?"

You whimper around his length, the clinical terminology somehow making this filthier. His glasses fog slightly as his breathing grows heavier.

"Careful with your teeth," he murmurs, removing his frames. His eyes look darker without them, pupils blown wide as he watches you struggle to take more. "Use your tongue along the—ah—along the ventral surface."

Your jaw already aches from the stretch, but you press forward eagerly, wanting to please him. Wanting to be good. Drool escapes the corner of your mouth as you bob your head.

"Perfect form," he praises, voice growing rougher. "Though your technique could use... refinement."

You pull back to catch your breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. "Show me?"

His hand tightens in your hair. "Eager student." His thumb wipes saliva from your chin. "Okay. Let's test your gag reflex properly now."

You stare at his length, anxiety bubbling in your throat. "I don't—I don't know if that’s going to fit—"

"Hm?" His eyebrow lifts, expression mildly puzzled. "That's unlike you. Don't you always aim for perfect scores?"

Heat floods your face as he cups your cheek, thumb pressing at the corner of your mouth.

"Think of this as another practical exam, Chip." His voice carries that familiar teaching lilt. "Open wide."

You comply, jaw stretching as his thumbs press into your cheeks, guiding your mouth wider. His cock nudges your lips, hot and heavy.

"One inch..." He slides in slowly, watching your lips stretch around him. "Good. Just like that."

Your tongue flattens to accommodate him as he pushes deeper.

"Two..." His thumb wipes away drool from your chin. "Excellent oral cavity expansion."

Three inches in and your jaw already aches. He tuts softly.

"Three... Remember your breathing exercises."

You whimper as he continues, your hands clutching his thighs for stability.

"Four..." He pauses, stroking your hair. "Halfway there."

Your eyes snap up to his in panic. Halfway? That can't be right. You're already so full, your mouth stretched impossibly wide, and he's saying there's more?

"Five..." His voice grows rougher. "You're doing so well."

By the sixth inch, you're gagging, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your throat spasms around him as you fight the urge to pull back.

"That's cute," he murmurs, thumb catching a tear. "You’re struggling, aren’t you? Ah—don't pull away. You can take it."

You whine, chest heaving as he holds you steady.

"Two more inches, Chip." His tone is gentle but firm. "You can handle that, can't you? Wouldn't want to disappoint me."

You make a desperate sound of agreement, even as your throat protests.

"That's what I thought." His fingers card through your hair. "Seven..."

Your vision blurs with tears as he pushes deeper, your throat stretching to accommodate his girth. Drool runs down your chin, but he doesn't seem to mind, just wipes it away with tender attention.

"Just one more," he breathes, voice finally showing strain. "Almost there. You're being so good for me..."

His thumb traces your stretched lip, pushing down slightly as you struggle to accommodate more. The burn is delicious—your jaw protesting as he inches forward. Saliva keeps pooling below your tongue, carving paths down your chin.

"Tsk." He clicks his tongue softly. "Swallow first. Need to keep the airway clear."

His palm settles against your throat, feeling it work as you obey. The contact makes you fuzzy—his surgical fingers spanning your neck, monitoring your every swallow.

For the first time, his exhale sounds unsteady. Sharp. Almost accidental.

"Good girl." The praise makes your eyelashes flutter. "Now—"

His hips shift minutely, cock head pressing against the back of your throat. You gag instantly, tears springing up.

"Angle your chin." His voice stays gentle despite the roughness creeping in. "Opens the passage."

You tilt your head back, letting him guide you with careful fingers. The new angle lets him slide deeper, breaching your throat properly. Your eyes water immediately, gag reflex fighting against the intrusion.

"Breathe," he reminds you, but his own breath catches when you hollow your cheeks. "Through your nose. Steady."

You try. You try. But it's so much—too much—your nostrils flaring as he pushes that final inch past your lips. A choked sound escapes around his girth.

His thumb catches another tear. "Almost there. Just relax..."

Your nose brushes his abdomen as the final inch disappears. He holds you there, thumb stroking your distended throat.

“Perfect depth achievement,” he notes clinically. “How does that feel? Tap my thigh once for manageable, twice for overwhelming.”

You tap twice, desperately.

“Mm.” His smile curves like a scalpel. “We’ll work on your endurance.” His hips roll slightly, testing. “Now… let’s practice sustained accommodation.”

The door’s distant rattle barely registers—you’re too focused on not choking as he begins to move. 

“Look at you, stuffed full like a cream puff about to burst.”

You whine, the sound muffled by his cock stretching your throat impossibly wide.

"Shh." His touch remains gentle even as your eyes stream. "We'll practice until you get it right."

Your tongue tentatively explores his length, tracing the prominent vein on his underside. His composure fractures—just for a moment—as he hisses through his teeth.

"Christ—" His fingers pull your hair suddenly, holding you still as his hips stutter. "No sudden movements, Chip. You'll choke."

But his own control is slipping. His thrusts grow erratic—shallow, desperate things that make your throat flutter around him. Precum leaks steadily now, salty and thick as it mingles with your drool.

"Precious thing," he breathes, thumb collecting the mess from your chin. "Bet I could fit a dozen seeds in that pout… but you’d still beg for the whole fruit.”

The commentary makes you moan around him, and the vibration finally, finally pulls a proper groan from his chest.

“God, Chip,” he groans, “you’re like taffy stretching around my cock. So soft, so pliant. Bet I could mold you into anything I want.”

His hips snap forward suddenly—harder than before—and you gag violently as he bottoms out. He freezes instantly, cursing under his breath as he withdraws.

"Too much?" 

You cough, shaking your head even as saliva drips down your neck. "N-no, I—"

"Shh." He tilts your chin up, examining your face with clinical attention. His thumb probes your stretched lips, pressing down on your tongue. "Swelling here. We should stop."

Panic floods your system. "Wait, I can—"

"Patience." His smile softens, thumb still working your abused mouth open. "We'll build your tolerance gradually."

His other hand wraps around his cock, stroking lazily as he studies you. The wet sounds fill the lab—obscene and perfect.

"Watch," he orders, and you can’t look away from the way his fist glides—slick with your spit, his precum, the absolute ruin you’ve made of him. "This is the proper rhythm. Steady. Controlled."

But his breathing betrays him—ragged and desperate as his pace increases.

"Your turn next time," he promises, thumb pressing against your clenching lips. "Need to monitor your technique."

You nod eagerly, mouth watering as he speeds up. His hips jerk off the chair, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle sounds you desperately want to hear.

When he comes, it's with a choked groan—hot spurts painting your waiting tongue before you can process it.

“Such a sticky mess…” He tuts softly, almost a chuckle. "Like you face-planted in cotton candy.”

You whimper at that.

"Swallow," he grits out, hand gentle on your jaw. "Don't spill."

You obey, throat working around the bitter tang. His thumb swipes the corner of your mouth, collecting a stray drop. 

"Perfect," he murmurs, pressing the digit between your lips. "Clean-up is crucial."

You suck obediently, watching his spent cock twitch against his thigh. His laugh sounds wrecked.

"Insatiable," he chides, but pride colors his tone. "We'll schedule another session. Thursday work?"

You nod, tongue laving his thumb. His eyes darken as he retrieves his glasses.

"Good. Bring your notes on esophageal motility." He tucks himself away with trembling hands. "We'll... review the material thoroughly."

His glasses fog slightly as he helps you up on shaky legs. Always the gentleman. Always in control.

"Thursday," you whisper, voice hoarse.

His smile is pure sin wrapped in medical precision. "Don't forget your notes, Chip."

You won't. You absolutely won't.

Though you doubt either of you will be reading them.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[queerprayers]

i've grown up in quite a secular family, never went to church etc, and only in the past couple of years started celebrating serbian orthodox christmas with my mum where we attend part of the christmas eve mass. i want to get to know christianity a little better, and i know ur lutheran and not orthodox but i was wondering if u have any tips for just. starting somewehere? it feels very strange to sit down and think "Im Going To Pray" when ive neither done it nor seen anyone do it before, but i want to explore a bit, if that makes sense. your blog is very nice and calming i feel like you might have some insight :)

Welcome, beloved!

Prayer is quite strange sometimes and Sitting Down and Doing It does not come easily to most, especially if you didn't grow up doing that. I'm honored to be asked and I have a few thoughts.

At some point as a kid I was taught the acronym ACTS—Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication. I was told a prayer should contain these elements. And I don't technically disagree; I think those are all good necessary things. If you want a formula, there's a formula. But I always found "I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time- waking and sleeping" a much more real description of prayer.

We're told to pray always, without ceasing—prayer is something to bring with us. It is to be in relation with the God who is Love, who knows our suffering, and who hears. To pray is to be heard—and to listen in return, even if what we receive may be holy silence. 

Mass is a prayer, one the Church does together. Liturgy is where I learned most of the prayers I say, where I first chanted the psalms. I learned to read in church. Even once a year, it shows us many parts of prayer—it fulfills the acronym, sure, but attending services has shown me that prayer can be somber, joyful, certain, wondering, penitent, musical, silent. We can also think of things prayer can be that we don't want to replicate—Jesus talks about hypocritical ways of praying, of calling attention to oneself, of "heaping up empty phrases."

It doesn't always look like Sitting Down. There are not always words. I sit down (or lie down, depending) and pray at certain times—this was a hard-won habit, that still doesn't come easy—but it's easier for me to use my own words in the woods.. You can be anywhere, and be doing anything. You don't have to commit to a form—do it a little bit differently each time. Ask a question. Confess something. Picture someone you love in your mind, and feel that love. Look at each person on the subway and wish something for them. Set a timer on your phone to spend five minutes tentatively thinking about God—this is a prayer that can be more deeply felt than all the books in the world.

Whatever strangeness or embarrassment there is in addressing an unseen being, in coming to the Universe with your one quiet voice, it is the strange embarrassment of caring, of attempting what seems impossible, of being earnest about this whole being alive thing. The uncertainty of a new relationship, the doubt of whether it all matters, the unfamiliarity of learning a new skill. But you can do strange things, new things, vulnerable things. Love is continuing movement, and each step takes more bravery. You need communication with Love to live in it. 

Of course there are countless people who do not purposefully pray and yet show more love than I could ever hope to. God has met many, and sustained many, without their ever asking, sometimes without them ever knowing his name. But the asking is another kind of love, and I am one of the many who devote myself to even slight knowledge of his face. You have all you need to join me—because you have God.

The need that flows out of you, all the time—the draw you feel to start—is a prayer already. Really, there is no start—only a joining of a current already in motion. A dipping into a well that never runs dry. Others have the words, if you don't. I learn the psalms because, for all my poetry, I can't say it all, and never as perfectly as they do—and because it's a connection with centuries of voices. The practicing of the divine hours is another connection.

But really, putting aside the walks in the woods and the going to church more and the acronyms and the metaphors—how do you pray on purpose? Ultimately, there is no better answer than the one Jesus gave: Go into your room, shut the door, and (without an earthly audience, without looking a certain way or believing a certain thing) pray to the secret, listening God, in whatever language/version you have,

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever, Amen.

You've never done it or seen it before, sure, but it's built into you, to need this. Once you've done it, you will have seen it. Once you've seen it, I expect you'll realize you have done it before, without noticing. You don't have the words, so they have been given to you. You don't have to believe wholeheartedly each word—that comes later for those of us who grow up in it, and it can come later for you, too. Start in the somewhere you have been placed. 

The first thing we learn how to ask for as babies is the result of every prayer: being heard. So cry out.

<3 Johanna

[centuryberry]

lowkwy Highkey need to analyse those visions of the future and past Yue had like

You have no one else to blame but yourself! You did this! You’re the reason why she’s gone-!”

First of all I have so many guesses on who this could be I'm tweaking

“We shall leave it to the Four Guardian Beasts to ensure that balance is kept in the world. This is the only way to keep everyone safe. From them.”

Like those guardian animals guarding Nuwa's stones in LMK season 5?

From who????

Is this a celestial or is it not a celestial? Maybe Buddha or Guanyin? Or Nuwa? Maybe the Empress Mother

“Erase it. Erase every trace of her until the world forgets her name. I don’t care how you do it! Just erase it all!”

Jade Emperor dur

“Not my son! Please! Have mercy on my son! He has done nothing to offend you! Why are you doing this? And you! How can you call yourself a father when you’re standing aside and letting them–?”

Are they talking about Red Son here or someone else?

Sons: Nezha, Redson, MK, Ao something, one of the twins (but I doubt it)

“Look at what they’ve done to him! A pale shade of what he was! This isn’t justice, this is about control! My love, this is not the time to be careful. This is the time to –”

PIF is that you??

“Uncle! You have gone too far with this! They are just–!”

Nezha what happened?

Is he a thrall pls say nah

“I am sorry, my child. I have failed you.”

This is so vague 😭

Deadass could be anyone with a child and I'm too tired to write that my top 5 though: Nuwa, PIF, Empress Mother, Ao Lie, or literally any other parent.

“ – stay dormant through generations as long as the rings are secure and hidden. And before you say anything, this was because of your mistake. This wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t intervened! This is the best outcome considering the circumstances. For the good of–”

Whos mistake?

Also who or what's staying dormant? The Samadhi Fire?

Honestly the Samadhi fire prolly most likely gonna play a big ass role in this ice zombie apocalypse lmao they're literally White Walkers like the ones from Game of Thrones

“...seal…under the mountain…”

The Bull fam or Wukong

“ –spreading uncontrollably! It can’t be contained! At this rate, this will reach–!”

The infection

now for the futureee wtfd wjqkwbkqkq

"We remember. Even when Heaven wants us to forget you, we will always remember. Even after all the temples were destroyed, we still lit a candle for you.”

We know that was Ma about our girl

“...banished some, executed the others, and subdued the rest. We didn’t understand everything that was happening since we were so young, but we knew that much. So much suffering…”

The twins most likely

😭 give them their talkkkk

“...Island…Lantern…Moon…Scroll…find them all and release…from his shackles...”

Island - Wukong? Similar to the LMK series where flower fruit moment is

Lantern - Macaque oof he is probably been stuck their for centuries imagine waking up and your family's gone to shit most are dead or basically dead, your kids are grown up without you yikes.

I mean it's the same for the rest of them too yikes but damn the guilt from the parents is gonna be real

I thought this wasn't gonna be another major angst fic 😭

Curse you! There better NOT be major character death if any of my hoe's die PERMANENTLY like in "With a Little Soul That Could" imma find where you live 😭 and force you to rewrite that shit now

“Foolish child! This is greater than your petty grudges and old wrongs!”

Damn who we talking to?

“Learn your place, you filthy animals.”

I got nothing a celestial maybe?

“...even…fall…nothing lasts forever…never forgave…”

I feel like I should know but I don't

“Because I love you so much, I’ll give you a hint. What’s the lucky number? C’mon, babe, this is easy stuff! You’re the one who taught me, remember? What’s the lucky number?”

🤯😱

Xiaotian Fragment that you?!!!!

Or is it like those Tony stark pre death hologram videos

One of his clones?

Is it Xiaotian or am I tripping?

“...this world isn’t worth saving…”

Huh.

Lowkey highkey very ominous

Isn't that what Yue and LBD were thinking?

Can Yue hear thoughts or did someone say this aloud?

“Godkiller.”

Our Queen Yue 🎉

I cannot believe I am following another fic of yours 😭 I love it though incredibel writing and the foreshadowing is actually insane

You can't stOP mE frOm makinG My TheORies

Oh my god, "Little Soul" mention on a Tuesday morning???? I can't believe you followed me from the Undertale fandom to the LMK fandom.

Well, as a veteran of my older works, I'll briefly step away from my "no spoiler" stance to reveal this: Queen of the Mountain will have a happy ending. None of that bittersweet tragedy. It will have a happy ending. I will not kill off anyone important to Yue. The Monkey Fam will be together again. (Honestly, I wrote myself into a corner when writing "Little Soul" so I had to pick between forcing a happy ending or keeping the integral message even if the ending was tragic. That won't happen again. I've written so, so many fluffy AUs as an apology for that ending.)

Now, onto the commentary about your theories: These are super detailed! I love the thought you put into your guesses and your comments! We'll see how many of these theories come true in the coming chapters!

[ghostsandmirrors]

"They were givin' it to anyone who couldn't work. I just survived the experiments." There was a pause, because he hadn't wanted to give Steve any more reasons to feel bad for him and the words 'couldn't work' could definitely give him those reasons. "'sides, America thought I died a hero and they didn't find you for decades," and letting the American people think he was dead had to have been intentional; why else let that legacy live on with praise when the reveal could've been devastating to those who cared?

Despite Steve's sigh, despite the tears, despite his best attempts at convincing him that Steve's determination to believe there was a person in here, somewhere, he still disagreed. Even while he pressed into that hand a little, because the touch felt so warm compared to the cold stillness inside, he couldn't agree.

He couldn't agree, but he could breathe, because weapons didn't weep. He could breathe, because Steve needed the stablity, even while the ash being spat from that ruin of a home in his throat was turning to embers in his brain, lighting it up with licks of annoyance, because the insistances that he was a human felt wrong when he barely felt like he had a body in that moment; when his brain couldn't connect himself to James Buchanan Barnes, that poor bastard ; when he couldn't find a time he had ever been 'enough' for God or the universe to take mercy on.

He couldn't figure out how he couldn't deserve any of this, because those priests had always taught that everything happened for a reason and he was far from running out of reasons.

But Steve said just the wrong thing, said that he was too chicken to act, and those embers found purchase in his thoughts.

"What if you hadn't been able to?" he asked about Steve not holding onto him, his tone layered with genuine curiosity and also that heat, because even if he could agree with any of what Steve had said, even if he believed that Steve could have done more, he wouldn't have wanted him to. It was too big of a risk for him to be worth it, because, "what if you'd lost your footin', Steve? Fallen down, too?" The curiosity was fading, the fires of his frustration rising, because James Buchanan Barnes had put so much effort and time into trying to keep Steve alive, had lectured and fought him so often, and Steve was talking about wasting all that effort.

"What if you'd landed wron'? Could've broken your neck. Could've lost a limb, too." His tone was too harsh, but still not louder than the thorns of that spiral burning in his brain that was determined to burn them both down. "Could've handed 'em a second asset," and that word was almost snarled out with pure, heavy hatred for them, for their weapon, for this situation, even for his own tone, because all Steve had done was try to help, try to convince him that all those lessons and all that training was wrong. It wasn't Steve's fault that he'd forgotten how to handle a weapon. It wasn't Steve's fault that he hadn't checked the safety.

He breathed, because that thought hurt him so those words had definitely hurt Steve. He breathed, because weapons didn't weep, but weapons fired rounds and he was too good of a shot. He breathed, because Steve's tears had made sense, and the sting surrounding his eyes didn't.

"You deserve better," he said, "y'just too stubborn to accept it."

And curse his voice, because it'd been so heated, so strong, but the tears in Steve's eyes had flashed through his brain; the thought that he shouldn't be this harsh hit too hard; his throat got a little too tight, a lump settling in a little too quickly; and his voice forgot that he was annoyed with Steve blaming himself, with Steve's determination to risk more than just his life to find what could've been a corpse.

Now that the mental fire had burned itself out, he couldn't look at Steve's face; every thought left behind was covered in a thick layer of guilt. It made his shoulders draw up, made him trying to shrink, made him consider backing away and getting out of the room or out of the building or out of Steve's life as if that could make up for all of this or could stop him from causing any other problems.

"I-… M'sorry."

"They saw more than a science experiment to pick you out of just about anyone else. There were others that had the body type to have the serum. There were other choices. You were a strike to the heart of America and they knew what they were doing in picking you up from the snow and ice and preserving you for over seventy years. They knew it would matter. You can't convince me it was just coincidence that Captain America's best friend was made as the Winter Soldier. Designed to fight against American ideals."

Steve shook his head looking to Bucky and feeling guilty suddenly for putting it in that light. For framing it in a way that Bucky was a piece of meat on a hook. He felt his heart clench a little and he turned to him with a sigh.

"You. don't. deserve. it. either." He punctuated each word and spoke to the heart of the moment, tears bubbling in his eyes as he thought of his best friend. Thought of all his suffering and pain.

"You never deserved any of this. I made you into a walking target by having you follow me into the belly of the beast," he said pressing a hand to Bucky's chest. "You are human. You hear me?"

He let the other soak in the words unsure if it would go through. Not really hearing the inner monologue that ran through the man's head but rather seeing the way the calculating look in his eye spoke volumes of how self depreciating he was.

"You are human. You are enough. You are James Buchanan Barnes and you've been my best friend for over a hundred years. You ain't getting rid of me yet. Whether I don't deserve it or not. I'm pretty sure I do deserve you."

"I have a right to be mad at myself. I've spent years trying to find danger and the one time it mattered and could have saved the only person I care about I was too chicken to stand at the opening of a train and hold onto what mattered."

[cameandwavedtheirarms]

arcane hits in different ways whether you're an older brother (or a parentified child) or a younger brother (or the child that the parentified took care of)

[torchickentacos]

The pokemon anime subreddit fascinates and frustrates me on equally deep levels

[miodiodavinci]

i saw that you used to hint at oc stuff on twitter (don't ask me why im digging im looking for zola stuff lmao) why don't you post more about them?

i am simply terrified that if i post oc things online someone will steal the concept and run with it faster and better than i ever could have and then i will be devastated forever and ever

more seriously i have very little to show for any of my oc things (adhd brain making life difficult as per usual awawawawawa) and every time i've shared oc things in the past i've ended up never following up on it and it makes me feel bad and guilty so i've just convinced myself i will Never talk about my ocs until i have something substantial i can put out there

[cobra-creampuff]

why are they laughing at him as he gets straight up killed??? he doesn't deserve this! he's a sweet kid at heart! he literally just needs one (1) real friend!!

[sturionic]

Activism is not cold-calling.

Activism is not cold-calling, and this is critically important to understand.

I'm seeing a lot of posts on here about 'building bridges' and 'finding community,' and then (extremely valid) response posts saying "BUT HOW??" And I'm going to explain something that can be very counter-intuitive: there is strategy involved in community.

As a longtime volunteer labour organizer, I’ve taken and taught many trainings on the strategy of talking. Something that surprises a lot of people is the very first thing you do in a union campaign. You sit down with your organizing committee, take out pen and paper, and literally map it out. You draw a physical map of the workplace: where are the entrances, exits, break rooms, supervisor offices. Essentially, ‘where is it safe to have a union conversation.’ Then you draw another physical chart of your coworkers. You sort out who is union-friendly, openly hostile to unions, or somewhere in the middle, and then you plan out very deliberately and carefully who talks to whom and in what order.

Consider: If Vocally Leftist Jane walks up to Conservative David and says "hey what do you think about unions," David is going to shut down immediately. He's not inclined to listen to Jane. But if Jane talks to Moderate Jason and brings him into the fold, then Jason is a far more effective strategic choice to talk to David, and David may actually hear him out without an instant reaction.

IMPORTANT CAVEAT: If Conservative David turns out to be Alt-Right David, and could be dangerous to follow organizers, we write him off. We are not trying to reach Alt-Right David. We are trying to reach Conservative David, who may actually be persuaded to find solidarity with other employees as fellow workers. Jason is a safe scout to find out which one he is. It does no one any good if Leftist Jane (or even Moderate Jane who is a visible minority) talks to Alt-Right David and puts herself on his radar. Not only has she done nothing to convince Alt-Right David to join a union - she's probably actively turned him against the idea - but now she's also in danger and the entire campaign is at risk. NOBODY WANTS THIS. Jane was NOT a hero for doing this. The organizing committee was foolish and enacted a terrible strategy to everyone's detriment.

Where you can make a difference is with people who will listen to you. You having a conversation with your well-meaning but clueless Centrist Democrat Auntie, and maybe gently helping her understand some things the media has been glossing over, is way more strategically useful than you marching up to MAGA Neighbour You've Met Once and trying to "build community" or "understand" them. They don't care. They're impervious, dangerous, and cruel. But maybe your beloved auntie will think about what you said, and then talk to her friend Anna who IDs as "fiscally conservative" but didn't vote because she can't bring herself to get on board with Trump. Then perhaps Anna talks to her brother Nic who has MAGA leanings but isn't all the way there yet. Proto-MAGA Nic would not have listened to you, nor would he have listened to Centrist Democrat Auntie, but he might absorb some of what his sister is saying.

This is not a cop-out or an echo chamber. This is you spending your time and energy strategically and safely. You are not a useful activist to anyone if you’re dead. Anyone who is telling you to hurl yourself directly at MAGA assholes like cannon fodder has no understanding of the strategy behind community building, and you should feel comfortable writing them off.

Last point: If you are tired, emotionally devastated, and/or in danger: take a break. This post is for people who would feel better jumping into action, not for people who are too overwhelmed to even think about it right now. You are worth so much even if you’re not actively Doing Activism, and your rest is worth more than “a break period so you can recharge and Do More Activism.” We all deserve the individual dignity of being worthy of comfort, rest & safety just on the basis of being human, outside of whatever we're doing for others' benefit. To deny ourselves that dignity is to devalue ourselves, and that’s the absolute last thing any of us should be doing right now.

[explode-this]

.

[cursed-spirit-manipulation]

thinking Abt Suguru autism and struggling bc I have forgotten 1. Everything Suguru has ever done 2. Every symptom of autism ever and then I remembered Suguru fucking. Knows every curse he's swallowed. And it's like y'know what maybe I don't have to make an airtight case for this

[autisticlee]

I don't understand why so many religious weirdos claim dinosaurs never existed and the bones/fossils dug out of the ground were buried under rock by scientists and then dug back out. it makes no sense at all. does their religion book tell them they were fake? is that what it is? because they seem to love letting some old mistranslated book dictate their entire life, thoughts, feelings, actions, etc. they even make up stuff the book supposedly says to excuse their behavior and justify horrible things, which makes them hypocrites for not actually following their book they claim tells them exactly how to live their lives that they must follow exactly or they will go to hell. but they sure like to pick and choose what they follow and make up new rules. but anyway, why do they hate dinosaurs lmao

[knaveofmogadore]

Hang..

[mostly-imagines]

So This Is Love

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you show each other what love is supposed to be like

4 in 1 blurbs

warnings: section 1: close-call panic attack for j, mentions of ptsd for j // section 2: implied sexual activity // section 3: mild angst w comfort // section 4: implied ptsd for j

He feels like his heart might burst through his chest.

The nightmare wasn’t anything unusual for him, but it did feel particularly vivid tonight. It was more of a memory than anything, though. That same one that plays on a loop in his head throughout the night the more he tries to push it away during the day. It was the last thwack of the crowbar that had him jolt awake in bed.

You shift in your spot next to him, opening your eyes to see his rattled state. If he’d been in a clearer frame of mind he would’ve lied to you. He would’ve expertly leveled his breathing and told you everything was fine and to go back to sleep.

But instead, he looks over at you with wide eyes, chest heaving and shaking like he might start hyperventilating at any moment.

You shoot up from the bed, instantly on alert. This isn’t the first time he’s had one of these nightmares around you, so it’s not hard for you to guess where this is coming from.

“Jay? What’s—what do you need?” You know better than to try and touch him unprompted right now, you’ve panicked enough yourself to know that sudden contact only makes it worse.

“I—I can’t, I—” Now he really looks like he’s about to lose all control of his breathing.

You sit up further, moving onto your knees. “Here, let me—can I see your hand?” you ask gently, holding your own out.

He extends it to you without question, a tiny act of vulnerability that he couldn’t have dreamed of doing in this state before he met you.

You flip his hand over, palm-up and start tracing lines over it in the moonlight. You’re looking at his hand quite intently like there’s something very important on it. It’s enough to make him question what the hell you’re doing. 

“I can read palms.” You tell him, simply. 

“What?” His voice almost breaks, like he’s right at the edge of tears. 

“Yeah, my friend taught me. I can tell the future and everything.” You look up at him, fingers not stopping their trailing. “Do you wanna hear yours?”

All he can do is nod.

You smile and start to inspect his hand carefully, tracing over calluses and a few tiny scars. You draw your finger across the short, deep line parallel to his fingers.

“This one…see the way it curves upwards right there?” He nods. “That means you’re very resourceful and ambitious. Like a leader.” His breathing starts to slow as he watches you, trying to focus on what you’re showing him in the dim light from the window.

“And this one,” you trace the line that curves downwards in the middle, “This one says that you’re strong and stubborn, which I can confirm,” he huffs out a laugh. It’s little but it’s genuine. “But it also means that you’re resilient. You’re built to overcome things and bounce back even stronger because of them. Which I can also confirm.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. He takes in a deep breath, watching you draw patterns across the base of his palm.

The sensation soothes him in a way that he frankly didn’t know he could be soothed. He figures he usually can’t, except when it’s you. He tries to match your breathing, syncing up with you. If anyone else tried to get this close to him when he was on the verge of a panic attack they’d get punched, at best.

But you…you always know how to help him. He’s considered in the past that he did something really right somewhere down the line and you were sent to him as reward. He’d racked his mind for hours of every good thing he’d ever done, trying to find one that could explain your presence in his life. For anything that could explain why he deserved you. He poured and poured over every memory he could dig up but couldn’t find any good he’d ever done that surmounted to a single piece of the good in your heart.

There was a time when he would’ve thought—when he did think that you were only in his life to be taken away as soon as he felt safe. That would certainly be in line with previous experiences. But you showed him quickly that you have this way about you…it makes those loud thoughts in the back of his head shut up and just listen. Listen to your words, your breathing, your footsteps, your laugh…anything he could. Because it turns out, when he listens, he feels safe. 

He’s quiet for a long time, contentedly watching you work. He notices that at some point you’d stopped tracing the lines and began drawing designs instead. 

He breaks the silence after several minutes, softly commenting, “You don’t know how to read palms.”

“No, I do not.” 

But you continued to leave your invisible art on the palm of his hand just the same, both of you taking comfort in the sound of the other's breathing and the soothing feeling of each other’s skin.

The radio plays lightly in the background, surrounding your night with soft ambience. You’re working at the cutting board with tomatoes as Jason leans against the counter next to you, having just finished getting the pasta set up on the stove.

His hands find your hips, resting them there as he watches you work over your shoulder.

“Watch your thumb.” He comments when the knife gets a little too close for his liking.

You shrug him off, “I know how to do it.”

He eyes the way the knife stutters as you cut through the tomato, slicing through not very cleanly at all. “Doesn’t look like it.”

You ignore him, elbowing him gently in the abdomen. He’s joking, but he’s not. The skill level you’re displaying is only above Bruce and slightly below Tim, which is not great.

“Will you let me do it?” he asks you when he realizes there’s going to be no improvement. 

“Fine.” You relent with faux annoyance. 

You switch over to the stovetop, keeping a careful eye on the pasta as it cooks. It’s quiet for a moment as he works, chopping with much more efficiency than you had.  

“You didn’t have to stay here tonight, you know.” You say quietly, still intently watching the stove.

In spite of the music, your low volume does nothing to faze him as he continues his actions, “Why wouldn’t I?”

You stir the contents of the saucepan around. “Well, I know Roy wanted you to go out…”

“Not missing much.” He mumbles, opening up the above cabinet to get out plates.

You lull your head to the side, “Come on, he’s your best friend.”

Jason frowns. “He’s not my best friend.”

You turn your head towards him, “No?”

He meets your gaze, frown consistent. “No. You are.” He says it like he’s confused that you don’t know that. 

“Oh.” You smile, “You’re my best friend too.”

His eyes soften at that, a light smile gracing his lips. He knew that, and he knew you’d say it, but hearing it out loud just…does something to him.

You flick the stove top off, prompting him to on instinct reach for the Marinara jar and crack it open for you. He hands it to you and you accept with a smile, twisting it open the rest of the way as you turn back to the stove. The jar sputters as you open, spitting out sauce.    

“Oh, shit.” You hiss, when the splatter hits your shirt.

He takes one glance at the mess on your shirt and pulls his own shirt off his back. He’s tugging yours off just as fast, replacing it with his. You’ve barely processed what happened as he scans your body, eyes lingering on where his shirt stops at your thighs. “Can you wear this to bed tonight?” He asks, hands running over your waist.

You laugh, “Really?”

He meets your eyes, face serious. “Yes.” He squeezes your hip, “You look good.”

“In your shirt.” You say with a knowing smile.

“In my shirt.” He confirms.

You turn back to the stove to dish out the salsa, his hands skimming around your thighs as you do. He watches you as you work, though rather than watching your hands he’s fixated on the size of his shirt over you and how fucking good you look right now. 

“Or…” He sweeps his eyes over your legs before looking back up at you again. “Did’ya turn the stove off?”

You tilt your head at him, “I did…?”

He grins at you, lifting you up by your thighs til you’re a head above him. “Good.” He maneuvers you over to the counter, setting you on top. He brings your wrist up to his mouth to press a delicate kiss before dropping to his knees.

You’ve been laying in bed for at least three hours, bordering on sleep but never quite falling in. You and Jason had a little spat, though nothing insurmountable, it was still the biggest fight you’ve had to date. You’d tried going out (at night) to see your friend that was having a hard time, and yeah, you should’ve told Jason you were going. It was only five blocks, give or take, but in Gotham at eleven o’clock at night, it’s a risk to say the least.

You should’ve told Jason, you know. But he wouldn’t have let you go or would’ve insisted on putting hold on patrolling to accompany you. You always feel bad when he does that—people could be getting hurt somewhere because you needed your boyfriend to walk you down the street. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter in the end because he caught you red handed before you’d even made it a full block away. Of all the nights for him to come home early, it had to be this one.

He dropped down from the rooftop behind you and scared the absolute hell out of you, and you didn’t even have time to be relieved that it was just him because he was on you in a flash. 

“What the hell are you doing out here?” His voice was hard through the modulator, a rare tone for him to use with you.

“I just—my friend—” he sounded tired and angry, sure signs that he’d really not had a good night so far which was probably all the more reason that you shouldn’t have been out by yourself in the middle of the night.

“What are you—no! Go home. Now.” You would’ve, you really would’ve, but your friend called you crying about her boyfriend cheating on her again and she needed the in person support. 

“Ja—” You’d cut yourself off, “It’s down the street, it’s fine—” He dropped his shoulders in a huff and faced you dead-on. You didn’t need him to take his helmet off to know exactly how he was looking at you.

He dropped down and hooked his arm around the back of your legs, lifting you off the ground with no discernible effort. “Wha—”

He started walking before you were even fully planted on his shoulder, arm wrapping around your legs to hold you in place. 

“Hood! I am so fucking serious, put me down!” You swatted at his back and struggled in his grip, though in the back of your mind you knew it was a pointless effort. Even if you were a match in size, whatever mood he’d been pushed in was enough to guarantee that you had no chance. 

He ignored you, not even pretending that you were giving him any difficulty with your squirming. He marched you back down the block to your apartment, not stopping until you’re outside your door. He set you down in between him and the entrance, digging into his pocket for his key.

He kicked the door shut behind him, finally letting you go. He wordlessly grabbed one of his spare guns and two cartridges of ammo from inside the closet by the door and turned back to you with a firm stance. “Stay here.”

You immediately tried to push past him again, at that point more angry about him dragging you back here than about having to duck out on your friend. He stopped you, holding you by the arms, which led you to respond by raising your voice at him, “Jason!” 

But he didn’t waste any time letting you know how it is, “I will lock you in this fucking apartment. Stay. Here.” Him cursing at you like that was very rare and not a particularly good sign, so through your anger you’d made the decision that it was better to relent, for now. Your posture dropped and you frowned at him resentfully, a visible cue that you were giving in without you having to say it. 

He stayed true to his word and locked the door on his way out, though knowing you could easily unlock it from the inside. You’d trudged into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you.   

Now you lay on Jason’s usual side of the bed, partially because you do miss him, partially because the bed feels a little less empty when you can’t see all the empty space. You know he was just trying to keep you safe after what was probably a rough start to the night, so you feel less than great that you’d yelled at him.

Your dwelling over the memory is interrupted by a quiet creak of the bedroom door. You blink up at him blearily, “Jay?” You sit up, furrowing your brow. You didn’t even hear him come home. “What’s wrong?” You figure he must be hurt to come in here—it’s not unknown for him to sleep on the couch if he feels like he did something wrong or upset you.   

Your eyes attempt to adjust to the darkness, scanning over him for any injuries. He’s out of his armor and in his regular clothes which means he must have showered already. And you know from dozens of nights patching him up that he always tends to his injuries before showering.

This leaves you confused, as you look up at him, waiting for an answer. “I can’t…I don’t want to sleep without you.” He whispers, eyes on the floor. 

You shuffle back into your usual spot near the wall and hold your hand out to him expectantly. You’re still a bit cross with him, but you miss him too much to care right now.

It takes him a second to move, but he eventually lingers away from the door and makes his way to the bed. He takes your hand as he climbs onto the bed, letting go only when you lay down after him, staring up at the ceiling next to him. 

You weren’t entirely expecting him to wrap his arms around you and tug you into his chest. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’d assumed he would lay on his side and you on yours and that would be enough for him to fall asleep with. Instead, he tightens his arms and buries his face into the crook of your neck. You lay there in silence for a couple minutes, both thinking.

“You’re mad.” He mumbles into your shoulder after a while. You know he feels badly about the dispute, you knew it while it was still happening. As hard as he tries, he’s not very good at hiding his emotions. Not with you, anyways.

You shrug slightly. “Barely. I’ll get over it. This is more important.”

He picks his head up to look at you, “I love you. You know that?”

You wiggle out of his grip a bit, making him frown. You use the new space to flip over to face him, before placing his arm back around your waist. You peek up at him, looking him in the eyes, “I do. You know I love you. Even when we fight.”

He looks at you like he’s a bit thrown off by your words. “I’m sorry. It was just…it was a rough night…I—I’m sorry.” He tells you dolefully.  

You shake your head, frowning. “Don’t be. I should’ve texted you.”

“It—yeah. Please. I just worry about you.” He looks so sad and it makes you feel somehow worse.

“I know,” you whisper, “I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t be.” He kisses your forehead, not moving away after.

You feel like you can finally relax and your tense body doesn’t take long to slacken in his hold. Soon after, he does the same, both of you closing your eyes. You feel your heart slow and your mind starts to find a space of peace.    

Jason didn’t get it at first.

Honestly, he didn’t really realize that you noticed things about him that even he didn’t see.

Your neighbor was having their place remodeled and you knew there would be construction going on near your apartment all day.

Jason didn’t really care, planning to bury his head under the pillow and trying to sleep through it. You however, seemed very adamant about getting out of the apartment that day. You’d left hours before the construction crew had even gotten there, telling him it was a nice day out.

It was an alright day, but he let you have your way.

You held his hand as you walked down the street, looking into shop windows and commenting on things you think he’d like.

You led him into a book store excitedly, telling him about how the author he’d been binging had just published something new. He didn’t even know that.

You were browsing the sections, flipping through books as you went. You peered across the shop at a kid holding an absolutely massive pile of books, who was clearly struggling to keep them in his arms.

His mother tried to help him but he shook his head and strided away independently, albeit very slowly. The weight of the books though, did get the best of him, and you could tell by the quivering in his arms that he was going to drop them.

“Loud noise.” You said quickly, seemingly out of the blue. Jason turned to you, confused, before seeing the stack the books splat flat onto the ground. It was indeed a loud noise.

He tilts his head at you, though you’re still busy watching the little boy as he throws his head back in frustration.

“What was that?”

You look at him, “He dropped his books.”

“Yeah, I saw. But why—”

His question gets cut off by the kid bursting into tears, wailing. You turn back to look at him, your gaze getting caught by the new book you’d been telling him about. “Ooh!”

You grab his hand and pull him over with you, smiling widely when you have the book in your hands. The sight of you makes him feel so warm so fast that he forgets about the odd interaction all together.

A couple hours later, you sit outside a cafe and eat lunch together, his back to the road, you sitting diagnal to him.

He’s telling you about the shit Damian got in trouble for at school last week, holding your hand with his right hand and eating with his left.

“He thinks he’s not going to get expelled for pulling shit like that every other week, it’s ridiculous.” He says, tossing his napkin down on the table.

Your smile is wavers as your eyes move past his shoulder looking down the block before widening, “Car—”

The sudden noise startles him enough to make him visibly jump, hand flying to where his holster would be. He looks over at the fender bender, shoulders relaxing.

He turns back to you to find your eyes looking far more worried than they should. You seem to be scanning his face, looking for something and he’s about to ask you what’s wrong when it sinks in.

He does get scared by unexpected loud sounds, doesn’t he? He never really thinks of it until it happens, but his mind is trained to expect gunshots or crowbars making impact.

It doesn’t happen often, but it noticeably takes a little piece out of him when it does.

“You…” he tries, but falters. He’s not even sure he’s processing this right.

He’s never seriously tried to fathom that you love him half as much as he loves you, though love doesn’t feel like a strong enough word. He lives and breathes for you, you’ve become a lifeline he’d been stranded without for most of his life. But now you're here and you’re everything, you’re in his head all the time, in every emotion he feels.

He thinks he’s here for you, that he was brought back from the dead because of you. You can’t possibly understand how much his heart is full of you, he doesn’t understand it himself.

He knows you love him, he’s gotten that through his head. But he can’t get a grasp on the idea that he’s equally matched in the who loves who the most battle.

Do you really care that much about him to go out of your way to keep track of things that might startle him? He knows there’s a million things about you that are in the back of his mind at any given time, but surely you don’t operate that same way with him?

Do you?

There’s this burning in his heart that aches and it only gets stronger when he sees you looking at him like that. So genuine. With care, with love.

He squeezes your hand, “I love you. More than anything.”

The look on your face sinks back into that sweet, adorable look that he’s so used to and it makes him want to scream.

You smile that bright smile and it sends his heart rocketing into oblivion. “I love you.” You squeeze his hand back, “More than everything.”

He feels like his heart might burst through his chest.