#killing killing killing them with my mind

[niwaart]

DIFFERENT WORLD, DIFFERENT FAMILY

(Part1)... (part2)...

Tim felt… weird.

It wasn’t the usual kind of weird, like finding a new case file that didn’t add up or stumbling upon Damian’s latest sketchbook filled with disturbingly accurate battle wounds. No, this was different. This was Y/N.

Ever since she had appeared in their world, claiming to be Bruce’s wife from another reality, she had been hovering. Not in an intrusive way, but in a way that made Tim’s skin prickle with unease. She asked him questions, too many questions.

"Did you eat?"

"Are you sleeping enough?"

"You look tired, should I make you tea?"

And the worst part? She waited for him.

Tim wasn’t used to that.

In the Manor, Alfred was the one who took care of them, bandaged their wounds, and made sure they didn’t starve during late-night patrols. But Alfred’s care was routine, expected. Y/N’s attention was… personal.

Tonight was no different.

Tim had just dragged himself back from a grueling stakeout, his muscles aching, his mind buzzing with caffeine and exhaustion. The clock read 3:17 AM. The Manor was silent, save for the faint hum of the grandfather clock in the hall.

And yet—

"You’re back."

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin.

Y/N stood by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp despite the late hour. A steaming bowl of soup sat on the counter beside her, the scent of ginger and herbs filling the air.

Tim blinked. "You... you waited up?"

She shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You weren’t home. Of course, I did."

Something twisted in Tim’s chest.

He wasn’t used to this.

Damian Wayne was many things, observant, calculating, and very aware of when something was off.

And Y/N’s behavior? Definitely off.

She treated Tim like… like he was fragile. Like he might break if she didn’t watch him closely. It made Damian’s teeth grind.

At breakfast, she slid extra pancakes onto Tim’s plate.

When Tim yawned, she immediately asked if he needed rest.

And the way she looked at him—like she was seeing someone else.

Someone is gone.

Damian didn’t like it.

So he confronted her.

"You favor Drake."

Y/N paused mid-step in the hallway, turning to face Damian. His arms were crossed, his expression unreadable.

She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Damian snapped. "You hover over him like he’s made of glass. You barely pay attention to me or Father... yet you act like Drake is the one who needs protecting."

Y/N’s expression flickered, something dark and wounded flashing in her eyes.

Damian didn’t miss it.

"...He died in my world," she said softly.

Damian stilled.

"The Joker killed him. And when he came back… he wasn’t the same." Her voice cracked. "So yes. I do hover. Because the thought of losing him again any version of him makes me sick."

Damian didn’t know what to say.

Bruce had been watching.

He had seen the way Y/N moved through the Manor—like she belonged there. The way she rearranged the paintings, the way she instinctively knew where everything was.

And the way she looked at Tim.

Now, standing in the Batcave, he finally asked the question burning in his mind.

"In your world… how did Tim die?"

Y/N’s hands clenched.

"The Joker..."

Bruce’s blood ran cold.

"And when he came back…?"

She looked away. "He came back wrong. Full of rage. Full of pain."

Bruce exhaled slowly.

No wonder she watched Tim like a ghost.

Tim found her in the library later that night.

Y/N was curled up in an armchair, an old photo album in her lap, photos taken by Alfred of the family. She was smiling with every picture.

He hesitated before sitting beside her.

"...You don’t have to worry about me, you know," he said quietly. Bruce told him about Tim in her world and what happened to him... like what happened to Jason.

Y/N smiled sadly. "I know."

A beat of silence.

"...But I’m going to anyway."

Tim didn’t argue.

For the first time in a long time… it didn’t feel so bad to be cared for.

#############################

Dick Grayson had heard rumors.

Not from Bruce... no, Bruce had been characteristically tight-lipped. Not from Alfred, who had only cryptically said, "The Manor has an unexpected guest." Not even from Tim, who had been weirdly evasive in his texts.

No, Dick had heard it from Damian.

And Damian never lied.

"Father’s wife is here. From another world."

Dick had nearly dropped his phone.

The clock struck 2:47 AM when Dick slipped through the Manor’s front door. He hadn’t announced his arrival, partly because he wanted to see this "otherworldly wife" for himself before jumping to conclusions, and partly because he really didn’t want to deal with Bruce’s inevitable interrogation.

The Manor was quiet. Too quiet.

No Damian lurking in the shadows. No Tim typing furiously in the study. No Alfred offering tea.

Just… silence.

And then—

"You’re not a burglar."

Dick spun around, escrima sticks already in hand, only to freeze.

A woman stood at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that was equal parts amusement.

She looked… not like what he expected, He expected someone who looked like one of the rich ladies in Gotham. Full of accessories and gold, shining from every angle... but that didn’t happen.

that made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

Motherly.

Dick lowered his weapons. "Uh. Hi?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You must be Dick."

His stomach flipped.

She knew his name.

Five minutes later, Dick found himself sitting at the kitchen island, a mug of hot chocolate pushed into his hands.

He stared at it.

"...Alfred never makes hot chocolate."

Y/N smirked. "That’s because Alfred doesn’t know it’s your favorite."

Dick’s fingers tightened around the mug.

How did she—

"You’re from another world," he said slowly, testing the words.

She nodded. "One where I’m married to Bruce. Where Damian is twenty-two, eldest son."

Dick’s breath caught.

"And… me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N’s expression softened. "You’re twelve."

Dick choked on his drink. "Twelve?!"

She laughed... a warm, bright sound that filled the empty kitchen. "Yes. And you’re adorable. Always trying to prank me, always getting caught."

Dick didn’t know whether to be offended or touched.

Y/N studied him for a long moment before sighing.

"You’re taller here," she murmured. "Older. More tired."

Dick stiffened.

She reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

"But you still have the same eyes."

Dick’s throat tightened.

He hadn’t had a mother in years.

A shadow appeared in the doorway.

Bruce.

Of course, he’d wake up.

Dick tensed, waiting for the inevitable "What are you doing here, Dick?" or "You should have called."

But Bruce just… looked at Y/N.

And Y/N looked back.

Something unspoken passed between them, something that made Dick feel like he was intruding on a moment he wasn’t meant to see.

Then Bruce sighed.

"...You made him hot chocolate."

Y/N smirked. "He looked like he needed it."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dick, we’ll talk in the morning."

Dick grinned. "Sure thing, Dad."

Bruce’s eye twitched.

Y/N laughed.

@el-hrts @alishii @cuntiesweet @hjgdhghoe @sirenetheblogger @simpforlanzhan @anonymoustext

[wonderjanga]

Memory Lane

Somehow, Captain Marvel has been hit by a magical spell that trapped him in his own memories. As a result, the JL went inside of his mind to try and pull him out. For some reason, the Captain was there too trying to find an exit though.

Marvel: “Ah… yes. One of my happiest weddings.”

GL: “Pardon?”

Marvel: *ignores him* “This was one of the rare lives one of them actually got to choose who to marry. She loved her, truly.”

Martian Manhunter (MM): “Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?”

Marvel: “I was?”

MM: “Yes—”

Marvel: “Ignore that then.”

Wondy: “What do you mean choose, then? I don’t remember any Amazonian’s having arranged marriages. Did it fall out of practice?”

Marvel: “If I remember correctly it never was a practice.”

Billy was talking about how most of the female Champions never got to choose their spouse… in their mortal forms. Most of them instead resolved to simply stay in their champion form all the time and lord that over anybody who tried to control them. Good times,

Soon after that, they moved onto to another memory. One of Adam killing a whole bunch of people when he took over Egypt.

Marvel: *trying to find words, opening and closing mouth* “…whoopsie-daisies.”

Flash: “WHOOPSIE-DAISIES??”

Supes: “You’re… a cold-hearted killer… how did we not know this?” *panicking, thinking everything they knew about Marvel’s a lie*

Marvel: “Uh… cause that wasn’t me?”

Flash: “How was that not you?? You literally have a first-person memory of it!”

MM: “Captain, I can also feel the emotions you experienced during that memory. You felt no guilt in the slightest.”

Marvel: “Yes, but would you ever stop to consider I was maybe a different person during that time?”

Flash: “We were all different people ten to 20 years ago, but none of us were murdering people!”

Marvel: “Again, yes, but one, this was over 5000, and two, I was quite literally a different person.”

Supes: “How?? And who??”

Marvel: “Well, every now and then, I just change into person.” *shrugs* “Have you seen Doctor Who? It’s kinda like that. Kinda.”

*silence*

Marvel: “Anyways, at this specific time, I was Adam.”

Supes: “As in…?”

Marvel: “Black Adam.”

The JL after that ran into many many many more memories of Marvel committing atrocities whenever he was other champions. (Cause the other champions weren’t picked because they were pure of heart. Before Adam, no one truly implemented that system yet) Billy doesn’t think he’ll ever regain their good opinions about him ever again.

[gay-dorito-dust]

This is my first ask for anything so forgive me in advance.

I was wondering if you'd have any gender neutral headcanons for Bob with a reader who's goth. Like a Addams Morticia and Gomez kind who looks haunting but is generally so sweet to everyone in this strange way. Readers absolutely down bad for Bob.

"Goth bad bitch I got by being autistic "

🫵👁👁👍 tysm ima go evaporate.

You and bob were jarring to look at side by side, not in a bad way, but more so in a way of curiosity of how your clashing aesthetics oddly complimented each other in a way.

However to those that knew you were aware that you were the sweetest person they've ever met, even if you did look as though you had come out of an Addams Family movie, and that was not to mention the fact that you'd often treat those closest to you in a uniuqe expression of affection.

Some of which includes being given throneless black roses, taxerdermied animals in funny outfits, home decore that is heavily assosiated with death or the afterlife, insecets submerged in amber, vertibrae bracelets, skull shaoed candel holders and even a weighted plushy of a death's head hawk moth and or bat.

your unique kind of sweetness might not be to everyone's taste but your gestures of kindess and concern for your friends well being wasn't lost on them at all, some even finding humour when you give them a taxerdermy gerbal in a fancy suit, cane and top hat or a card that said 'i'd help you cover up a murder' or 'i hope we have a shared coffin as there's no one rather be six feet underground with then you.'

to your darkness there was a sweetness that couldn't be denied as you have given each thunderbolt a morbid gift that you thought suited them.

For Yelena you had given her a selection of ear jewlery of daggers, roses morphed into skulls, the sythe of the grim reaper and more when she had told you she was in needed of more.

For Ava you had given her mini ghost figurines that line her shelves, a play on the fact that her name was 'ghost' and you saw her groan upon getting them, but the smile that followed after her playful slap to your arm told you that your gift was more then appreciated.

For John you had given him a pocket bat gnome for no particular reason at all, yet now and tehn you would see him hold the little pocket plush in his hand, squeezing it now and then when he felt the need to worsen his mental state by looking online. it brought him an odd sense of comfort that he will never admit to you but it was clear to see whenever he pulls out his keys, the bat gnome was there, ever present.

For Alexei you had gotten him shot glasses in the shapes of skulls, bats or a regular beer glass with similar designs for whenever he treated himself to a celebratory drink or two. You were given a bone crushing hug from the man as he laughs wholeheartedly in your ear, but you wouldn't trade it for anything.

now as for Bob you were incredibly infatuated with the man who could barely watch a horror movie without burring his head into your shoulder, the man who always complimented your look even if you dressed like you were going to kill someone, all the while with an adorbale puppylove within his big blue eyes.

you couldn't help yourself but find everything he did to be something spectacular, even if it was simply washing the dishes, reading self help books or toying with the seelves of his baggy sweater out of nervous habbit, biting his bottom lip.

anything he did was precious to you and you didn't want to waste a single second no worshiping the ground he walked upon, kiss the back of his hands, kiss his forehead and whisper words of affection agaisnt him when his mind told him otherwise. even if your words of affection consisted of how you'd walk through the valley of death for him, hoping to join your souls in elysium forever, never to part from one another like you never did in life.

you didn't dare think about parting from his side, only doing so when when he required his own space, but otherwise you were locking your arms with his as you wandered through the halls of the Watchtower close together. the mere thought of parting from Bob pained your heart and you'd act like a mourner when he leaves your sight for five seconds, you literally wore a funeral outfit when Bob left your side for just about anything.

'my heart has been shredded in two, never to be put back together becuase the pieces are so small, so incapable of fitting together again as the love of my life has left me on my lonesome.' - you when Bob had to get something from his room, he even gave you a kiss on the forehead, telling you he'd be back but the second he stepped out of the room you were inconsolable.

so when Bob does come back with what he needs, you've latched onto him and burry your face within his neck while the man is smiling sheepishly, rubbing your back as he holds you close as whispered that he would never take that long again.

Bob was not use to having someone like you in his life to love him and act as if any amount of ditance between you two was heartbreaking for you, and looking at him as though he was more then he gave himself credit for, holding his face between your hands and like you haven't seen him in a while and commiting every part of his face to your memory in the unfortunate event you would forget what he looked like.

even though you both knew you never would, how could you forget the face, the laugh and the smile of a man whom you love with your whole heart so easily becuase that didn't sound like you at all. not one bit.

many wonder how Bob managed to have you, but you were quick to tell them that it was him who had managed to hook you with his kindess, his sweet soul, his beauitful heart and his ability to extend the hand towards those who needed it despite suffering his own battles.

You were taken the moment that Bob had given you flowers that unfortunately dried up and died, yet you loved them regardless and had them put in a photoframe that remained on your bedside table to this day, amongst other things that he had given you since that fateful day.

there wasn't a words that left your lips that didn't contain Bob's name in someway, talking about how beautiful he was, how generous he was and yet how powerful he was when doing simple tasks that displayed the strength that no average human possesed, a Hercules like figure if you will but without the demi-god status, but a man delt a tragic man and came out of it an even brighter version of himself despite the trials and tribulations he went through.

His heart still bleeds kindness, his smlie brought you joy and life within your chest, his touch brough air to your lungs and his eyes allowed you to know where home was whcih was with him and in his arms, basking in his warmth as you allowed his light to shine on your darkest days.

you loved Bob so deeply you fear that the broken heart that would follow from it would kill you, yet there was reassurance that you would find him again in the infinate lives you'll both share in differrent universes, whether he was still called Bob or gone by another name, he would still be yours becuase you will it so and demnad that fate let you have this one simple ask; to always allow you to be by Bob's side.

not becuase you didn't think he could surivive without you, you knew he could as he was the strongest man you've ever loved in a long, long time. you merely ask the universe, ask fate this because you couldn't see yourself without him.

Bob was happy that he had you, he didn't mind you clining onto him like you do, for you always gave him the space to breath when needed but even then Bob just wants you to be close by. He could never feel down when you were there telling him that you'd much rather commit arson then ever say goodbye to him, a weird thing to say but Bob knew that this was just you being passionate about him.

'i'd kill for you my love.' you tell him. 'i wouldn't let a single thing hurt you or threaten you, as i would gladly die for you if you so ask me to as well as live for you if you pleaded me to. whatever you want from me will forever be yours without question.' you finished as you ran your fingers through his hair, admiring how soft and fluffy it was as it slipped through your fingertips.

'i could never ask you to such lengths for me.' he tells you, knowing that you weren't joking when saying that you'd kill for him should he show a distate for someone. To have someone do something without much of a reason other then your lover told you to do so wasn't a fate Bob wanted for you, he didn't want your hands stained in blood for him as he'd much rather just be here with you in your shared bed; thankful that you get to do so and lull him to sleep like you always did with your protective presence.

'i know my love,' you replied, 'i'm just merely putting out the extents i'd go for you, but if you only wish me to be here for you then here for you i will be forever and always.'

Bob grabs your free hand, intertwine your fingers as he placed it on his chest, where you could feel his heart beat, before kissing it as he looked at you with such softness it took the air from your lungs. 'then i want you to stay, here, with me and like this even when we're old ang grey, please.'

you smile and kissed the tip of his nose, then across his forehead, then back down his nose until you pecked his lip softly as you rested your forehead against his own. ‘Then here I will stay, until we’re old and grey and the grim reaper allows us a final moment because even death wouldn’t dare tear a love as pure as ours apart, granting us the possibility of finding one another again and again until forever ends.’

‘Until forever ends.’ Bob echoed, closing his eyes as he allowed himself this happiness that he thought he’d never get, happy to have been proven wrong as he finally got to say that he had been loved

[midnightcarielle]

My name is Anna and I loathe bananas. With a passion. Ghastly fruit. People might sometimes greet me in a jokey fashion with 'Hey, AnnaBanana!'. I kill them silently in my mind.

oh my god

[dior-luxury]

If you dont mind, i will love to request for the first year students (minus Ortho cuz he is the baby™ and we respect that) with a s/o that tells them that they love them out of nowhere and at random times

Like, both can be just hanging out or even studying together and s/o suddently just look at them with a cute smile and tells them that they love them

Please :3

S/O Tells Them They Love Them Out Of Nowhere

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/slight comedy - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] first years

- [𝐩:𝐬] Romantic Confessions . Mild Language . Blushing/Flustered Characters . Soft Moments/Slice of Life . Unprompted “I love you” Confessions . Emotional Vulnerability . Minor PDA (Kisses on cheek/forehead/lips mentioned) . Heartwarming Overload/Tooth-Rotting Fluff . Sebek Volume Warning (Sebek yells. A lot.)

Note: This request is so cute!! Thank you so much for requesting this anon—now I'm in love with this prompt 😭Honestly, I loved how this turned out (Sebek made me laugh, Lol), and I 100% am going to be making more parts for this!

Ace Trappola

It had started off as an ordinary afternoon—one of those chill days where the sun peeked lazily through the windows of the Heartslabyul common room, casting a warm glow over the floor. Ace was sprawled out across your bed with his arms tucked behind his head, flipping through a deck of cards he had pulled out for fun, while you sat beside him with a book open on your lap, though your attention had been drifting away from the words for a while now.

He was talking about something silly—probably poking fun at Cater’s latest selfie spree or mocking Riddle’s latest “unbirthday party” decorations. His voice had that playful, teasing lilt that always made your lips curl into a smile. You glanced over at him, watching the way his brows danced with amusement, the corners of his lips twitching as if even he couldn’t fully contain his own jokes.

And it just hit you. Like a wave of warmth crashing into your chest.

“I love you,” you said softly, your voice barely above the gentle rustling of the pages in your lap.

Ace blinked. The cards slipped from his fingers and scattered across the blanket, forgotten. “Huh?” he sat up halfway, caught between surprise and disbelief, eyes narrowing playfully. “Where’d that come from?”

You just smiled, shrugging a little. “I don’t know. I just looked at you and... I felt like saying it.”

His mouth opened, like he wanted to throw out a sarcastic reply, something teasing and cool—but it didn’t come. Instead, he looked at you for a second longer, and his usual smirk melted into something softer, something real. His ears turned the faintest shade of red, and he rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes like a shy high schooler in a romcom.

“Tch… you can’t just say that outta nowhere, you dork,” he muttered, though there was no bite to his words. “You’re gonna make my heart explode or something.”

You leaned in closer with a grin, resting your head on his shoulder. “Good. Then I’ll say it again. I love you.”

“Ughh, you’re trying to kill me, I swear.” But despite the groan, he slung an arm around you, pulling you in with an exaggerated sigh. “Guess I’ll die happy, though. I love you too, alright? So stop being all cute or I’ll have to kiss you till you forget how to talk.”

And he did, actually—smack dab on your cheek, nose, forehead, lips—everywhere until you were laughing, half-flustered, half-giddy. That night, Ace couldn’t stop randomly blurting out “I love you more” every time you smiled at him, just to fluster you in return.

Deuce Spade

Deuce was always a little tense when he studied—he took his grades seriously, especially after his “delinquent past” days. So when the two of you sat in the library, books and notebooks spread out around you, he was hunched over his notes with his brows scrunched in concentration, muttering formulas under his breath like sacred chants.

You watched him in quiet admiration. The way his lashes lowered as he focused, how his hand moved quickly across the page, how his tongue poked out just a little when he was really trying to work through a problem—it was adorable. You couldn’t help it.

“I love you.”

The words left your lips soft and natural, like a leaf floating on the surface of a still pond.

Deuce blinked once. Then twice.

He slowly looked up from his notebook, pen frozen mid-stroke. “H-Huh? W-What did you say?”

You giggled, resting your chin in your palm as you looked at him with those warm, unfiltered eyes. “I said I love you. Just felt like reminding you.”

His entire face lit up like someone had flipped a switch. A deep crimson blush climbed from his neck to his ears, and he nearly dropped his pen. “W-Wha—you can’t just… drop that on me while I’m doing algebra!”

You laughed again, reaching out to poke his cheek gently. “But your reaction is so cute.”

Deuce groaned into his hands, completely flustered. “Y-You’re really unfair sometimes...”

But he peeked through his fingers at you, and the softest, sweetest smile curved his lips. “I love you too. A lot. I—I mean, like… it just makes me really happy to hear that, even if I get all weird and… yeah.” He was rambling now, but you could feel the sincerity in every word.

A few moments passed. Then, very shyly, he leaned over the table and pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll study twice as hard now. I wanna be someone worthy of those words.”

You swore your heart skipped a beat right then.

From that moment on, every time you said “I love you” randomly—during walks, between classes, even when you were both brushing your teeth—Deuce’s whole face would always light up like a firework. And no matter what, no matter how surprised he looked, he always said it back, even if his voice cracked a little from being caught off guard.

Because deep down, it meant the world to him that you loved him, just the way he was.

Jack Howl

It was a quiet afternoon in the Savanaclaw lounge, sunlight streaming in through the windows and casting golden patches across the floor. Jack sat beside you on one of the larger couches, a textbook propped open in his lap while he scribbled notes with furrowed brows. He was always so focused when he studied — sharp eyes scanning the page, tail occasionally twitching in concentration. You’d been flipping through your own notes, not really absorbing the words, more focused on the soft, peaceful aura around him.

You looked up from your notebook and rested your chin on your hand, just watching him. His ears flicked slightly, clearly noticing your gaze, but he didn’t look up right away. He was too used to your presence — comfortable, secure.

You smiled softly, the kind of smile that came from a full heart.

“I love you, Jack,” you said, your voice quiet but warm, like a summer breeze.

His pen stopped mid-word. Slowly, his head turned to look at you, those pale green eyes widening just slightly. “Huh?” he asked, blinking like you’d snapped him out of a trance.

“I said I love you,” you repeated, still smiling. “Just felt like telling you.”

Jack’s ears turned a little pink at the tips, and a faint flush spread across his cheeks. He cleared his throat and looked away for a second, trying to hide the tail wag he couldn’t quite stop. “You can’t just say that out of nowhere like that…” he muttered, ears twitching. “You’ll catch me off guard.”

“But I like saying it when you least expect it,” you said, leaning a little closer to bump your shoulder against his.

He glanced at you again, the corner of his mouth quirking up despite his efforts to stay composed. “Yeah, well… I like hearing it. Even if it throws me off.”

You grinned and leaned your head on his shoulder, and he adjusted his posture so you could rest there more comfortably. After a long pause, you heard him mumble — so quiet it could’ve been mistaken for a breath — “I love you too.”

And even though he returned to his textbook soon after, the way his tail curled around your ankle said it all.

Epel Felmier

The two of you were sitting under a big apple tree just outside the school gates. Epel had insisted you come with him to his favorite quiet spot — away from the noise of the dorms, where the air smelled fresh and the breeze danced through the leaves like a soft melody. He had a knife in hand, carefully peeling one of the apples he’d picked just for you, brows furrowed in concentration.

You watched him, utterly charmed by how focused he looked, how gentle his hands were despite the sharp blade. You reached out and touched his knee lightly to get his attention.

He blinked and looked up. “Somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head, smiling up at him with that bright, sincere expression he could never quite prepare himself for. “I love you, Epel.”

He nearly dropped the apple.

His eyes went wide and a sharp flush bloomed across his cheeks and ears. “Wha—?! W-Where’d that come from?!”

You just shrugged, grinning. “I wanted to say it. I love you.”

Epel opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words fast enough. He stared at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him — as if those simple words meant more than a thousand grand gestures. He turned his head quickly, ears burning. “You can’t just go around sayin’ stuff like that outta nowhere! You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

“But it’s true,” you said, giggling as you leaned into his side. “I love you. Even when you’re blushing like a tomato.”

“I ain’t blushin’!” he huffed, but his hand twitched before he awkwardly reached over and grabbed yours. His fingers were a little shaky, but he held on tight.

“…I love you too,” he mumbled, voice low and soft, like it was meant only for you. “Even if you say it when I least expect it… I ain’t ever gonna get tired of hearin’ it.”

He finished peeling the apple and offered it to you, trying to act cool despite his still-burning ears. You took it happily, giving him a kiss on the cheek that made his blush flare right back up again.

And he knew in that moment — with the apple trees swaying and your laughter beside him — that he’d never want anything else but this.

Sebek Zigvolt

The library was unusually quiet that day — well, even more so than usual. You and Sebek were tucked away in one of the far corners of the library, seated at a heavy wooden table stacked with textbooks, scrolls, and your combined notes from Professor Trein’s most recent lecture. Sebek sat rigidly across from you, pen moving with exact precision as he muttered formulas under his breath, brows furrowed in focus.

“It is vital that I maintain my grades for the sake of Lord Malleus’ honor!” he’d proclaimed earlier, thumping his chest with such intensity that half the dorm had turned to look. You were just happy to study with him — even if his dedication bordered on theatrical.

You were supposed to be reviewing your charms notes, but instead… you found yourself watching him. His hair glinted under the soft lantern light, and his eyes, fierce and serious, flickered across the page like a soldier reading a battlefield map. He looked so intense, so Sebek — and for a moment, your heart swelled so full of affection, it felt like it might burst.

So you leaned your elbow on the table, tilted your head slightly, and let the softest smile curve your lips.

“I love you, Sebek.”

His pen snapped in half.

He jolted back in his chair with such dramatic force that the back legs almost lifted off the ground, green eyes wide as dinner plates. “WH-WHAT?! You—YOU—!!” he sputtered, one hand clapped over his chest like he’d just taken a blow to the heart.

You blinked innocently. “I said I love you.”

“OUT OF NOWHERE?!” he barked, flushing so deeply that the tips of his ears glowed red. “I—W-WHAT COULD POSSIBLY COMPEL YOU TO UTTER SUCH WORDS WHEN WE’RE IN THE MIDST OF STUDYING?!”

You just giggled, leaning forward. “Because I was looking at you… and I realized I really love you. So I said it. That’s all.”

Sebek’s jaw worked for a moment, like his mind was trying to buffer. He looked down at the ruined remains of his pen and then back at you, flustered beyond belief. “Y-You cannot… you mustn’t say such things so suddenly! I-I am a knight! A guardian of the great Lord Malleus! I must remain vigilant, composed, and… and—!!”

His voice softened at the end, the panic in his expression melting into something far more tender. He looked away, shoulders stiff but trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the table.

“…But…” he muttered, voice almost too low to hear, “…I suppose… there is no harm… in expressing your affections. Especially when they are… directed at me…”

You smiled again, resting your chin in your hand as you watched him squirm.

“Say it again,” he blurted suddenly, eyes still averted.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I said…!” His voice cracked slightly. “…Say it again. Just one more time.”

You leaned closer, soft and slow like a breeze brushing through the trees. “I love you, Sebek.”

This time, he didn’t shout. He didn’t flail. He simply stared at the table, his face glowing red as he gripped the edge like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. And then, after a few seconds, he nodded—almost imperceptibly—but with the seriousness of a knight taking a vow.

“I… I love you as well,” he said, firm and proud. “More than any mere declaration can express.”

You could tell it took everything in him to say that aloud, but the sincerity in his voice made your heart melt.

Later that day, as you were leaving the library together, he awkwardly offered his hand to you — and though he tried to act composed, his fingers trembled ever so slightly when yours slipped into his. He didn’t say another word about your random confession… but he walked beside you all the way back to Ramshackle in complete silence, lips pressed into the smallest, most bashful smile you’d ever seen.

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they help during your period

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, higuruma, shiu

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff, slight nsfw but nothing serious

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask! currently being held hostage by my own period so this felt like the perfect time to tackle this request. tried to keep the symptoms general bc we all suffer in our own special ways. hope you all enjoy 🙂‍↕️

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

₊⊹. Gojo will buy you the dumbest heating pads on the internet: one's shaped like Gudetama, another is a buff Jigglypuff. You're exasperated. But also using them.

₊⊹. He googled "how to help partner on period" and then mansplained it to you like a TED Talk. "So apparently prostaglandins are to blame for your cramps. Isn't that such a loser name for a hormone?"

₊⊹. Gojo, after seeing you curled up and wincing from cramps, throws himself face-first on the bed next to you and goes, "I think I can feel them too. Empathic link. It's the Six Eyes. I'm basically menstruating." You slap him with a pillow and he dramatically yells, "DOMESTIC VIOLENCE?! WHILE I BLEED IN SPIRIT?!"

₊⊹. You groan and double over. He instantly teleports behind you and drops to his knees. "Get on. Backpack mode." He piggybacks you around the apartment while muttering dramatic anime OST lyrics. He stops at the fridge. "Want strawberries?" You tell him yes. He proceeds to spoon-feed them to you while making airplane noises.

₊⊹. He will 100% insist on period sex 'for science.' He genuinely looks curious. "So, like. If I activate Infinity... does that mean I technically never touch the blood?" He is forcibly removed from the bedroom.

₊⊹. When you sigh heavily from discomfort, he'll dramatically fall onto the bed beside you, matching your sigh with exaggerated flair and groaning, "The burdens we hot people bear, huh?"

₊⊹. When you can't sleep from pain, he lies awake beside you, rambling about obscure Digimon trivia from his youth as he draws little hearts on your back with his fingertip until you drift off. He's proud his niche knowledge is finally useful.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

₊⊹. Geto somehow knows your cycle better than you. Not because he tracks it obsessively but because he's that terrifyingly observant, "You're due in three days. I've already stocked the soba, heat packs, and I have chamomile ready." You look at him like he's some sort of mystic. He just smirks and continues slicing green onions.

₊⊹. He's unfazed by blood. You bled through your pants once and panicked. He just looked down calmly. "Blood is natural. You are sacred. I've killed 112 villagers in one night, this is fine."

₊⊹. If you want affection, he’s all over it. If you want to be left alone, he disappears like mist. Only to reappear 20 minutes later with a warm drink, just in case you changed your mind.

₊⊹. If you get clingy, like full-on emotional barnacle, he lets you. Doesn't even blink when you insist on lying directly on top of him like a heated blanket burrito. He'll just mutter, "Guess I'm immobilized now," and carry on reading with one hand resting lightly on your back like it's the most natural thing.

₊⊹. Geto keeps a hidden stash of menstrual supplies in the bathroom, meticulously organized. When you discover his stockpile, he smirks, "Preparation level: Dad of Teenage Girls. Amateur hour ended a decade ago."

₊⊹. If you're out at work or something and he knows you're in pain, you start receiving cryptic but oddly soothing texts like, "Drink something warm. Don't argue. I'm watching." You have no idea how. But he is watching.

₊⊹. When you fall asleep from exhaustion, he adjusts your limbs so you won't cramp further and he stays beside you. Occasionally brushing hair from your face with a faint smile like you're a fleeting dream he doesn't want to wake.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

₊⊹. "You're not dying. It just feels like you are." Delivers this line in a deadpan tone with tea and a heat pack because he genuinely wants to help. But he refuses to sugarcoat it.

₊⊹. He noticed you wincing once and now tracks your cycle better than you do like a sentient calendar. "Your period should start tomorrow. You want me to stop for anything on the way home?"

₊⊹. Nanami is your domestic god. He doesn't joke, he just executes. Heating pad? Done. Soup? Simmering. Ibuprofen? Already in your hand. You're curled up on the couch and he just tucks you in like a burrito, sits beside you, opens a book, and radiates quiet husband energy.

₊⊹. He always carries extra pads in his bag. When asked about them, he replies, "Emergency preparedness is a fundamental adult skill."

₊⊹. He refuses to let you do chores while you're cramping. Once you tried to clean and he stared at you so long in silence you actually got scared. "Stop." he said, simply. "You are not allowed to suffer and vacuum."

₊⊹. You once mentioned your back hurt. He cracked his knuckles like a shonen protagonist and said, "I read a Swedish study on pressure point relief." then gave you the most life-altering massage of your existence. You almost cried. He muttered, "It's basic muscle care."

₊⊹. Nanami holds your hand during the worst moments. Always gently. Always like it’s the easiest thing in the world to make you feel safer. Sometimes he just rubs his thumb across your knuckles and says nothing. Like he’s anchoring you in place.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

₊⊹. Choso learned about periods in great detail via one of those god-awful health class pamphlets left on a table at Jujutsu High. He read it cover to cover. When you complain about cramps, he nods gravely and says, "Yes. I have read about the uterine lining." You genuinely don't know whether to laugh or cry.

₊⊹. When you mention mood swings, he nods solemnly and places a comforting hand on your shoulder, quietly stating, "We will defeat them together." utterly serious, making you laugh despite yourself.

₊⊹. He's very careful not to overstep, because despite having his vessel's memories, he's still constantly second-guessing human behavior. So you'll catch him hovering awkwardly outside the bathroom door like, "... Should I get you a clean pair of pants? Is that considered offensive?"

₊⊹. Choso cries with you when you cry from hormonal swings. You're sobbing and he's sobbing and now you're crying because he's crying and it's just a puddle of emotions on the couch.

₊⊹. He doesn't flinch when you bleed through your sheets. Zero ick factor. If anything, he's kind of like, "I thought the iron scent was familiar. It's very... cozy." You're horrified. He's content.

₊⊹. He tried to cook you miso soup once to help soothe your cramps but forgot to turn off the burner. You both ended up with slightly burnt soup and an open window to get the smoke out. "I failed." he muttered. You told him it was still good. He looked at you like you'd just declared everlasting love. He's been trying new recipes every cycle since.

₊⊹. When you're sore and sluggish, he doesn't push you to do anything. He just follows you around the apartment quietly doing everything before you have the chance to. You reach for a mug? It's already full of hot tea. You try to stand up? He's already placed a fuzzy blanket on your lap. "Rest," he says, softly. "You're leaking." Thank you, boyfriend of the year.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

₊⊹. The second he notices you curled up like a dying shrimp on the bed, face down, blanket over your head like you're trying to cease existing, he doesn't ask, he just knows. The man's been through two marriages and several long-term flings. Your monthly suffering isn't new territory for him. His first reaction? A sharp, "You good?" but it's Toji-speak for "Do I need to go kill someone or is this just cramps?"

₊⊹. Toji will 100% eat all of your snacks. But then he buys you twice as much to make up for it and drops the bags in front of you saying, "Eat. Or don't. I dunno. Up to you."

₊⊹. He does not understand hot water bottle covers. "Why the hell does it have a face?" he mutters while staring down your Sanrio-themed cover like it insulted his bloodline. Still warms it up for you every night.

₊⊹. Toji somehow acquires random knowledge about menstrual products, casually mentioning, "They have organic ones now, whatever the hell that means. Do you care or is that bullshit?"

₊⊹. He brings home food for you even when you said "I'm not hungry." Because he knows. He knows you'll sniff it and change your mind in 3.2 seconds.

₊⊹. He insists on carrying you bridal-style up the stairs when your cramps are peak awful. "Romantic, huh?" he smirks. Then slams his knee into the doorframe and nearly drops you. "Fuck—romance canceled."

₊⊹. He starts stockpiling comfort items a week in advance. Not because he's sentimental. Just because "it's easier than dealing with you on edge and empty-handed."

₊⊹. Hiromi Higuruma

₊⊹. Higuruma doesn't flinch when you groan and dramatically announce, "I am perishing. This is the end." He glances up from his book, deadpan. "We should draft your will. I assume I inherit the heated blanket?" No smile. Just pure monotone. But he's already tucking the blanket around you like a human burrito.

₊⊹. One particularly bad day, you tell him you feel gross. He immediately pauses whatever he's doing, cups your face like you're the last honest witness in a corrupt trial, and says very seriously, "Don't do that. You're experiencing a biological function. You wouldn't call someone disgusting for sneezing."

₊⊹. When your cramps hit so hard you start walking like a villain with a backstory, he matches your pace down the hallway like it's totally normal to be power-walking with someone who looks like they're about to start monologuing about vengeance. He doesn't say a word, just keeps pace.

₊⊹. He never says a thing about your oversized pajamas or the nest of snacks around you. In fact, he once brought you more Pocky and placed it on the bed with reverence. "Your altar of comfort appears understocked."

₊⊹. He sends you detailed texts updating the progression of menstrual leave legislation in Japan. "See? Soon, your uterus's tyranny will be punishable by paid leave."

₊⊹. You once fell asleep half-sobbing and woke up with him spooning you from behind, hand on your stomach like he's attempting to telepathically cancel the uterus subscription. He murmured, "I'd take your pain if I could." He meant it. No theatrics. Just quiet, intense sincerity because when Hiromi Higuruma commits to caring about someone, he doesn't do it halfway.

₊⊹. During your period, your appetite gets weird. Sometimes it's one grape and you're full. Sometimes it's 8,000 calories of pure evil. You texted him once, "I want fries. And mochi. And pickles. Also maybe… curry?" 35 minutes later he showed up with all of it. Didn't say a word. Just set the bags down and kissed your forehead.

₊⊹. Shiu Kong

₊⊹. When you lie dramatically across the bed claiming your death is imminent, he responds with, "Should I call the morgue or just put on that one drama you pretend not to cry at?" You throw a pillow.

₊⊹. He never complains about you turning the air conditioner to "Arctic Tundra" because your internal body temperature is currently set to Satan's front porch. He just silently adds another blanket onto himself like a polite boyfriend-turned-snowman.

₊⊹. You once bled through your pants in public. Shiu wordlessly shrugged off his coat and tied it around your waist, his face unreadable. "Happens. Don't let it ruin your evening. I've seen worse. Like Toji's parenting skills."

₊⊹. You ask for a massage offhandedly, not expecting anything, but Shiu responds with alarming seriousness. "I've studied torture—I mean pressure points, professionally. Let's see how transferable these skills are." You have the best massage of your existence.

₊⊹. When you finally fall asleep during a painwave, he goes full ghost mode. Doesn't talk. Stays in place. He opens a bag of chips slower than a bomb diffusal expert and chews like he's being held hostage.

₊⊹. You've learned not to hide your discomfort from him because Shiu notices anyway. He'll raise an eyebrow and announce dramatically, "We've reached crisis levels. You're walking like an elderly penguin. Come here."

₊⊹. He subtly adjusts his smoking habits around you during menstruation, stepping outside to light up without a word. When questioned, he deflects smoothly, "Trying to avoid becoming collateral damage to your heightened sense of smell."

[alexispunkkk]

no mercy in seattle

- pairing: dark!tommy miller x fem!reader

- summary: on tommy’s rampage in seattle after the death of his brother, he needs a way to get his anger out. he uses you as his outlet, taking his emotions out in the best way he knows—sex.

- warnings: rough sex, cussing, unprotected piv, dark!tommy, dubcon, boot riding, boot humping, oral sex, spanking, face slapping, spitting, hair pulling, manhandling, creampie, mentions of murder and guns blah blah blah, joels sooo dead sorry

- word count: 5.1k

- weird mix between the game/show plots adjusted for this. anyway i wrote this in protest against the show writers because where tf is tommy!!! jesse says he’s in seattle with him but they’re not even gonna show me my man?? need him picking off the hoes one by one at the wlf with a sniper. soooo here u go here’s tommy’s deserved vengeful journey

based on this ask | on ao3 | masterlist

For Tommy, mornings don’t exist in Seattle. Not anymore. There’s no sunrise, no one to wake him up. Not Joel, obviously, not Ellie, not Dina, and not you. 

Just sudden jerks out of sleep where his hand automatically reaches halfway to his gun, his breath caught in alarm. He’s endlessly alert and anxious, alone, every noise sounding suspiciously like footsteps and every little rustle in the woods like someone’s about to take a shot at him. 

He sleeps in fragments: an hour there, and another thirty minutes on occasion–never in the same place twice. Temporary safehouses, abandoned rooftops and buildings. He misses having a real bed. Especially the part where he’d have someone next to him. 

Everything is covered in moss, rain leaking through cracks and soaking into his jacket, pooling by his thick boots. He doesn’t care much, though.

He’s a smart guy. A good hunter. When he moves, it’s silent and calculated–each move is normally from a vantage point, though. Seattle is a fucking maze of concrete and glass and vines and rot that invade the city. And the damned Washington Liberation Front patrol it like they own it. They’re well-armed and well-fed, something Tommy can’t afford or handle all by himself out here. 

So, he watches from above. Behind the scope of his gun, he watches. Never hesitating.

He takes them clean out, one by one. One shot, one body. Quick, clean, never caught by the others. Another shot.

It’s not for trophies, but simple revenge–he gets closer, mind searching aimlessly for the names reported by Dina on the day that his brother died. 

The list burned into his soul like a brand on the hyde of Jackson’s cattle, giving him the motivation to keep cleaning the WLF off in hopes to find one girl in particular. He moves silently and quickly, gone before they can catch sight of the figure taking them out one by one. 

But, every time he thinks he’s found a trail, it went cold. Every time he gets close enough, they slip away in time and it becomes harder–he feels like he’s being hunted in return. Being played. Has to ration his ammo so, so meticulously. Three bullets for his rifle, two for emergency. Every shot counted with Tommy. 

The same goes for his food: little pieces of jerky that he ripped up and chewed while his eye remained in his scope. Ate in silence, slept with a shiv clutched in his hand and his rifle right next to him.

All the while, the ghost of his brother followed him. Not in body, but in the quiet of the city.

Tommy sees Joel in the corner of his vision, egging him on to find Abby and end it. He hears his grumbled laugh in the rustling leaves, his flannels in the cold air when it rains. Seattle is a rainy place. It worsens it.

Sure, it kept him motivated in his killings. But moreover, it kept him angry. Not just the fact that he’s gone, but how it happened. The mere sight of a golf club drives him off the wall nowadays, and he rages in silence.

When he does take a shot, it’s quiet, but it’s not exactly clean. He’s taking them out, destroying them. Knees, throats, headshots. Watched their blood boom and splatter across concrete from over a hundred yards away, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Not enough for the taking of Joel.

Not even close. 

There are days his hands still shake, days he punches walls if he misses a shot, or if he catches the scent of something in the air that reminds him a little too much of his older brother. The guilt swallows him whole, bringing him into a mindless pit of rage and vindictiveness. 

It’s not resentment that he has for the WLF–it’s genuine loathing.

So, when three familiar figures show up, he’s acting a bit different. 

Ellie and Dina allowed you to tag along to Seattle with them, trusting you enough with your knowledge of weaponry and hunting. Thanks to Tommy for teaching you, of course.

The three of you have been doing surprisingly well, beginning your arrival with a stay downtown: searching synagogues and courthouses and banks before landing yourselves in a hotel. There were dead bodies–not many infected–but of soldiers and humans.

Tommy’s doing. 

Naturally, there are instances that put your group in grave danger, but you make it out decently. An elementary school, news station, tunnels, a theater. Clickers and runners and more bodies, a horse that had once been Tommy’s as well, and lots of Ellie’s guitar playing.

On the third day, Dina isn’t feeling too hot. Finding Tommy would be the best decision right now, in equal importance to finding Abby. In a mix of luck and the opposite, your group clashes with him in the Seattle Waterfront Aquarium. 

In a frenzy where Ellie had managed to successfully kill both Mel and Owen, leaving her with a panic attack due to the now-dead woman’s unknown pregnancy, he shows up behind her and prompts you all to leave. Always a pragmatic thinker.

The reckless first three days, thankfully, did leave you back in the hands of your Tommy. The same tanned, flirtatious man you once knew now ruined by the guilt of his brother’s passing and having to strip himself of sleep and life in order to kill civilians over and over in a ruthless rampage of revenge. 

His eyes, once a soft brown, seem darker, flicking over you in silence. When Ellie and Dina were around, his mouth opened like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Couldn’t. 

The air stretches thickly between the two of you as if waiting for something, but the energy is off. Your sweet, caring man now tortured with a lack of sleep and too much violence, even for him. That says a lot, considering his days as a combat veteran in the Gulf War and the strenuous times spent hunting infected ever since the outbreak. 

He’s always been the strongest man you know, ever since the two of you met in Jackson a few years back. Goes on every patrol without a word of complaint, gets over serious injuries like they’re simply papercuts, can take out six clickers in a row without the blink of an eye or a breath harsher than the last. 

Hell, he’s handled bloaters by himself before.

But something about him seems different–not only in the sense that he’s tired and sick of killing, but he’s truly hurting. 

You know Joel’s death got to him. Badly. He and his brother were so close growing up, stuck together for years at the start of the outbreak. Tommy was there for him when Sarah passed, when he lost hearing in one ear from a missed shot to his own head. They hunted in Boston together, took the lives of so many. A strong bond.

So you have a basic understanding of his drive for revenge. You certainly didn’t know it could reach this extent, though.

The theater door clicks shut, the sound echoing longer than it should’ve when Ellie and Dina head out for a bit on a supply run. That was their excuse, at least–it was probably because they could feel the tension and the way Tommy was about to unravel.

For a long second, you just stand there and watch him from across the room.

It’s the first time the two of you are alone since he left, and as much as you missed him, you’re a little scared. You feel bad, obviously, but you’re terrified for him. He’s seemingly going insane right now, looking incredibly tired. A big gash on his hand from accidentally grabbing his knife too quickly, hair plastered to his neck, jacket soaked and rain-damaged. 

His back is to you, crouched beside a bench while he unstraps his gear and sets his guns down for once. 

“Tommy…” you take a breath, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He’s literally radiating fury in the form of heat, seething profusely with each breath.

He doesn’t answer yet, just stands. Slowly. Too slowly. It doesn’t feel like your Tommy.

He turns around, and it feels like it hits you in the chest this time. His face is hollowed out, wrenched with exhaustion. His eyes are bruised and sunken in, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the veins of muscles tick. Not just grief, like you would’ve expected out of a normally soft-spoken man. 

It’s fury. Bare and red seething rage curled under his skin, eating him from the inside out. 

“Can’t do this shit anymore,” he begins, voice rough and gravelly. He hasn’t spoken in a few days now, and he’s severely dehydrated. “I can’t—fuckin’ can’t.”

You step forward carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, unknowing if it’s docile or not. 

“Tommy.” 

Your fingers slide from his shoulder to his arm, working down gently until reaching his hand. It’s the same hand you always hold, the same soft and big fingers that have graced and worshipped every part of your body back in Jackson. Just now, hardened by a week in the wilderness without access to much clean water or resources other than his need for carnage.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. That look on his face. And I swear to God—” he cuts you off, swivelling around to grab the back of a chair and slam it into the ground. The wood splinters under his grip, two of the legs breaking off entirely as the piece of furniture hits the surface. 

“Could fuckin’ kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands.” He resumes, turning back around after the crash of the chair. His chest heaves. “Still wouldn’t be enough.”

You’ve never seen him so angry. You didn’t know he had the capacity to be so angry. Back home, he’s all sweet and southern–a townsman, good with the animals and kids. Never yells. Jokes and flirts his way out of situations.

Now, his eyes are dark and bloodshot. Genuinely wildlike. 

“Tommy,” you repeat, trying to calm him down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in a while, so you want it to be nice–but his mind is racing. “C’mon, hon’. Calm down a bit. We can sit. Take a break.”

“No.” He scoffs, breath picking up quickly as his chest rises up and down. Deep, dense heaves that he can’t control. 

“I’m losin’ my mind out here, baby,” he rasps, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the room, trying to keep from looking at you while his pants start to feel just a little bit tighter. “I’ve been out here alone, killin’ and hunting and shit. None of it’s fuckin’ changing anything.”

He steps forward now. Fast and desperate. He smells differently than usual, that usual clean cedar adjacent scent replaced by an unwashed musk and the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering on the fabric of his jacket. He’s a little gross and smells faintly of the mildew that comes alongside heavy rain, but he’s still your Tommy. Your poor, tortured, grieving, angry Tommy. 

“You get it?” He asks, grabbing your face. Rough and needing as ever. “I’m gonna explode and I can’t—-I don’t know where to put it. Don’t know where the fuck to put it.”

You nod. No, you don’t really understand. But you’ll always do anything for him.

“I know,” you respond, voice hardly above that of a whisper.

Tommy only stares at you like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he needs you to prove it. 

“Don’t need any talkin’,” his forehead presses hard against yours, breathing coming out in pants now with your face this close against his own–his breath isn’t the freshest, either. Jerky and days without brushing. He gets a pass, though. 

His hands slip down to your hips, holding onto you for dear life. He’s always been one for constant consent, but now his eyes are asking all that he needs. After all, he did just say he doesn’t need you talking. 

“Please. Tell me you want this. Just need something that ain’t anger right now.” He gasps when you nod and rut against his hips in return, taking that as a pathetic excuse for consent. 

“Tell me I can have you right now before I lose it and don’t ask.” 

You don’t speak. Just pull him in. And he completely breaks in that moment after one of the worst weeks of his life. 

The threat of not asking gets your heart racing, showing how badly the trip has really treated him. The Tommy you know wouldn’t even be able to conjure up that thought, but he’s filled with such unfathomable rage and frustration that he physically needs a place to dump it. Luckily, your pussy is up for offer.

Your back hits the wall with a hard thud, the cracking plaster of the theater catching your shirt and tugging it up to expose your stomach as his body presses flush into yours. His breath is hot against your neck, raising the baby hairs on the back of it and eliciting a flush all the way up to your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You don’t get what you’re fuckin’ doing to me right now. What you are to me.”

His hands are everywhere in seconds, rough and dirty palms ghosting up your sides and moving the shirt further. He fully untucks it from your belt, shamelessly forcing his hands up the fabric and snaking around to reach the familiar clasp of your bra. 

He’s done it a million times, but somehow manages to get it off faster than any previous attempt. The fabric hits the ground while his mouth trails up to your ear, front teeth nibbling at the dangling bit of your sensitive earlobe. 

There’s no foreplay like usual. No finesse. Just want and frustration. 

Raw, filthy, desperate need. 

He bites down, hard, right after moving his set of teeth to the base of your throat. Your gasp makes him almost snarl, grinning and breathing out the filthiest noises onto the skin he’d nearly ripped through with the force of his jaw. 

“That’s it.” He mutters, voice meaner now. He tries again, sinking his teeth into the area above your collarbone, leaving a sticky patch of saliva where he’d also left his mark. “Like it when I’m mean. Fuckin’ slut getting off to me bein’ angry about my brother.” 

He’s never talked to you like this before. Never even been close to something that resembles an attitude with you. But here you are, growing wetter at the sound of his mumbling and yelling after a rough week. 

“Tommy–” your hand curls into the bottom hem of the damp flannel under his coat, fingers barely grazing the hot skin on his lower belly that lies under. 

“Nuh-uh.” He growls, forcing your legs apart with his knee and shoving his thigh between yours. It locks you in place, his hands grinding you down on the thick, meaty stretch of thigh enough to make you whimper. “Think I’m gonna be soft on you? After what they did to Joel?”

His voice cracks again. His head dips with a grunt, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep himself from falling apart. His chest is heaving, and he’s gripping onto you like you’re physically keeping him alive and intact right now. 

“Could be out there killin’ someone. Finding the bitch who did it to my brother.” Tommy laughs, one hand moving from your waist to your jaw, tilting that pretty head back to look up at him. 

He kisses you, absolutely devours you in one go–like you’re air after he’s been drowning. A lifeline. His tongue is hot, teeth clashing carelessly into yours. His hands yank at your clothes until the shirt you’re wearing joins your bra on the ground and your belt is half unbuckled. Doesn’t pay any mind to seams or buttons like usual.

“But I’m here with you, yeah? So you gotta make it good. Give me something, baby.”

He says between kisses, slightly guilting you into helping him out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but the delivery is so strangely unlike Tommy. Fuck it, though. You’re admittedly a slut for him–you take any chance to get on your knees.

Each movement is loud and chaotic as he pushes you to your knees, already grabbing your head of hair in one hand and twisting it up into a makeshift ponytail–or a grip, in his case. 

The man’s belt is off in seconds, discarded to the ground before you can even acknowledge what’s going on. The waistband of his jeans drops, hitting the floor quietly. Before you know it, his hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back while his thumb finds your lips to part them. 

His tip comes in contact with your lips, smearing the sticky residue of precum on the pink surface of them. It’s been too long since he’s felt them on him.

“Fuck, you’re takin’ it. C’mon now, open up.”

You obediently open, parting both of your lips to allow room for his puffy, sensitive head to slip in. At the simple feeling of your wet, warm mouth, he groans. Head falls back, hips stuttering pathetically. To come back to the feeling of a familiar, welcoming mouth on his cock after the worst week of his life was the best feeling. 

Normally, Tommy would allow you to do the work on your own. Meaning you would hold his hips, go at your own pace, take as long as you’d like with the tip versus the shaft.

Tonight, though? Oh no. He’s not waiting. The hand gripping your hair tightens mercilessly, yanking your head toward his body, his thick cock sinking deep into your throat without warning. 

“Mmphm—” you try your best to mumble to tell him to slow down, but he’s already thrusting. In, out. Using your mouth like some useless ten dollar pocket pussy. Saliva is dripping from the corners of your fucked-out mouth, groans escaping from the depths of your throat each time he hit it.

“Fuck, take it. Lemme use ya,’ honey.” Tommy groans, yanking your head again until he’s balls deep between your lips, your nose buried in his graying bush of pubic hair. 

He’s too distracted by the overwhelming feeling of having this after a tortuous week, getting a break for his own pleasure. From his girl. His perfect girl who’d do anything for him. 

So, he doesn’t quite pick up on the rustling beneath him. 

While you’re taking his dick as far back into your throat as possible without gagging, you’re getting wet. As you do. He’s right–you are a slut for him. He’d already undone your belt, so it wasn’t that much work to get the rest off. 

You managed to shimmy your pants off, leaving you in a pair of dangerously wet black panties. The pooling in them soon transferred onto leather while your aching pussy came in contact with Tommy’s boots. Grinding softly at first, just to relieve the tingling. 

In a mere thirty seconds, it became more than gentle grinding. Oops. You’re losing focus on the cock in your mouth because of the feeling of his hard, dirty boot against your sensitive cunt. Even through the fabric, it was fucking orgasmic. You haven’t seen him in a whole week. You’re clearly needy, is that so bad?

“Baby,” Tommy whines petulantly when your usually skilled mouth starts to lose its practiced technique, giving your face a soft slap.

His eyes finally open, drifting down to take in the sight of him between your lips. One of his favorites. Instead, his eyes draw downward further to the desperate movement of your hips.

He raises an eyebrow and snorts, gripping your jaw again and fucking your face harder. Forceful, now. It does hurt a bit, the muscles of your jaw aching as much as your poor pussy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, shaking his head scornfully. “What’chu doin,’ huh?”

You whine and feel a few pathetic tears slip when he uses your throat more.

Tommy doesn’t stop at the tears, but does manage to get his hips to still when you gag much harder this time. Sure, he’s angry right now, but he’s not evil. He knows your limits.

“M’kay. I know, I know. Fine.”

Pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, he groans at the sight of the long string of saliva that connects the two. Sticky and stringy, stretching out a few inches before falling back and dribbling down your chin. His hand reaches out, rubbing a bit of it off and cleaning his thumb in his own mouth.

“Y’can’t take it? Gaggin’ already?”

He belittles you, bringing his hand back down to the right side of your face. He rubs it, gentle for a quick second, before drawing his palm back and meeting the cheek with a slap. Not the hardest, but enough to leave a mark. Just a little bit of his frustration escaping.

“M’sorry.” You begin, but Tommy’s shaking his head in disappointment.

“Usually better than this. Usually waitin’ your turn all good and proper, not gettin’ yourself off on my boot like that.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You didn’t think he noticed the grinding on his shoe. Somehow. 

Tommy tuts, shaking his head and rubbing the reddening patch on your cheek he’d just hit. It burns so good, a hot feeling rising in the stinging skin the same way it was rising in your stomach while you got yourself off on his foot like a slut.

“Can’t wait, huh? Just had to? That it?” He grumbles, thumb dipping down between your lips and parting them yet again. There’s still a drop of precum on the corner, some saliva dribbling down. He likes the look of you, all spent and messy like this. 

“Guess so.” You answer quietly, mouth opening for him when he spreads the two lips.

Without saying anything else, Tommy takes a moment to collect some saliva in the warmth of his mouth. He swishes it around, lips puckering up before opening as he spits right into your now-opened jaw. 

It catches you off guard. But you take it, feeling guilty you couldn’t even finish off the head earlier out of your own neediness distracting you. You remain on those knees like a good girl, staring up at him patiently with the gob of his saliva pooling in your mouth, his thumb on your chin. 

He raises his eyebrows, just testing you like a fucking asshole right now. Waits too long, a good ten seconds, before nodding.

Obediently, you swallow it, eyes shutting as you savor the taste of his spit after too long.

“M’kay, up, baby.” Tommy nods in approval again, hands slipping under your armpits in order to hoist you up. 

He’s always been able to manhandle you so easily, and you love it. The fact that he can pick you up, toss you around, make you his, without you being able to do anything about it. Yum. He’s so muscled and just large, especially his hands. Vascular, thick, hardened from work like all of him is.

You’re in his arms for a few seconds before he finds a little chest to sit down on, grunting while he sits back and sets you down on his lap. Your legs come around his hips, straddling him, your body resting on top of his.

“Might as well give ya’ what’chu want. Clearly not doin’ me good being apart from you.” 

His hand comes down your back, feeling the soft plunge of the dimples on the small of it. He rubs your soft skin, slipping up under the shirt he’d previously pulled up, before his hand moves lower. It comes in contact with your ass, the little black panties not giving your skin much protection.

A loud slap sound snaps in the air, louder than the one to your face earlier. It draws a whimper out of you, making you bury your little head in his sweaty neck.

Tommy chortles, rubbing the spot and tapping it a few times.

“Fuckin’ mess. Whimperin’ and shit.” 

Another slap, and then he eases up. Your whimpers make him feel bad about it–the sounds of actual pain. But, on the down low, they’re making his cock stand up more.

You’re shifting around, trying to get it to hit perfectly against your clit through the fabric. No luck, though, as his hands come to still your waist.

“Uh-uh. M’doing this tonight. Sit still for me.”

Tommy advises, raising his eyebrows while he gives your right hip another tap of reassurance. You can hardly sit still, even with his hands keeping you in place. Pathetic. Today, there’s no gentleness like the Tommy you know. Just fervor and need. Absolutely raw and heightened by his anger.

He lifts your thighs, turning you around, so you’re in his lap and facing forward. Your back is turned to him, hair tousled from his grip in it earlier, shirt pulled up and bra discarded. Oops. 

“Gonna sit and take it for me. Lemme’ use you, hon’.”

His voice is rough in your ear, hand snaking around your waist to the front of your body. It works up your shirt more, moving upward to grip your breasts tightly. His other hand carelessly scoops beneath your thighs, pulling the fabric of your panties to the side.

No, he’s not taking them off. Not enough care for that. Just gonna do what he knows he needs.

Your pussy is exposed to the warm air of the abandoned theater, pressed down on the skin of his hair thighs. His hand spreads your legs, finding your folds and humming at the feeling of how wet you are.

“Goddamn. Soaked.” He snorts, tapping at your clit pitilessly. It’s tortuously teasing, making you gasp and writh. “All cause I’m angry, huh, baby? Likin’ that?”

You nod and lean your head back, not even listening. Already cock dumb, and he hasn’t put it in yet.

“Fuckin’ slut. C’mon, now. Up for me.” Tommy lifts you so he can slip his cock under you, pressing it between your slick folds. “Fuck.”

The two of you both moan, hips moving in practiced unison to rub together for utmost pleasure without penetration. You usually both withstand teasing for a bit, so you’re expecting more of the pussy job, but he’s not wasting time.

Tommy sinks in, sliding his thick shaft right into you without any issues. So soaked, so excited that you’re all opened up and pulsing for it.

“Ah, baby. Wet as shit tonight.” 

His hands both find your hips, watching your ass jiggle each time he thrusts up between your legs. He’s pressing you down on him, minimizing the amount of space possible between your two sweaty bodies.

“Tommy.” You whine out, leaning your head back and trying to fall back into his body for comfort. 

“Uh-uh. Lean forward, honey.” He growls, pushing you forward and tightening his grip on your hips to ensure you stay like that–it’s the deepest angle, after all. 

In seconds, you’re fucked out. You have no clue what he’s saying, but you pick up on the occasional mumble while he slams in and out of you.

“Take it all. Every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

“M’not okay. Only thing holding me together is you.”

“Fuckin’ hell–look at you. Look.”

“Should’ve been me they took. Not Joel.”

“Gon’ kill that motherfucker.”

It's an almost sad range of pure neediness to grief for his brother, the rage shining through yet again while his brain unravels. His thrusts get more reckless, the grip on your hips bruising with each. 

And soon, he was close.

You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his fingers dig in tighter as if you’d disappear.

“Fuck–” he rasps, voice torn. “Fuck, baby. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

The anger dissipates as need numbs his mind, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His sweat-slick skin rubs and burns against yours.

Tommy is panting entirely, shaking now. His rhythm falters, picks up harder and rougher, all until your breath catches in sync with his and your knees nearly give out.

“Too good. Oh.” He growls into your ear, speeding up impossibly and closing any distance left between your crotches until he’s bottomed out, hardly moving.

His teeth graze your neck, eliciting a moan from your throat. And that’s it.

Tommy snaps, a pained and guttural sound ripping from his own throat. He slams into you a final time, hips jerking in brutal strokes. You feel his entire body tense, but the hot pulse of his cum spilling inside you calms the two of you down.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t want to. He can’t.

He can bury himself there for days and stay right where he is if he could. He could live in your sweet little spent pussy if it meant he wouldn’t have to go back out and find those fuckers who murdered his brother. 

But no, Joel takes his mind again. This time, it’s less of rage, more of sadness. Guilt for going too rough out of anger.

His hands are fisted in your hair, jaw clenched like he’s trying to fight something. They both loosen up and he shakes his head, slowly pulling out and wrapping an arm around you. 

“Shit.” He whispers, panting into your ear. “I’m sorry, baby. But fuck, I needed that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, returning for a bit to the Tommy that you know. 

“S’okay. I get it, you’re mad. Understandable.” You respond, turning in his lap and tucking your head in his neck. You’re straddling him now, kissing the soft skin wherever you can reach and stroking his hair. 

He stays like that, rage finally quieted by your presence, his arms wrapped around you. 

For now, at least.

@xodilfluvr @lowrisemiller @exqorcism @idkwhylou @thesecretdiaryofnoah @ssssc0m @ilovetoomanymen @darknight3904 @tokkiotears @vrstppnfcb @itwas-maroon16 @valentineispunk @pearlessance @moonchild-143 @randomstuffndstuff @millersdoll @d0uwannkn0w @grayandthyme @pedropascalshubby @mani-pedro @thaliagracesgf @userdarkholme @sweetmonsters @heyitsmirae @ohhoneypascal @joelscowgirl69 @mylittlebleedingheart

[gf2bellamy]

hi hi hi !!!

could i please request a spencer fic with uni/student reader where he comes home from a case and finds her sleeping on her books with her laptop open and just a chaotic environment and he gently tries her to sleep properly (and finds out she has not been taking care of herself the past few days) and she refuses cuz there's assignments to complete and exams to study for, and yk the vibes pls feel free to ignore this if you have written something similar or if you just dont want to <33 thankyouuu so muchh <3

assignments — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader studying too much , mention of a mean professor , spencer being concerned a/n: hi hi !! love this request ( bc i need this !! exams are actually killing me )

When Spencer stepped into the apartment, he was met not with the familiar sound of your voice calling his name, nor the warm embrace that usually followed — your arms wrapped tightly around him, your face buried in his neck as you whispered how much you'd missed him.

Instead, there was only silence.

It had been a week since he left for a case so this was highly unusual. 

As he shrugged off his jacket and toed off his shoes, his eyes were drawn to the light spilling from the kitchen. Quietly, socks muffling his steps against the creaky floorboards, he walked toward the light.

And there you were.

But not the way he expected.

You weren’t smiling, weren’t running into his arms. Instead, your head was resting on your open textbook, the screen of your laptop still glowing faintly beside you — the paused video of a lecture frozen mid-sentence. Pens were scattered on the floor, likely knocked loose when you'd slumped forward in exhaustion.

Spencer's chest tightened.

He stepped closer, his touch feather-light as he brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. You barely stirred.

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft and warm against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmured, then kissed your temple again, lingering a moment longer this time.

You stirred just slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips as Spencer, still with his hand resting gently on the back of your head, closed your laptop. You shifted again, mumbling a small, sleepy, "Spence?"

"Yeah, it's me," he responded, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. You lifted your head slowly, blinking at him, clearly trying to shake off the sleepiness clouding your vision.

"Hi," he smiled at you, leaning down just enough to meet your eyes.

You rubbed at your eyes, still groggy. "Oh my god, Spence, hi. I missed you." Without thinking, your arms flew around his neck, pulling him into a tight, welcoming hug.

Spencer let out a soft, relieved breath, brushing his hands over your back as he held you, his gaze flicking over to your scattered books. His brow furrowed in concern, though his hands continued to soothe you. "I missed you too," he whispered, the crease on his forehead relaxing as you kissed his cheek.

"Why are you awake?" he asked softly as your arms slowly loosened around his neck, falling back into your lap with a heavy sigh. You yawned.

"Studying," you mumbled, your words more coherent now as you began to fully wake up, your mind catching up with reality.

"Studying?" Spencer raised an eyebrow. "It's 2:15 a.m.," he said, glancing at his watch.

You didn't reply, instead your hand instinctively reached for your laptop, the need to continue your work almost automatic.

"No," Spencer said gently but firmly as he stopped you from opening your laptop. 

You turned, a frown on your face. "Yes," you said slowly as you met his gaze, not quite ready to let go of your plans.

Spencer shook his head with a soft smile. "No," he repeated, a little more resolute this time, before grabbing your textbooks and carefully closing them. He sat down in the chair beside you, his gaze soft but persistent. "You need sleep, not more studying."

"Spencer, no, wait— I have so many exams and assignments." You pointed frantically at a blank sheet of paper. "I haven't even started on this one yet, and my professor is actually so mean when it comes to these things. I need to finish it."

Spencer watched you, his gaze gentle but filled with concern. His eyes drifted to the pile of cups in the sink, then to the outfit you were wearing.

"Did you leave the house today?" he asked slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheekbone in a soft motion.

You paused, trying to recall the last time you'd stepped outside, but the haze of exhaustion clouded your thoughts. "Uhm..." You trailed off, unsure.

Spencer didn’t push, but his voice dropped slightly, his tone more serious. "Did you leave the house this week?" His hand gently fell to the table, his fingers resting there as he watched you carefully, analyzing every small shift in your expression. The way you bit your lip, the way you avoided his gaze—it told him more than you realized.

He leaned in a little closer, a softness in his voice as he asked, "Did you at least do something besides studying?"

And by the way you bit your lip and avoided his eyes he already knew the answer. 

"Spencer, look at my schedule." You grabbed a paper from the desk, almost shoving it toward him in a desperate bid to prove your point.

Spencer barely glanced at it, a soft sigh escaping him. "Okay, come on," he said firmly, but gently, already knowing what he had to do.

You continued protesting, but it was half-hearted. Spencer didn’t let you linger in your resistance; with a gentle but insistent tug, he grabbed your hand and helped you to your feet.

Honestly, you were exhausted, and maybe that was why you didn’t pull away. Maybe it was because you knew, deep down, you needed a break. And despite your protests, despite the mounting pressure of everything that had been piling up, you allowed him to guide you to the bedroom, too tired to fight back anymore.

He lifted the sheets, and you let him pull you under them, a soft sound of comfort escaping your lips as the warmth enveloped you.

But the guilt didn't go away.

Spencer could feel it, too. He pulled you closer, guiding your head to rest against his chest as he kissed the top of your head—three times, each kiss a silent promise: I love you. His hands gently brushed over your back, soothing you,

“You need to take care of yourself,” Spencer started, his voice soft but firm. He poked you lightly in your ribs before you could protest, a playful gesture to stop you from arguing.

You smiled softly, despite yourself.

“Especially when I’m not here,” he added, his voice growing more serious. “I don’t like the idea of you sleeping over your books and just drinking coffee.” He paused, letting the words sink in.

You chuckled lightly, the tension in your shoulders easing a little. “Because that’s your thing?” you teased, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Spencer smiled too, but his expression softened, concern still lingering in his gaze. “Because that’s my thing exactly. And it’s not healthy. So you shouldn’t be doing it.” His hand slid into your hair, fingers gently brushing through the strands as he continued, his tone gentle and filled with sincerity. “You have to take breaks.”

He pressed another kiss to your head, his touch so tender it made your heart ache with how deeply he cared.

You bit your lip, knowing he was right. But the guilt was still there, pressing on you, weighing you down.

“And hey,” Spencer said, tapping your chin lightly to get your attention. You raised your head slowly, meeting his soft, hazel eyes, their warmth glowing in the dim light of the nightstand lamp.

“Tomorrow I’ll help you,” he promised. “We’ll study together. With breaks,” he added with a playful but stern look, as though he meant business. “And you’ll finish everything on time. I promise.” He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, sealing his words with it.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting out a soft sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice muffled as you scooted closer, nuzzling your face into his neck.

Spencer held you close, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

Just when you thought he might be drifting off with you, his voice broke the quiet.

“You know,” he began, a familiar ramble already starting to take shape in his tone, “there’s actually a lot of research that supports the importance of regular breaks during study sessions.”

You smiled into his neck, already picturing his thoughtful expression. Here he goes.

“I mean, the human brain can only maintain true focus for around 25 to 45 minutes at a time before efficiency begins to drop. After that, you're not retaining much. It’s cognitive overload, really. And yet you—” he gave your side a playful squeeze, “—seem determined to break every rule neuroscience has ever suggested.”

You let out a sleepy giggle. There was a short pause. Then:

“And also, I think I need to have a word with that professor of yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

Spencer leaned back slightly, just enough to look at you with mock seriousness, his brows raising. “Because if he's assigning enough work that you forget to eat, sleep, or breathe, then I have concerns. Strong ones. Potentially formal ones.”

“Spencer…”

“I mean, it wouldn’t be difficult,” he continued, entirely too casually. “Just show up, badge in hand—‘Hi, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, FBI. I’d like to discuss your time management expectations and the psychological harm of unrealistic academic pressure.’”

You burst out laughing, burying your face back into his shoulder.

He grinned, proud of himself. “Maybe even cite a few case studies. Throw in some light statistics. Guilt them into revising the syllabus.”

You giggled again, finally relaxing fully into him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m persuasive,” he corrected, placing a final kiss to the top of your head. “And extremely concerned about your wellbeing.”

You smiled into his skin, feeling the weight of everything slowly dissolving in the warmth of his arms and his quiet ( and nerdy ) love.

“Spence?”

“Hmm?”

“I really missed you.”

He pulled you in tighter, his voice suddenly quieter. “I missed you, too.”

[miifu666]

Detective and Killer Househusband Au!

An idea thats been fermenting in my mind maybe because ive been rewatching brooklyn 99! Buttt Househusband Wukong and his detective wife hihihi. Took me a while to make this cause I was confused on which role would they have but some moots in discord helped me so! HOUSEHUSBAND WUKONGG. This is modern normal AU? Ish???

Detective! Suklha

A well respected detective who managed to have the most cases broken in her youth, yet somehow a new case stumped her. The motives are sporadic and unpredictable, there has been dosen of detective investigating the case before but eventually it was handed to her as a referral.

Her advice are considered to be the highest priority. Less anyone has a different opinion, Suklha is ready to drain them dry for any reason why, will went as far as chasing them at every corner. She will never let anyones opinion go to waste and accepts criticism.

Is known to be Cold and mysterious, some officers learnt she has a soft spot but only a few and is an obscured knowledge in her precinct. They never would’ve guessed she’s married to the neighborhood’s well known monkey.

Was offered promotion a couple of times but rejected it. Already comfortable with her position and reputation, she works for her passion rather than money. Fortunately shes good at money managing, and Wukong has a good way of using his knowledge to do household chores as cheap as he can but still effective.

Introverted, she strictly works alone without a partner. For her own purposes, less she gets overstimulated she claims. In truth, she just hates social interaction when its unneeded and has a lot of trust issues she wont work on. Has been in therapy for a couple of times but in the end showed no improvement due to her stubborn attitude.

Met Wukong during her therapy session, talked to him while waiting for her. Turns out they both had the same psychologist. A psychologist who specializes in addiction and behavioral issues.

Cant stop obsessing over theories and plans, although she makes this habit of her into a job. It also made her highly paranoid, to the point she’s afraid to work with a partner. This however died down after she got married, has been taking better care of herself or should i say a certain monkey has?

This bias towards her husband, someone she deeply trusts. Made her blind from making him a suspect, doesnt help that Wukong stalks every move on his own case.

People has seen her blush an occasional time, the day she had a fever while clocking in and when she had to introduce her husband. Which shocked a lot of officers, it was the first time a police department went silent.

Yan! Househusband! Wukong

Met Suklha while he was going to therapy. Lied about his issues to get on her good side. Kept it up since then. In truth, He has an obsessive disorder.

A househusband who is well known in the community especially to the elderly, very active in terms of community services and also kind hearted. He’s very extroverted and warm. Some elderly calls him “The monkey who’s equal to heaven” referring to the many good deeds he has done.

Has a habit of giving baked goods to new members of the community, occasionally gives out free food for Suklha’s precinct because “he accidentally made too much”

Wouldn’t it be funny if his Ruyi Jingu Bang is a folding staff that he disguised as a broomstick? The name comes from Suklha cause each time she tries to use the broom it always detached itself from the broom and so far only Wukong is able to use it? Its also very heavy lmao.

Gossips with EVERYONEE its his way of getting intel and he feels like it helps Suklha in a way besides stalking her throughout her work yk-

Has a large network of “someone i know”, Macaque is the only one who knows of his bad habits and what he’s fault for. Tried to tell Suklha before they got married, after that he kind of stays out of the couples way.

Killed some people because he thought he’s lessening his Wife’s workload, even went as far as making sure they’re considered “missing” butt when the case got onto Suklha’s hand. He realized it’ll only gave her more overtime and late night, he stopped for awhile. Till he started again when he found out some cops arent… able to keep their hands to themselves when its about his wife.

Got the name “Heaven’s Sage” because the internet has been blowing up about him doing “Gods work” only killing suspected killers and perverts so far. In a gruesome and bludgeoned way, notable trademarks of his victims are : Marks of blunt objects, fatal multi-organ inflammation, left barren without clothes or valuable.

VERY obsessive of his wife, its been going on for almost a decade now… he is NOT joking. He can tell if she walks funny or smells differently.

Taglist : @phoenixeclipse-lmkau @skymoral @tuskstudioart @whatisev04 @forge-the-idiot @masterqueso @monkieshad0w @lilchickie @mehiwilldoitlater @missrosiesworld @sleepingdramaqueen @epochal-oracle

[dwarf-vader-of-middle-earth]

That's a reflection on them, not you. That isn't to say it won't hurt when someone judges you, it's absolutely going to hurt. But the fact is that you need to have the confidence to know yourself and know that, no matter what people believe about you, you know who you are, what you're worth, and what you believe and think about yourself. You need to develop the confidence to understand that, no matter what anyone says or believes about you, what they accuse you of, you know yourself and that their accusations don't change this truth of you and never will. You cannot allow the judgment of another to define who you are.

I get judged constantly, I've had people tell me the most abhorrent things I dare not even repeat, calling me some of the worst shit imaginable, and one of those things was, I kid you not, over commenting on how I loved an art of Deadpool and Spiderman kissing. But at the end of the day, they can believe what they will of me. I know who I am, and it doesn't matter if they do or don't. I wish they understood me, yes, and it hurts that they never will accept the truth about me, but there are more things to worry about at the end of the day than what some random folks think of who I am when I know myself more than they ever will, and I uphold this in my actions, beliefs, daily affirmations, etc.

In ethics, there's something called the growth mindset, meaning people are willing and open to learning and changing their minds, versus a closed mindset wherein they're not willing to learn or change (you'll often see this in especially older and elderly people, for example with how many elderly folks refuse to learn technology at all and demand for alternatives to it). And if the person has a closed mindset then it's not your duty to make them change that. Chances are that no amount of teaching will ever change their mindset, anyway.

And the people who would, in your situation, assume automatically you're a cannibal or cannibalism supporter, are those who likely have the closed mindset, or at least have not received the teaching to understand that to learn most anything at all, you have to challenge your worldview.

Even if they believe you're a cannibalism supporter, so what? Is that a bad thing when put in the context of a society in which it's merely a fact of life for them? Is it bad to allow people to have traditions wherein they consume the bodies of their loved ones believing it brings them closer to them? Is it wrong to support an act of survival to keep oneself alive in desperation? Cannibalism isn't inherently barbaric.

Support of something isn't always black or white, either. You can have nuanced situations in which you'll support something or not based on context, and not just this example but for a number of things. Would you support something such as animal euthanasia for when an animal is very sick and cannot live a quality life, but if it's for the reason that a shelter or city is overpopulated by the animal you wouldn't support it? What about murder? Would you support someone killing a person who is attempting to kill them, but you wouldn't support the idea for murder just for murder's sake?

That is the thing about ethics is it forces you to realize the nuances of the world, the human experience and mind, and people who refuse to see this are those with closed mindsets who, more likely than not, would judge you as in your example. And it doesn't matter what they think of you because at the end of the day, again, you're how you define yourself. And if you'll allow hate and poor judgment to define you, if you're going to worry about what everyone thinks of you in many or all contexts, you'll never be able to challenge your own worldview to learn in your own mindset, to grow and change.

Granted, that isn't to say you should just ask a bunch of random strangers on the street for their opinions on a controversial subject. It's important that you discuss these things in open circles where others are willing to contribute to the discussion in a constructive way, such as a classroom or a mutual meeting space.

But in the end, confidence in yourself as well as understanding that others do not have the right to define you, only you do, is key.

[brawberryz]

⎯⎯ㅤ Digital Girl

Batfam Yan! × Scene! Reader

| Platonic |

Note / English is not my first language / M.list

A / N | I don't know much about scenecore so this is just a very superficial view, if there are any mistakes please correct me (|||´Д｀) !!

TW / Yandere behavior, obsession, violence, toxic relationships, manipulation

Headcanon | How would they react to a scenecore batsis?

Character | Dick Grayson | Jason Todd | Tim Drake | Damian Wayne | Bruce Wayne

⎯ Bruce Wayne ★

He'd be surprised the first time.

Don't take this the wrong way, it's just...well, he's pretty new to all of this.

He tries to be an understanding father, but I feel like he'd be the kind of father who'd say it's all a phase; he just hopes this phase of yours doesn't last too long.

He's not a strict father (well, maybe a little, or maybe too much), but he wants you to understand that it's best for you.

He wouldn't like you to wear too many bracelets or bangles on your arms because he's afraid your skin would get irritated or leave marks.

He'd never forgive himself if something happened to his baby.

If you tried to dye your hair, his hair would be a big no-no.

He'd only let you dye your hair if you begged him all week and told him to let him choose the color and let him dye your hair.

There wouldn't be any problems with your way of dressing, although it would depend on how colorful and extravagant your outfits are.

Most of your family tends to wear dull, muted colors. You could only occasionally see Dick in a brightly colored shirt, but most preferred duller or less flashy colors.

That way, you'd definitely draw a lot of attention with your outfits.

If you two ever go to a gala, he WON'T let you dress like that. Look, he doesn't judge you (even if he does).

But he thinks you should find another, less flashy "style." He loves you the way you are, but sometimes he wishes you were as obedient as other young people.

He's afraid that at some point you'll become rebellious and escape his complete control.

He should, no, he needs to control everything about your life.

Even your style of clothing. He just wants you to be a normal child.

He knows how cruel the world is to people as different as you.

He's just in some kind of midlife crisis, and your teenage "rebellion" isn't helping much.

He'll get over it eventually

⎯ Dick Grayson ♥︎

He'd be the one who best handled this.

I get the idea that Dick also went through some emo or alt phase, so he's pretty understanding about this.

Most of your accessories, like bracelets and makeup, were bought or made by Dick.

He likes to sneakily create bracelets with his initials on them so others know who you are.

Even though he pretended to be a cool brother, he's just as possessive as the others.

Just because he was "nice" to you doesn't mean he won't manipulate you.

He'd take any opportunity to be around you.

Oh! You want to dye your hair? Don't worry, your brother Dick conveniently has the color you wanted!

You can dye your hair like him and match with him! He's the kind of guy who's very obsessed with your tastes.

He wants to be the best brother to you, so don't be scared because he's too intense.

Also, I think he'd listen to hyperpop just for you. It's not his type of music, but he'd just listen to it to spend time with you.

He's not the best, but at least he tries, umm...

⎯ Jason Todd ♣︎

He doesn't really care.

He'd be like,

"Oh, you're scene? Cool."

One of the things he'd be least bothered by is your clothing style or appearance.

I mean, as long as you don't do anything stupid, he wouldn't mind.

Although I think he'd buy hair dye in all sorts of colors and literally turn your hair into a fucking rainbow, just to piss off Bruce because he knows you're not allowed to dye your hair without Bruce's permission.

He'd kill anyone who dares say anything negative about you or make fun of how you dress.

He wouldn't allow any bastard to talk bad about his sister.

He'd listen to hyperpop while reading or doing some activity like reading or kicking criminals' asses. I think it would be pretty funny.

He'd probably only listen to it because you asked him to, but I think eventually he'd start to like that style of music, but he'd never say it out loud

⎯ Tim Drake ◆

He'll pretend he doesn't care, but he really cares.

I could say he's one of the most obsessive people; he knows everything about you.

Maybe he knows you better than you know yourself; he has a folder full of your interests or possible interests in a private file on his computer.

He'll spend hours on the internet searching for information about it. If he wants to get close to you, he has to be smart.

He's like a predator.

He analyzes his prey and then attacks.

I think his approach would be subtle. It has to be smart and not too aggressive. He doesn't want to scare you into thinking he's some kind of creepy guy (if he is).

I think he would start slowly, with small comments about your appearance.

"Oh! You look pretty nice today!" or "That shirt really matches your outfit!"

Then, make comments about your interests, and he'd start getting closer and closer to you. He's not like the others.

If he wants to have you in his hands, he'll have to do it slowly and calmly. He's very good at hiding his true intentions.

I think he'd spend hours trying to find the best hair dye for you. He doesn't want your hair damaged because you decided to buy a poor-quality one.

Also, if you want to take a picture, don't worry! He'll be your personal photographer.

He takes the best photos on your blog. He's always taking pictures of you secretly. I'm pretty sure he knows all your good sides.

The only reason he's interested in all of this is because of you.

He'll do anything to be near you, even if it means changing all his interests to match yours.

⎯ Damian Wayne ♣︎

He thinks it's ridiculous.

He'd make pretty offensive comments saying you look like a clown or some kind of Joker Jr.

He'd be the worst when it comes to this; he doesn't know what's so interesting about dressing like a walking rainbow.

Be prepared for the mockery and passive-aggressive comments (though they're more aggressive than passive).

Even if he'd eventually accept it, halfway.

Sure, he'd still think it's completely ridiculous and pathetic, but he'd only accept it because it's you (and deep down, he thinks some of your outfits are pretty cool).

But he still WON'T ALLOW anyone to make fun of the way you dress.

you still remember the time he got suspended for a week from school for hitting on a kid who said your way of dressing was stupid

He's the only one allowed to make fun of your ridiculous way of dressing.

Also, I think he'd be drawn to your bracelets and shoes, if you're the kind of people who wears those long shoes, I think he'd really like them.

He'd indirectly ask you to give him one of your bracelets because he thinks they're pretty. Maybe he'd give you some accessories like colorful belts or a hair accessory.

He'd really pay attention to your makeup; depending on how colorful or extravagant your makeup is, he'd like it.

He secretly listens to the music you recommend. No kidding, some of it is actually quite good, so he even put it on his playlist.

He's more or less supportive of all this. He's grateful that his jokes about your appearance have lessened.

Although he'll most likely continue to make jokes about your appearance when he gets bored of being a good person.

Hi, I'm back.

Sorry for not updating for so long. My health has been getting worse for weeks, and I've only recently recovered.

This is a late request, so I hope the anonymous person who requested this enjoys it.

I don't know when I'll update again because it's exam time and school is really giving me a hard time. Lolololol

[miraclemaya]

jacking off in the king in yellow suicide booths instead of killing myself and everytime i come out of them someone off stage gives me a glare but my mind is blissfully unaware that there even is a stage

[nhmkhnh]

HEAR ME OUT QUEEN, PERV VI... 😭😭😭😭 I NEED PERV VI SO BAD JUST GIVE ME SOME 🥹 TYSM

hard eyes.

pairings: vi x fem!reader

preface: vi wasn’t subtle. not about what she wanted. especially not when it was you.

author's note: alright mama will feed you, but ain't give the smut away so quick. naw, patience.

wrn: lowercase ;; vi lowk a perv (❤️‍🔥)

navigation.

you weren’t even trying to be hot. that’s the worst part. just in a sports bra and leggings, minding your business on the punching bag. vi was supposed to be training. instead, she was leaning against the wall with a towel over her shoulder, chewing gum, and absolutely not hiding the way her eyes crawled down your back like she had the right.

“you got a killer stance,” she said casually, strolling up like she hadn’t been watching your ass for ten straight minutes. “bet you know how to throw a punch… but can you take one?”

you gave her a raised eyebrow. “is that your way of flirting?”

she grinned, slow and sharp. “flirting? babe, this is me being polite.”

you roll your eyes, turn back to the bag. but then she steps up behind you, just close enough to feel her breath.

“mind if i adjust your form?” she murmured.

you froze for one second too long. her hands landed on your hips like they belonged there.

“i didn’t give it to you, but i’m not taking it back.”

it’s the morning after a group hangout. you stayed over at vi and caitlyn’s place, crashed on the couch, woke up a little dazed and very much not wearing your own shirt.

the one you’re in? it’s vi’s. her oversized, faded gray tank, the one that clings low under the arms and smells exactly like her—faint smoke, leather, something warm and sinful.

you stretch, yawn, and walk into the kitchen like it’s nothing. but vi is already there.

and she chokes on her water.

“jesus—” she coughs, eyes dragging over your thighs, her shirt riding way too high on them. “you tryna kill me, sweetheart?”

you smirk and open the fridge. “you left it on the back of the couch. my shirt was soaked. figured you wouldn’t mind.”

she leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, clearly trying so hard not to stare at your braless chest through the fabric. her jaw tics.

“don’t mind at all,” she says lowly. “just thinkin’ i’ll never be able to wear it again without getting hard.”

you blink. “without—what?”

“thirsty?” she deflects, stepping in close to grab a glass from behind you, voice brushing your ear. “you sure look it.”

you gulp. she smirks. and the air between you sizzles.

“you flinch like i’m gonna kiss you. should i?”

you’re helping vi fix something in the garage—an old bike, busted chain, her grease-stained fingers twisting bolts while you hold it steady. you’re hot. she’s hotter. and you can feel her staring.

every. damn. time. you lean forward.

"you're gonna make me drop this wrench if you keep lookin’ at me like that," you mutter, not looking up.

vi grins slow. "like what?"

"like you're imagining things."

she wipes her hands on a rag, tosses it aside, and steps toward you, cornering you gently between the wall and her frame. her arm shoots up beside your head—classic vi—eyes locked on yours.

"i'm a very imaginative woman," she says, tone light but eyes anything but. "you nervous?"

you scoff, trying to slide past her. she stops you with a hand flat to your stomach.

"you always get jumpy when i’m this close," she says, voice dipped in something dangerous. "you flinch like i’m gonna kiss you."

you blink up at her, heart pounding. “i don’t flinch.”

vi leans in, mouth near your ear.

“should i?”

you swear the world stills.

then—like it never happened—she chuckles and backs away, hands up.

“nah, just messin’ with ya.”

but the way she watches you as you catch your breath?

she’s not messing at all.

“oops. slipped again.”

“you sure you wanna spar me, sweetheart?” vi’s voice is low, teasing, as she wraps her wrists in tape, watching you with that infuriating grin.

“i won’t go easy on you just because you’re pretty.”

you roll your eyes, stepping onto the mat. “i can handle it.”

“oh, i know you can,” she purrs, and the way her eyes drag down your body makes it very clear she’s not just talking about fighting.

you square up. she’s cocky. relaxed. letting you take the first swing.

you move. she dodges. effortlessly. but then she’s behind you, arm sliding around your waist, chest pressed to your back.

“don’t leave yourself open,” she whispers against your neck.

you shove her away, flustered. “are we sparring or are you just feeling me up?”

vi laughs. “can’t i do both?”

you lunge again. she catches your wrist this time, twisting, spinning you until you’re pinned on the mat with her straddling your waist. one hand holding yours down. the other?

firm on your thigh.

she doesn't move. doesn’t even pretend to move.

“oops,” she says, absolutely not sorry. “slipped again.”

your breath stutters. “vi—”

“yeah?”

her hips shift. not enough to be blatant. just enough to ruin you.

you swear she leans down a little further just to feel your pulse against her lips.

then she rolls off you like nothing happened.

“good match,” she says, tossing you a towel, smirk lingering. “you learn quick.”

you sit there, trembling, with one horrifying realization:

you’re losing this game. and you’re starting to want to.

“i can help you get out of that. if you want.”

you’re at caitlyn and vi’s for game night. things are chill. you’re wearing that stupid little white crop top vi always stares too long at, pretending she’s not. pretending everything.

and then it happens.

you’re laughing at something—vi said something dumb, as usual—and you tip your cup straight into your own chest.

ice water. direct hit. right between the tits.

you yelp and slap the fabric away, but it’s already soaked, clinging transparent and tight across your skin.

“shit,” you mutter, grabbing napkins. “so much for staying dry.”

vi’s on the couch, jaw unhinged. she’s not even blinking.

caitlyn’s already walking to the kitchen, mumbling something about paper towels.

vi? still staring. unmoving. possessed.

“vi,” you say, teasing. “you’re looking.”

“i am,” she admits, eyes dragging down slow. “like—objectively? i’ve never seen anything better.”

you laugh, trying to hide the way your thighs clench. “pervert.”

she shrugs, getting up—like a predator.

“i can help you get out of that,” she says, and she’s way too close now. “y’know. if it’s stuck.”

you lift an eyebrow. “with what, your hands?”

she grins, tilts her head. “teeth, if you ask real nice.”

your heart slams. she smells like smoke and gum and way too much trouble. you open your mouth—maybe to sass her, maybe to say “try me”—but then caitlyn calls from the kitchen.

saved. barely.

vi leans in before you can run, voice honeyed and low.

“offer’s still on the table, sugar.”

and then she walks away.

you stare after her, soaked and speechless.

you should be mad.

but you kinda want her to mean it.

“what? you’re already here, might as well get comfy.”

movie night. couch packed. you were late, so all the good seats are gone. everyone’s squished together, snacks passed around, and you’re just… standing there awkwardly with a bowl of popcorn.

that’s when vi pats her thigh.

“c’mon, hot stuff. lap’s open.”

you freeze. so do a few others. but vi? totally unfazed. just spreads her legs a little and waits, the picture of smug comfort.

you narrow your eyes. “you’re not serious.”

“i’m always serious about lap seating,” she grins. “trust me. it’s comfortable.”

you hesitate.

“unless,” she leans forward a little, voice dipped low, “you’re scared.”

your pride kicks in. you strut over like it means nothing and drop onto her lap, back to her chest, arms crossed. “see? not scared.”

vi chuckles, all warm breath and muscle beneath you. her hands land innocently on your thighs.

at first.

but as the movie goes on? she starts getting… bold.

one hand stays on your knee, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles. the other? resting conveniently on your waist. a little high. a little under your shirt.

you shift once. she shifts with you—her voice low at your ear.

“comfy?”

you gulp. “fine.”

“you keep squirming,” she murmurs, smile dangerous. “you know what that does to me?”

you still. she presses her thighs together under you on purpose.

your breath catches.

“you wanna move?” she whispers, tone soft but filthy.

you don’t.

she knows.

the movie keeps playing. but you're not watching it anymore. and vi’s grinning into your shoulder like she just won a game only she knew you were playing.

“didn’t know you were watching, sweetheart. you like the view?”

you both hit the gym hard today. she’s been training you—“hands-on,” of course—and by the end, you’re drenched, heart pounding, body sore in the best way.

you towel off and head to the locker room early. alone, or so you think.

but when you round the corner— there’s vi. shirt off. sports bra half-lifted. muscles flexing as she dries the sweat off her stomach, one leg propped on the bench.

her abs? unreal. her back? carved like sin.

you freeze. and she sees you freeze.

she smirks. keeps going. slower.

“didn’t know you were watching, sweetheart,” she says, voice rough, teasing. “you like the view?”

you try to act cool. try. “you could at least pretend to be modest.”

she tosses the towel over her shoulder, turning toward you, completely unapologetic.

“why would i hide something you clearly enjoy staring at?”

you scoff, but your face is burning.

she steps closer. closer. until she’s right in front of you, all glistening skin and wicked heat.

“want me to turn around again?” she asks, low. “or should i show you the front, too?”

you swallow hard. “you’re insufferable.”

“hot, though.”

she reaches for the locker behind you—on purpose—brushing your arm, her chest nearly touching yours.

then she leans in, eyes locking with yours, lips barely a breath away.

“i bet you think about me after sparring.”

you blink. “what—”

she grins. “it’s okay. i think about you too.”

and then? she walks away, still shirtless, leaving you standing there with your heart in your throat and your thighs pressed together.

you should leave.

but god—you kinda want to follow her.

“i just wanted to hear you… sound like that.”

it’s nearly 1 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

vi calling.

you blink at the screen. the hell?

you answer, groggy. “vi? what’s wrong?”

nothing but silence for a beat. then: “hey, princess.”

her voice is low. raspy. like she’s been tossing and turning. or pacing. or—

“you okay?” you ask, sitting up.

she sighs, slow and soft, like static. “yeah. just… couldn’t sleep.”

your heart stutters. “so you called me?”

“you’re the only voice i wanted to hear.”

silence. you swallow. your skin prickles.

“…you drunk?”

she laughs, breathy. “no. just… thinkin’ about you.”

you bite your lip, hard. “vi—”

“you know that sound you make?” she murmurs. “that tiny little gasp when i catch you off guard?”

your breath catches.

“that one,” she whispers, delighted.

“vi…”

“i’ve been thinking about it,” she continues, like it’s normal. “replayin’ it in my head. wondering what you’d sound like if i really got my hands on you.”

your thighs clench under the blanket. “vi, jesus—”

“don’t stop me now, baby. i’m not even touching you and you’re already breathin’ like that.”

you press your phone tighter, heart pounding.

“say my name,” she whispers.

“what?”

“just once.”

you do. soft. shaky.

she groans—actually groans. like she felt it.

“god, you’re gonna kill me,” she says, almost laughing. “i just wanted to hear you… sound like that.”

you’re breathless. you should hang up. but you don’t.

“still thinkin’ about me?” she asks.

“constantly,” you admit.

vi breathes in like she just won something. “yeah. same.”

and then she hangs up.

you stare at your phone.

you are not sleeping tonight.

“tell me to stop.”you won’t.

it’s pouring outside. the kind of rain that turns streets to rivers. you were supposed to leave hours ago, but vi just smiled and said:

“looks like you’re stuck with me tonight, cupcake.”

caitlyn’s gone—business trip. the place is quiet, dim, and dangerous.

you know vi’s only got one bed. she offers it casually. “take the left side. i’ll behave. promise.”

liar.

you settle in wearing one of her old shirts—massive on you, soft and worn. no bra. bare thighs. her scent clinging to every thread.

vi climbs in beside you.

it starts innocent. you both face opposite ways. then your backs touch. then her arm brushes yours. then she shifts and suddenly— you’re facing her. nose to nose. breathing the same air.

neither of you moves.

“you cold?” she asks, voice low.

“no.”

“liar.”

she pulls you close. you let her. her thigh slots between yours. her hand spreads across your back, fingers splayed, heavy and warm.

“shouldn’t,” you whisper.

“i know.”

her lips skim your cheek. “tell me to stop.”

you don’t.

she kisses you. slow. deep. a groan rumbles in her chest the moment you kiss back—needy, raw, like she’s been waiting.

her hand slides under your shirt. just your waist at first. then higher. fingertips brushing your ribs.

you gasp.

“there it is,” she whispers. “the sound that drives me fucking insane.”

your fingers clutch her tank top. her hand keeps exploring.

“i think about this every night,” she murmurs. “wonderin’ what you’d do if i finally stopped pretending.”

her thigh presses up—right there. you arch, a moan slipping free.

and vi loses it.

“tell me to stop,” she breathes, lips at your jaw.

you shake your head.

she groans against your skin. “good girl.”

the rest of the night? you don’t sleep. and in the morning, you’re still tangled in her arms—shirt half off, bruises blooming like confessions across your hips, and vi’s voice rasping against your neck:

“breakfast first. then round two.”

“hands off. she’s mine.”

the house is packed, music pounding so hard your chest vibrates. you’re dressed to kill — tight dress, killer heels, hair just right — and for a second, you forget how dangerous the night could get.

you’re chatting with someone — someone cute, someone interested — and you laugh, leaning in close.

then you feel it. a shadow behind you. a presence.

vi.

she’s had enough.

her hand slides around your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make it clear: this is her territory.

the other person’s smile fades as vi pulls you back, lips brushing your ear.

“hands off. she’s mine.”

her voice is low, rough, possessive — the kind that makes everyone around you stop breathing.

you turn and meet her eyes, the hunger there so raw it almost scares you.

she doesn’t stop.

instead, vi drags you away from the crowd — no apologies, no hesitation.

into a quiet hallway, pressed against the wall.

her hands are everywhere — on your hips, your thighs, your back — and her mouth finds yours, rough and demanding.

“been waitin’ for this all night,” she growls.

you cling to her, every nerve alive, every touch a promise.

“no one else gets you.”

“no one else wants you.”

“you’re mine.”

and in that moment, nothing else matters.

[caninescreations]

sketch dump bc i cannot get my mind off this fic + comic abt the fallout of shifter!stan verse jurassic park adventure from that one ask bc i would die and kill for dark lord's emma may. also stan just... mossing himself and glomming onto ford? peak.

the scrapbook. can i talk about the scrapbook???? the fucking love and care that ford put into making it??? for stan???? for stan his brother stan that he loves so much he made that????? stan trying out a moustache for like. a day and everyone hating it.

i love how sopping wet baby shapeshifters are they're like weird gross little wet cats and i want to smoosh them gently.

[tiredafel]

The boy wakes up exactly 16 hours later. He doesn't panic upon waking, or start questioning where he is. He stares up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, then slowly turns to look at Bruce. He doesn't try to get up once he sees the sight of Batman sitting by the corner of the medbay room he's in.

The boy slowly turns his head on the pillow and blinks slowly. He opens his mouth, then closes again with a grimace. He swallows and coughs exactly once to clear his throat. "So—" he coughs again. "So even the heroes have joined the GIW's efforts," he says with a hoarse voice that is just above a whisper. His tone isn't even disappointed. He seems as if he had been hoping otherwise, but isn't surprised that it wasn't.

Bruce doesn't even know what the GIW is. He hears Barbara signal that she's looking it up, so he puts it out of his mind. He indecisively stays on his seat; he feels as if the slightest movement from him will break the morose mode the teen is in.

He wants to reassure the teen who they tortured with their ignorance, but he doesn't know how. If he had woken up in a panic he would have known how to calm him down, but this listless monologue? The dead eyes? He doesn't know if his words will make it worse.

Bruce feels oddly frozen.

"Hah," the teen lets out a sardonic laugh and closes his blue, blue eyes. Tears roll from his eyes as he does. The teen tries to clench his hands once, then twice. He seems to give up on it when he can't due to the tremors on them. He tilts his head back on the pillow and lets out a shaky breath. "On my Crown," he sighs out. "If you don't get me out of here, I will End myself."

Bruce rises to his feet. He doesn't know what the teen means, but end sounds too much like kill for him to continue to stay frozen.

The teen opens his eyes a sliver just as Bruce stops by the gurney and looks up at him with blank eyes.

Bruce opens his mouth say something. To reassure the teen, to say that there was a misunderstanding, to say that he's safe; Bruce doesn't know which.

But before he can, before he can reach out, the teen disappears right in front of his eyes.

Bruce freezes once again.

————

Clockwork watches on with sadness as his future King gets tortured.

He cannot do anything, not with the Observants watching him so closely, not without being called upon.

He watches as the heroes of Daniel's Dimension as they struggle to find what's wrong, as Lady Gotham's Knight and Bird finally comes forward, as they finally find out what's wrong, as the Dark Knight stands vigil over the tired form of Daniel. He watches.

He watches as Daniel finally wakes up, and calls for him.

Clockwork reaches a hand out across Time to Space, and gently scoops him out.

Aheem... prompt from @regonold

16 Hours

Danny remembers the first time something shorted out his powers. Vlad with his stupid Plasmius Maximus thing. Well, 'remembers'. Mostly he remembers the aftermath.

Apparently Vlad hadn't known at the time exactly how Danny ended up half ghost. He thought it had been a slower progression like his own development. It hadn't occurred to him that Danny's original death had been much quicker.

Danny remembers a short, light shock. Really, the spector deflector was worse. But this shock... suddenly his muscles were seizing, his heart stuttering, his Lichtenbergs burning. And then, nothing. A blank space in Danny's head that apparently spanned 3 hours.

Next thing he knows, they're in some kind of vehicle. There are sirens outside (a police escort, Danny would later learn). His mom is driving like her life depends on it. And Vlad is giving him chest compressions, looking grieved and panic striken. He's crying. They both are.

"Please tell me you didn't have to kiss me." His voice comes out pained and raspy. Mom almost crashes the vehicle.

"No, Little Badger. Thankfully, you kept breathing. Just your heart that was struggling." Vlad chuckled, guilty yet relieved.

It was another hour before they made it to the nearest hospital from the stupid hunting cabin. 6 more for all the stupid medical tests. "An accident," Vlad told them. "Small shock, but with an already weak heart..."

Any other time, Danny might have argued. Tried to make Vlad admit more guilt. But the whole ordeal had exhausted him to much to care then.

The second time was marginally better. At least with the Fenton Crammer, it was a steady loss. And Danny managed to fix it before his healing factor fully failed. It still hadn't been pleasant, fighting Skulker and dealing with Dash while phantom echoes of his death arced across his body. But he'd managed.

This. This is so much worse. Danny thought it would be like the Crammer again. A steady decline. But it isn't.

And it isn't like the Maximus either, a one then done, pain then nothing, dying then dead, moment.

No. This is more like the blood blossoms. This is torture. This is hell.

The suppression cuffs let just enough of his power bleed through, just enough healing factor, to keep him alive. Alive and in agony for... hours? Days? Weeks? Minutes? Danny couldn't really tell. His thoughts had long since turned to nothing but static and pain. All he knew was that time was passing around him while he was here, suffering on the absolute brink of death yet unable to embrace it.

Oh god he wanted to die. Please just let him die already! It's too much. A death that should only last a few seconds drug out into an eternity. His muscles ached with the strain of being locked up. His insides were broiling from the electric heat. His heart stuttered and stopped and started and stuttered. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts!

He might have been screaming. He might have been Wailing. Or he might he been choking on weak uneven breaths. Danny didn't know. Didn't care to know. Didn't care if he ever found out the details of his time in chains. He just wanted, no needed, it to end. But it just dragged on and on and on. And Danny was lost in it.

Too far gone to even realize when it ended.

.

Batman hadn't been there when the new meta appeared, quite literally materializing from nowhere in the conference room mid-meeting. He had been dealing with a mass Arkham breakout at the time. So he wasn't there. An unfortunate fact which will haunt him for the rest of his life and possibly beyond.

He should have been there. If he had only been there...

He didn't blame his team mates. They didn't know. Who would have guessed that simple power suppression cuffs could ever be an instrument of torture. He'd never considered it possible.

He didn't blame his team mates. How could he blame them? Batman wasn't even the one to connect the dots. Red Robin figured it out. He always was good at stringing together thoughts know one else would think to connect.

Red Robin asked the right questions. He figured out in 5 minutes what the rest of the league and the best doctors -not technically- on earth had been agonizing over for 16 hours.

16 hours too long.

He should have been here. Should have come sooner.

"Don't know, B!" Flash had met him at the Zetas, already rambling at top speed before he could reorient himself after teleportation. Everyone else had gone home, unable to help and needing to tend to their own cities and responsibilities.

"He just- He appeared out of nowhere while we were in meeting. Didn't trip any alarms or nothing. Just popped up. We figured it had to be teleportation, but he'd have to know where the Watchtower was to do that.

So we figured, you know, random kid teleporting into the Watchtower during a Justice League meeting. Not good. Big threat. Bats would tell us to detain. So we did.

But before we could get him to a holding cell, there was this flash of light and he changed or something. He had white hair and green eyes and some sort of jumpsuit on when he appeared.

But after the light he had black hair and a t-shirt and jeans and I actually didn't see his eyes cause he just collapsed on the spot.

Started convulsing or seizing or something. And screaming. God, B, the screaming... So we took him to medbay and...

He's dying B. He has to be. He's got a fever that keeps spiking and dropping, his muscles keep spasming, and his heart keeps giving out...

He looks 14. He looks like..."

Flash had trailed off there, as they reached medbay. Bruce understood his reluctance to complete that sentence as soon as he saw the boy.

He looks like a Robin.

Like all 4 of his sons combined.

Like someone mixed Dick's and Jason's faces and put it on Tim's body at Damian's age.

It can't even be a trick. The suppression cuffs are nullifying his abilities. This is what he truly looks like.

His sons.

In pain.

In agony for 16 hours because Batman prioritized Gotham over an emergency on the Watchtower.

"When exactly did you say he collapsed."

"When we were moving him to a holding cell after we caught him. He was a trick to catch too. He-"

Red Robin cut him off. "Yeah, sure. But when exactly did this start. What happened immediately before?"

Flash was less then pleased about being interrupted, but acquiesced after a look from Batman. Tim had an idea. Tim was on to something. "Like I said, just after we caught him and got the cuffs on so he'd stop slipping away again."

Bruce couldn't keep the growl out of his voice one he realized what Tim was suggesting. Of course he knows it wasn't their fault. He's told all of them as much since. But in the moment...

"Take them off!"

"What?"

"It's the cuffs! Take the damn cuffs off! They're killing him!"

Flash wasted no more time, bolting out of the room to fetch the disabler. Tim didn't bother waiting for the fastest man alive. He had the cuffs disabled before Flash would have been able to swipe his access card into the detainment center storage room. Bruce practically threw the cuffs out of the room in his haste to get them away.

The change had been... not nearly as quick as Bruce would have liked. The heartrate settled out almost instantly, although into something a bit too slow for comfort. But it was steady and Bruce knew nothing about this kid's normal physiology so he counted it a win.

The screaming, of course, had long since choked off. According to Flash's report, his vocal cords failed after about an hour. But his facial expressions still indicated consciousness, though not awareness.

The muscles stopped spasming and unlocked slowly over the course of several minutes. Flash was back by then, looking a bit put out to have lost a race against Red Robin. Batman could not give a single flying fuck about Flash's ego right then.

Shortly after his muscles unlocking was when he finally passed out. Once more, Batman thought about 16 hours. 16 hours and he hadn't even been able to slip into unconsciousness for relief. He should have been here.

The fever was the slowest to break. In that it still hadn't broken almost 2 hours later. Batman had sent Tim and Flash home after Red Robin finished squeezing all the details he could out of Barry. Tim had given him a look before leaving, some mixture of worry and mischief. "Should I tell Agent A to prepare a room?" Bruce just rolled his eyes and shooed him off. Hopefully to bed. Knowing his son, probably not. Tim was most likely still up doing research. Bruce wanted to call Alfred to wrangle Tim to sleep.

But calling Alfred would mean leaving the room so the still potentially a threat meta couldn't hear if he woke up. And Bruce couldn't leave him. Not until the fever broke. Not until he woke up. Not until he knew the boy that looked like his sons would be okay.

Not until he could apologize for being late.

16 hours.

16 hours too late.

[ladykailitha]

Three Cheers for Toby the Tiger! Part 1

Welcome to yet another new story for yours truly! This was another one of those stories that had been percolating for awhile and only recently started writing.

This is just me projecting a friend of mine from middle school who was a theater kid, played several instruments, and had done gymnastics and tumbling on to Eddie Munson. He was the school mascot and was constantly doing jumps and flips off tables and shit. And to me that just screams Eddie to me.

Summary: Eddie's already failed his senior once. And the second go round isn't off to a great start either. So the basketball coach and PE teacher Coach Rowland gives Eddie an ultimatum: either join a sports team or fail PE and high school again. Everyone expects the swim or track teams. But Eddie has a surprise up his sleeve.

~

“Mr. Munson!” Coach Rowland called out as Eddie tried to sneak out of PE yet again. “You get your ass in my office in five minutes or I’ll flunk you out right!”

Eddie winced. He knew he needed the credit to graduate from high school but they were doing rope climbing today and he wasn’t about to have a bunch of jocks mock his form or whatever. He let out a heavy sigh and trudged back into the gym.

He sat in one of the smelly chairs in front of the coach’s desk, resigned. He slouched as far down as he could and glared at the stupid little hockey player bobble-head as if it was the cause of all his problems.

“I know that PE isn’t for everyone,” Coach Rowland huffed as he sat down across from Eddie, “and I know that it’s specifically not for you. But I cannot just hand you a grade and let you pass.”

“I mean you could,” Eddie said with a half smile, “but I think Principal Higgins would fire you.” He shrugged with a grimace.

Coach Rowland laughed. “You’ve got that right. But I’ve talked to him and he said that if you can get on a sports team. Any team, he’ll let you use that as your PE credit. But it will have to be for the whole year.”

Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Wait, what?” He wiggled his finger in his ear for a moment. “I’m not sure I heard that right.”

“Oh you did,” Coach Rowland said. “Any team that you try out for and make, and you stick with it until the end of the year, then it will count as your PE credit.”

“What if I don’t make any of the teams?” Eddie asked, straightening up in his seat. “I’m not the most athletic of sorts.”

“You want me to name the teams that would absolutely kill to have you on them,” Coach Rowland said with a raised eyebrow, “alphabetically or by best fit for you specifically?”

Eddie grimaced. When he did show up for shit his competitive edge prevented him from faffing it, so his mile run time was decent, his sprint speed was on par if not better than the track team’s star runner, Louis Murphy, and his backstroke was the best in the state for the swim team.

He opted not to do that one when he learned that the team had been okay’ed for wearing brief style Speedo’s. He was little gay boy in a small town, getting beat up on the regular would have been a bad look. Especially when long time crush and king extraordinaire, Steve Harrington was made co-captain this year.

“But it’s whatever team I want and succeed at making the team, right?” Eddie asked, licking his top lip slowly, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

“That what the principal said,” Coach Rowland agreed. “Why, what have you got in mind?”

“I need to check something first,” Eddie hedged. “You wouldn’t happen to have the rules for all the teams would you?”

Coach Rowlings got up and rifled through his filing cabinet. He handed it to Eddie. “Whatever you’re planning, don’t go looking for trouble, Munson. I don’t think you want to test the principal’s patience with you.”

Eddie stood up and patted him on the shoulder, waving the rule book. “I’ll tell you what, if my first choice falls through, I’ll try out for the swim team.”

Coach Rowland frowned. He had been trying to get Eddie to try out for the swim team for the last three years and the answer had always been no. Dread pooled at the base of his spine. Whatever this kid had planned he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

He watched as Eddie walked out of his office with a spring in his step and whistling ‘Holy Diver’ by Dio.

~

Eddie read the rule book front and back and looked for every possible angle, but it absolutely didn’t prohibit what he was about to do in any way.

Once he was sure he had all his ducks in a row, he started gathering up the things he would need for his chosen tryout.

He called Jeff first.

“Jeffrey my good fellow!” he greeted warmly. “I have a dire need of your boombox for the morrow!”

Jeff let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t why you’re even doing this, man. You could just tryout for the swim team and suck up your little crush so you can fucking graduate.”

“Because beloved companion,” Eddie said brightly, “that would be conforming and I want to prove that you don’t have to take the easy path if you really want to be yourself.”

“God, dude,” Jeff huffed. “Fine. I’ll bring it tomorrow. But you owe so much if this goes to fucking hell like you know it will.”

“Oh ye of little faith...” Eddie said and said goodbye.

To be honest he really didn’t have much faith in the school administrators to let him join the team of his choice, sexist pigs that they were, but he wasn’t just out to prove a point. He could do it.

Next port of call: Brian.

“Bri-guy, my man!” Eddie greeted.

“No.”

Eddie blinked for a moment and then cocked his head to the side. “I haven’t even asked for anything...

“No,” Brian said dryly, “not yet you haven’t. But you’ve go a bee in your bonnet about being asked to join a sport so that you can actually fucking graduate and instead of going out for track which would be the best option for everyone involved, but especially you, you’ve come up with this cockamamie plan that will most like get you suspended if not out and out expelled.”

Eddie’s head rocked back from the sure force of Brian’s rant. “Deep breath, man. How long have you been holding that in?”

“Since you told us at lunch.”

“Oh okay, then,” Eddie said in a clipped tone. “I can do this. I actually would have joined the gymnastics team or tumbling team if they fucking had one. But they don’t so this is my alternative. Yeah, I’m a good runner and a better swimmer, but this, Bri? This is something I’m actually impassioned about like D&D or playing guitar.”

Brian let out a long heavy sigh. “Fine. What is it you want?”

Eddie told him and after some fierce negotiations with Brian’s sister, Maddy, he secured the second piece of his tryout materials.

The final part took two thrift stores and a minor theft get but then he was all ready. He packed all of it in his van and grinned.

~

The next day he walked up to Coach Miller. “Hey, Coach,” he said brightly. “Have you been informed of the deal the principal gave me, right?”

The short blonde haired woman, crossed her arms in front of chest. “I also know that you have to tryout and make it, for me to even consider it.”

“After school at 3:30pm?” Eddie asked with broad dimpled smile. “I bring the tunes and the noise, have no fear.”

She looked him up and down. “Deal.” She stuck out her and he took it, shaking it once.

He skidded to a stop when he saw the crowd that had been gathered on the football field. He had been expecting only handful of people to witness this, but appeared that word had spread of his tryout.

The football team was there, the basketball team, all the coaches. And he meant all the coaches. From the girl’s softball team to the swim team, their coach was there. And of course Principal Higgins.

He stepped out of the dressing room and out onto the field. His hair was in pigtails and his ass was barely covered by the super short skirt. He picked up the pompoms and turned on the tape.

Then Eddie got into position. “Oh, Mikey, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind! Hey Mickey!”

And immediately Eddie did a backflip and land into the splits. Then without using his hands at all, he got back into standing. He did twists and turns and a whole routine to the song “Hey Mickey” by Toni Basil.

By the time the song ended the crowd had gone wild and Eddie’s pigtails was drenched in sweat. He was grateful for the cool autumn breeze cooling his overheated skin.

He looked up into the crowd and several of them were rolling around with laughter and astonishment. He grinned.

Coach Miller, Coach Rowland, and Principal Higgins came over to him after what looked to be a furious huddle.

Principal Higgins face was dour and cross while the two coaches looked like cats in the cream.

“It seems I am being overruled,” Higgins growled. “But it appears that according to Hank and Joan that there are no rules against boys joining the cheerleading squad.”

Eddie jumped up and down. “Yes, yes, yes!!” he cried pumping his fist in excitement. He really didn’t think that they would let him.

“However I must think of the parents of these young girls and the certainty that they would not want a boy with their daughters,” Higgins continued.

Eddie felt a cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He stopped his celebration. “But that’s not fair. I deserve a spot on the team. I tried out, I have the skills. I could be a spotter if they don’t want me on the team-team. Just...come on.”

Higgins expression softened. “Oh I have intention of bowing to their demands, Munson. But I think I have a way that would mitigate the worst of the protest before they even occur.”

Then two kids walked up with what looked to be a mess of material and a giant foam head. It took Eddie a few seconds to realize what it was. He looked back up at Principal Higgins in wide eyed shock. “No way.”

“I’m afraid it’s this or another team,” Higgins huffed, putting his hands on his hips.

“He means it ironically,” Coach Rowland said, putting his hand on the principal’s shoulder, “he’s in disbelief.”

Eddie reached for the costume with grabby hands. “Gimme!”

The kid holding the costume handed it over while the other kid held on to the head. Eddie unfurled the costume with unbridled glee. It was Toby the Tiger. The school’s mascot. He remembered when he was freshman and even his sophomore year that they had someone perform in it, though these days it was usually a cheerleader who was injured and would just clap and cheer.

Principal Higgins blinked at him in confused shock. “You want to be the school mascot?” He couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to be in the smelly costume making a fool of themselves in front of others on a daily. It was a literal nightmare of his.

“I would prefer to be on the cheerleaders’ squad,” Eddie admitted, looking at the costume with unholy glee, “but this is a very cool consolation prize.”

“Ah.” Principal Higgins still didn’t understand but he recognized enthusiasm when he saw it and he wasn’t about to dissuade him if he truly wanted to do it.

Coach Miller stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the squad, I can’t wait to see what you can do!”

Eddie shook her hand.

Coach Rowland turned to the assembled crowd. “Shows over, guys! I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than stare at a dude in a mini-skirt.”

Eddie twirled the skirt and popped his ankle. “I thought I looked cute! Green sooo looks good on me.”

Coach Miller shook her head. “Go hit the showers and then we’ll start with weights to train you how to do those moves in the costume.”

Eddie leapt into the air and cheered. “Go Tigers!”

~

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