#this ask really cleared my mind up a little

[dragonsondragons]

Self Care - Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: Jack’s new girlfriend takes self care really seriously given the line of work they’re in. He starts to observe these habits and some of them rub off on him.

Tags: Super fluffy, no use of y/n, implied age gap, suggested sexual activity, no real smut just Jack feeling you up a little, beekeeper!Jack

Author’s Note: Why am I obsessed with beekeeper!jack. There may be more where this came from because I had so much fun with this one– perhaps Jack and reader gardening (wink wink) while in their garden? Leads to sweet and slow stoned sex? Let me know what you think or if you have any requests! I’m always looking for more ideas. 

You do your little stretching routine after you wake up and you ask him if he wants to join you. He gives it a try, reluctantly at first. Then he starts to realize how good it makes him feel and does it with you every time. 

“What's this pep in your step you got going on here, brother?” Robby notices one day at hand-off. “Something to do with your favorite resident? Or should I say…new lady friend,” he does a little jazz hands.

“I regret ever telling you about us,” Jack rolls his eyes at lady friend. “But yeah, actually. She’s got me stretching when we wake up,” he explains.

“Ah. She’s got you whipped is what you mean.”

Jack chuckles under his breath. “Fuck off, stretching is good for you. And being whipped isn’t so bad either.” ____

You have a little garden that you tend to in the morning as the sun’s still rising right when you get off shift. It's cathartic, to take care of something that can't puke or bleed on you. Can’t punch you in the face. 

Both you and Jack had worked last night and it was a tough one. One of those nights where it felt like you lost more than you saved. You asked Jack to come back to your place after the shift ended, just wanting to be near him after your hell of a day. 

It was still early in your relationship, you had only spent the night at Jack’s place. This was his first time coming to stay at yours. 

You could tell he was so exhausted that you offered to drive home and he eventually accepted. He sat in the passenger seat of his Tacoma with his eyes closed as you drove, envisioning a shower, you looking soft in a ratty old t-shirt, and eating take out on the couch before going to sleep.

Instead, after you made two mugs of tea and set one before him on the coffee table, you headed to the backyard, slipping through the sliding glass door with a quiet “be right back, have to take care of some stuff real quick.”

After you’re gone more than 10 minutes and he almost dozed off twice, he started to wonder what this stuff was. He peeks out the glass door, seeing you knelt down at the edge of a garden bed peeling weeds out of the ground around your plants. The garden hose was on, filling up a big watering can to your left.

He comes to stand next to your kneeling form, placing a tender hand on the crown of your head and lightly running his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Checking on the plants. It helps me clear my mind from the day.” You smile softly up at him, see his free hand rub at his weary eyes. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, I’ll be right in," you promise. He nods, turns to head back inside. 

He couldn’t believe you wanted to be pulling weeds and lugging watering cans after a shift. But when you trailed in a few minutes later, joining him under the spray of the water, he could see the way your shoulders were looser. You were more peaceful, at ease. It made him feel more calm too, just knowing you felt a little bit better. 

He started lugging bags of soil for you the following mornings. Dug up trenches to lay a new irrigation system for the crops. This time of spring brought so many birds tweeting around in the morning air, the perfect sound track to your calming moments together in the garden.

It was a peaceful endeavor, one Jack never thought he would find himself doing but turns out he absolutely loves it. After you tell him about the benefits of pollinators he really wants to start keeping bees (Jack Abbot is beekeeping age). He does all this research about it to make sure he doesn’t fuck with the bees, wants to do it right. Gets the whole mesh suit which you can't stop laughing at the first time he puts it on. Names his hive Beetopia. He's serious about these bees and you find it so endearing. You love that he's meshing into your life like this, making his own niche in something you both do together.

Sometimes when there isn’t much to be done he’ll make breakfast while you tend to the garden. He will always try to utilize the fruits and vegetables you grow as well as his self-harvested honey whenever he can. You eat it out on the patio, admiring the work the two of you have done. Your own little paradise. ____

Out of all the self care tactics that you have brought into his life, the bubble bath is definitely one of his sleeper favorites. His house had a huge bathtub in it that he never once used. One of the first times you stayed over, you went to use the bathroom before going to bed. His eyes were already closed when he heard you squeal in the en suite attached to his room. 

“How did you not tell me about this!” you yelled out to him. 

“What, the bathroom?” he responded half asleep and confused. You came back into the room and jumped into the bed next to him, resting your chin on his chest. He peeked his eyes open as he rubbed up and down your back.

“No! That massive tub, genius!” He was surprised. Hadn’t thought once about that thing since he moved in. 

“You like it?”

“I don't like it, Jack. I love it. Baths are so soothing and rejuvenating. I always feel like a newborn baby when I get out of the bath. And I don't have a tub at my place.”

“You’re welcome to use it anytime you want, honey.” He shifted you to your side, cuddling into you and kissing your cheek. 

“You’re too good to me. And as a reward I’m making you get in there with me.” he lets out a breath of a laugh as he drifts off to sleep with you in his arms. ___

You both had the next day off, for once. So there was no time like the present to christen Jack’s bathtub. He was nervous about getting in, not being able to wear his prosthetic to keep him stable, but you got in first and held onto him tight as he stepped over the edge and eased himself down into the water. You settled in front of him, letting out a breath as you melted back into him. 

You thought you liked baths already, but this was pure bliss. His strong body against you, your breaths synching up. He washed your hair and you washed his. The warm water soothed his achy back and the overcompensating muscles in his leg. 

Safe to say, baths become a regular occurrence for you two.

You get him a matching fluffy robe with a hood because one time he said he was jealous of how cozy you looked in yours after a bath. Once, Shen stopped by to drop off the butterfly portable ultrasound that he had borrowed and Jack answered the door in said robe. 

Jack had his stoic work face on, the grumpiness only enhanced by the fact that Shen’s visit was interrupting his time with you.

“Ha, you look like a Sith, Abbot,” Shen teased him, butterfly in one hand and a half drank Dunkin’ in the other. “Robe’d up and about to cut my hand off.” He took a loud sip of his coffee as Jack just glared at him. 

“Get out of here before I actually consider it.” He tugged the Butterfly from Shen’s grasp, about to slam the door in his face. 

“Oh c'mon Jack, that’s not very nice.” You ran up to the door and opened it further to reveal yourself. 

“Sorry John, he didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah right.” He takes in your appearance beside Jack, wearing the same exact fuzzy robe. “Like the matchy matchy, very cute you two.” Shen pulls out his phone and snaps a picture before either of you could even process it. “That’s totally going in the group chat, dude,” he laughed. 

“Not making a good case for yourself here,” Jack muttered. Shen couldnt stop laughing, and at that you moved your hand off the door jamb and let Jack slam it shut. 

He turned to you then and let out a little chuckle at the whole ordeal. “He’s a piece of work.”

“Thought he was your favorite resident?”

“No, you're my favorite resident.” ___

Besides stretching to start the day on a good note, taking soothing baths, and tending to your garden you also do yoga sometimes to turn your mind off and tune into your body after a hectic shift. He’s still reluctant to try that one, and likes to give you your space to do the things you enjoy on your own sometimes. So he doesn't join you for that, but he loves watching you as you get ready to head to the studio. 

You always wear these skin tight, colorful matching workout sets that drive him crazy. He doesn’t mean to keep you from getting to class, but sometimes he just can’t help the temptation.

“Baby,” he draws it out in a long groan. He crossed the room to you, grabbing your hips and ghosting his hands up and down, reverently. You were trying to gather your keys and yoga mat to head out the door. “You’re killing me here with the powder blue.” The leggings hugged your ass just right. God, he was about to start drooling.

You try to squirm out of his hold to put your shoes on, but he won't budge. “Get a good look, Jack, because I gotta go. Gonna be late if I don't leave right now.” 

“Oh no, you're gonna be late already? Maybe you should just stay here with me,” he pouts suggestively. 

“Already paid for the class. Actually you did, your card’s on the account.” With your resident salary, Jack liked to treat you to things like a membership to a fancy yoga studio with free green smoothies. He loved ‘providing’ for you, even though you both knew you could be just fine by yourself. 

“Even better. I don't care about losing 30 bucks right now. Because you look way too sexy in those leggings to leave me here all alone.” He pecks your lips, then down your neck, sucking the spot where he knows will draw out a moan from you. You grasp your hand into his hair, getting lost in his efforts to entice you. 

“Let me peel these off of you,” he begs, running his fingers under the waistband of the leggings. His hands travel lower, kneading at your ass and pulling you tighter against him. “Just let me worship your beautiful body, sweetheart.”

How could you say no to that? Maybe you would miss your class, but this was a form of self care as good as any.

[occamstfs]

Frat Founding

Wanting a simple group on campus for Indian students on campus, Kiran goes to Chad who has other plans for the academic and university at large. In short order Kiran becomes the first link in that chain and soon neither he nor his friends will be able to resist the allure of horny, dumb Greek Life

The corruption of Kiran into a Desi frat bro he would hate to be! Found too many refs so I tossed on some briefer TFs of his friends at the end. Hope you enjoy! -Occam

He was treating it like meeting an advisor, or a professor. Countless times over the last few years Kiran had gone out of his way to ask for advice on personal projects or visited office hours just to gain further insights. The CS Honors student was always looking for ways to get ahead academically.

Never has one of these meetings involved a person quite like Chad Becker however. The President of the University’s Greek Council was only known to Kiran by reputation. Kiran’s never been much of a people person, part of this whole proposal to the frat president. He wants to make a space for other Indian and South East Asians on campus to have something of a Spirit Org on campus, and given the funding provided by the council to fledgling orgs, he figured it was at least worth a shot.

Worst Chad can say was no, right?

Kiran feels the weight of Chad's stare as he awaits an answer after his opening spiel. There are a few beats before the president speaks up, giving Kiran more than enough time to go over a good number of scenarios where he’s promptly laughed out of the room. Instead though, the intimidating ideal of a frat bro smiles and responds. 

Despite the performatively laid back tone, it’s clear that there are cold calculations behind the man’s words, “For sure lil bro. Trust, there’s no one who wants to see Greek Life be more, hm, multicultural yeah? I absolutely hear you.” Listening intently, Kiran struggles to find any sincerity in the Cali bro’s tone as he waits for the ‘but’ that must be incoming.

It doesn’t. Still staring at him with eyes as sharp as a shark’s despite their icy blue irises, Chad continues, “I’m sure you know frat life gets a bad rap regarding biases and having a group like yours on campus would help everyone see that there’s a place for them in Greek Life. So Kiran, bro, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’d be president of the frat starting out yeah?”

Chad is clearly sizing him up as he says this, like a prize steer to go to show or a weed to be pulled so something superior may be planted. Kiran doesn’t notice as he bristles at realizing there’s been a misunderstanding, “Oh! Sorry Mr. Becker, I think- I, sorry- I wasn’t really thinking about a frat so much as uhm? In my mind I was imagining something more along the lines of a support organization for-”

He’s cut off without a word as Chad sucks on his teeth. Kiran swears he feels the temperature drop in the room, nerves. It’s just nerves. Forcing himself with all he’s got to look at the man sitting opposite him, somehow above him, Kiran almost shivers as he sees him only stare more intently, almost glaring. His perfect wide smile only gleams brighter as he continues to look into and through the meeker student like a predator. 

For a moment his surfer-vocal fry fades away, “I see I see, so you want to use our funds for your little hackathons and holi formals but keep us at arms length yeah?” His eyes narrow and his lips twitch slightly, but then he takes a deep breath and resets. That cold tone moving like the ebb of the tide as he reminds Kiran who holds the power here, “Let’s start over. Would you like a drink Kiran?” 

Seeing Chad wander over to a minifridge hiding in the corner and grab a beer, Kiran prepares to turn the offer down. But then the president stands over him, one meaty hand on his shoulder while the other offers him an opened bottle dripping with condensation, “Please, Kiran. I insist.” 

Before he even has an inclination to respond, the bottle already rests in his shaky hand. Only then does he notice the creeping thirst. Suddenly, his mouth and throat are so dry he wonders if he’d even be able to even speak. 

Chad’s smile is too emotionless to be read as cruel and calculating, though there’s sure to be no affection in his words as he seeks to compel Kiran, “Go on, Prez to be, take a sip.”

He’s never been much of a drinker, let alone a beer guy. But as he’s commanded, like a dutiful soldier he has no choice but to obey. As soon as the first sip graces his tongue, the bookish student’s senses are dulled.

In the back of his mind he hears the echo of a memory he doesn’t remember living. Voices shout, ‘Chug, chug, chug!’ Kiran’s eyes go blank as he can’t help but obey. Each heaving gulp is deeper and more labored than the one that comes before. Kiran’s vision swims slightly as he watches Chad’s unreadable expression tinge with contentment.

Patting his guest on the back and laughing, Chad makes his way over to grab a couple more beers, “Hah! Easy now bro, this is a meeting now after all! Didn’t think you were that much of a party animal Kiran.” Popping open two more bottles, he sets one in front of Kiran and watches as the smaller man slowly shakes his head.

He isn’t a party animal, he detests crowds and drunken fraternity bros. Opening his mouth to deny Chad’s asinine assessment, his stomach grumbles. One of his hands goes to put pressure on it and physically  feels it rumble. Still woozy from one drink, the lightweight suddenly begins to feel bloated.

Mouth still agog, his hand quickly flies to his face as he struggles to stop himself from burping. Clamping his lips shut just in time, each second pushing down the urge, each second refusing to let loose, it only grows more intense. He feels pressure rising in his stomach as his jaw burns from the effort of staying decent. 

Beyond simple pressure, Kiran realizes that it’s not just internal, he feels his thin stomach pushing into his hand. In between clutching fingers begins to grow a layer of fat he simply would never eat enough to maintain. This distracts him enough for everything to give. Eyes watering, Kiran turns to look at the Frat president, as soon as he sees the smug look on Chad’s once guarded face, he loses control.

Buurrp- It lasts more than a few seconds. The soothing relief of giving in is firmly repressed by the embarrassment that fills his chest. Deep enough that Kiran can scarcely notice though, some part of him thinks it’s funny. Nothing wrong with burping bro, chill out- And while the thought is buried for now, it only continues to grow. 

“Nice one brah!” Chad reaches out his drink to cheers with the new beer bottle in front of Kiran, lacking willpower to do anything but obey, so he does. Cold bottle in his hand once more he can’t ignore how right it feels in his hand. Clink- Seeing Chad take a swig he once more mimics his, er the president.

Still bloated, Kiran notices another strange sensation begin to rise. Just below where he clutched his stomach earlier, an itch begins to rise. With a frown, his free hand goes to do what one does and scratch it, clumsily continuing to drink his free beer as he does so.

Each pass of his fingers only makes it worse, spreads the burning itch further. Figuring he’s already embarrassed himself enough in front of Chad, he shoves his hand under his shirt. Gasping in shock, he realizes that his lower stomach is covered in a treasure trail growing wider by the second. 

Feeling the strands pushing out into his sweaty fingers he can’t help but steal a look. Waiting for Chad to inspect papers in front of him Kiran quickly yanks up his shirt and bites his tongue to prevent from gasping again as he sees, on top of clearly having more weight, that his stomach that has always been gratefully hairless has been overrun with body hair. 

Too dense and thick to even be dubbed a treasure trail, Kiran struggles to remember how he let it get this bad. Eyes drifting lower, Kiran finds another new problem. Slightly peeking out above his waistband and creating a definite bulge above his cock, his pubes have grown even more rampant than his belly hair. Seeing this and taking another swig of his beer, Kiran burps once more before doing the unimaginable.

He shoves his hands in his pants and scratches at his pubes. Almost moaning from delight he bites his lip as his fingers are immediately tangled in the thick new jungle. Creaking under his squirming form, reminding him that he has somehow put on more than a few pounds, Kiran absolutely forgets where he is as his hand drifts lower to cup his balls. His less-than-graceful fingers find them unmistakably heavier than they’ve ever been, almost filling his small hand. 

Never truly distracted, at this point Chad sees fit it’s time to break Kiran from his reverie, lest he go too far too fast. Clearing his throat he calls Kiran back to his right mind, more or less. The slightly heftier student’s hand tears from his pants and forcefully bumps into the underside of Chad’s desk, producing a deep grunt of pain. 

Now realizing that he was cupping his balls during the most important meeting of the semester, Kiran tries to hide that from the man who sees right through him. Though, without him being aware of it the very same hand races to his nose wherein he takes a deep sniff of the ball sweat soaked fingers. Watching his eyes roll back from the odor, Chad has to stop from bursting out laughing.

Going on something of a victory lap, Chad sees fit to taunt the changing man, “Yo bro, you just adjust your dick didja?” Hand still under his nose, Kiran stammers quickly denying the idea, there’s no way he did that? He’d not do so in private, how could he? And yet, even as he forces his hand back to his papers, the whiff of his sweaty dick remains, “No! Of course not- I mean-”

Smirking, Chad interrupts, “No, no, don’t worry ‘bout it bro. Guys like us don’t gotta worry about stuff like that. You get an itch, it’s the most human thing in the world to scratch it.” Kiran slowly shakes his head, guys like us. He’s not like Chad, he’ll never be like Chad

Seeing the man meagrely fighting back Chad stuffs his hand down his pants and performatively scratches an itch that wasn’t even there, dropping a stray pube on the table. The whole time, Kiran’s eyes never left the man’s hands, staring at the bulge in his pants shifting to the single curly strand that now sits between them. Ready to move on and content that the man’s changes are accelerating, Chad directs his attention back to himself.

“Got something on your cheek there bruh?” There’s the sound of Kiran sucking spit back into his mouth, not even aware that he had apparently been drooling. Quickly taking another swig, emptying his second beer, Kiran’s free hand flies to his face. Still slightly sticky from sweat, his fingers find something so shocking that he almost spits up the amber beer still in his mouth. 

Swallowing the beer and tossing the bottle onto the table he scratches at his face fervently, beyond shocked that without his notice his paltry stubble has exploded to cover his face. No it’s not even stubble, as his suddenly less than pristine fingernails trail across his once hairless cheeks, peach fuzz thickens and spreads further across his face.

In no time at all a mustache pushes out of his upper lip and his jawline is coated with a thick beard. His mind tries to tell him this is normal, he’s got a hairy stomach and bushy pubes, surely he’s had this beard forever. Feeling bloated once more, his shirt begins to strain his chest as two meaty pecs begin to rise above his meatier stomach. 

Focus returns to his eyes, he knows something is horribly wrong. Thicker brows furrowing at Chad he grunts out, finding his voice crackling deeper and slightly tinged with the vocal fry that infects every word out of Chad’s mouth, “What are you grh- doing to me you- urgh Asshole!” The president feigns concern and tilts his head ignoring the question that may well be Kiran’s last show of strength. Chad then simply pushes his half drunk beer closer to Kiran.

Eyes flickering between the man returning to the minifridge and the stale bottle set before him like bait, Kiran’s willpower begins to wane once more. Before the frat bro even makes it across the room, the sound of Kiran’s shirt straining against his heavier arms as he reaches for the drink fills the air. Chad grabs three more and returns to the desk.

When the mousy student entered the room Chad wondered if he’d even be able to sustain the transformation. Sitting here now, watching him drink that backwash laden swill without question, seeing nipples poking through the shirt beginning to tear, it’s clear that no dweeb out there will be able to resist his siren call. Kiran burps loudly, stopping just short of guffawing he tugs at his increasingly uncomfortable shirt. 

Time to finish the dance, “So, Kiran, you were saying you wanted an Indian frat on campus right?” The top button bursts off his button up as he dumbly produces a plodding, “uuuuhhh?” His mind alights with his shifting memories. The fluorescent lights from studying overnight in a library suddenly strobing, changing colors as bookshelves press inward and deep base begins to pump from speakers pushing out from behind tables now littered with red solo cups and spilled cans. 

Automatically drinking from the new bottle sat in front of him, Kiran sloppily wipes the beer spilling onto his beard with his hairier arm. Struggling a bit as his muscular biceps now compete with his heavy pecs for space. His vision swims, rapidly switching between the blowout party and the meeting with Chad. Competing with blaring speakers and crowd uproar that only he can hear, Kiran shouts in his new bullish voice, “Well uhhh, bro kinda just wanted a place for guys like me to hang y’know? Place for all the lil Desi guys on campus yuh?”

“Shirt’s lookin a little tight there bruh, you sure you’re just a ‘lil guy’ anymore?” Turning to take in his thick form, Kiran certainly can’t disagree. Chest hair encroaching on his neck, thighs thicker than his waist used to be. The chair creaks once more, threatening to totally give way under the still growing man. Yeah he’s no twerp, him and his bros are always at the gym.

In fact, Kiran doesn’t remember the last time he was even in a lecture. Attending office hours is absolutely out of the questions, the only interactions he’s had with professors and T.A’s were arm wringing for class credit. Clear as day he remembers meeting with a dude he would’ve sworn he was close with for intro to python, but as he plays it through he remembers burping in the man’s face and throwing a sweaty, heavy arm around him. 

God that nerd was so uncomfortable. His expression turns to a sneer as he sits in front of Chad, and the president knows his work is just about done. Kiran paws at his crotch as he recalls dominating that man, some weak academic who thought himself a superior. Biting his lip, his bulge makes itself more than clear in his tight dress pants as the fabric rapidly e into the same sweats he wears every day, stained as they may be. 

When pre suddenly begins to leave a stain that makes it clear the Desi frat bro is free balling, Chad knows Kiran is far past the point of no return. “Bro, do you ever not think with your cock?” Tearing off whatever remains of his shirt and fondling his bulky pecs Kiran shrugs, “Dunno bro, you ever think about somethin’ other than my cock either?” There’s a charge in the air as the two men stare at each other with something dark in their expressions before both break out into uproarious laughter.

Then, addressing it like it’s something they had discussed a number of times, Kiran takes the floor, “So, big bro, council good if I start recruiting for my new chapter?” Chad raises his glass and takes a long swig, with a content sigh he acquiesces, “Course brobro, we know you more than got what it takes. Been wanting to diversify frat row’s portfolio for a while, you know that.”

Scratching his exposed stomach as he stands, his fingers treading dangerously close to inching under his waistband once more, Kiran nods without a thought, “Yuhhhh!” Finishing another drink he belches yet again and finally there is no shred of decency left to fight back “Burrrrp, Huhuh!” Tossing the bottle onto the ground apathetic whether it breaks or not, the newly dubbed frat president stretches.

Flexing to himself as he stands there, feeling the strength and weight of his new form, Kiran feels his blood rush to his thicker cock as he realizes what a specimen he is. Chad similarly imagines how easy it’ll be for him to finally take over the rest of the school. No one’ll be shit talking Greek life anymore once men like Kiran are bumbling across campus. No need for little brownnosing losers in lectures when everyone finally remembers what it’s all about. 

Eager to get a move on, and sure that if Kiran stays any longer both will have to write off the day for obvious reasons, he prods the man, “You were saying you were gonna go play your old friends a visit right? Go get your first members?” Kiran nods, that darker look returning and temporarily displacing his lust for himself and Chad. Rolling his shoulders he imagines his study group, doesn’t even remember how he knows them or why.

Grabbing a beer for the road, he nods at Chad and heads out the door. The incongruence at those dweebs even knowing his name begins to prickle at his mind, he needs to fix it. His frat must grow and so must they. Losers have spent too long playing MtG and Dota 2, he’s gotta remind them what men should be. That drinking, fucking, and partying are more important than their shitty assignments. 

Wandering around campus he flexes his bicep and delights in his heady musk. Soon every beta male around will be just like him, just as Chad planned. He can’t wait until Chad runs this school. Approaching his old apartment he hears a few shrill men arguing about some lines of code inside. Cracking his neck and pawing at the growing bulge in his sweats, he’s never been more excited for anything. Time for the first inductions into the school’s newest fraternity.

In no time at all, his four best friends are all converted into perfect specimens for Kiran’s frat. Forewarned by his musk creeping in as he stands at the door, as soon as he barges in all four are instantly overwhelmed by his muscular, masculine visage. Under his touch their thin forms bulge. On the couch, Amir’s body immediately thickens into one that never shies away from his keg stand. His nose twitches as a powerful mustache pushes out of his upper lip as he becomes Kiran’s right hand.

Boyfriends Dev and Mo follow shortly after, their suddenly sculpted muscles bulging larger as if they were in competition with each other. Mo’s back cracks as he finally stands taller than his boyfriend, his potable goatee thickening into a beard that would put a lumberjack to shame. Dev’s twinkish face reshapes into something more masculine and handsome despite remaining smooth. While Kiran continues his work, focusing on the other two, the boyfriend’s waste no time rushing to their suddenly messier room.

Finally, quite Ajit who had been doing his best to not give in breaks. Hands that had been gripping the edge of the table trying to avoid the gaze of the man who cannot be Kiran, white knuckles cramp and burst larger as forearms and biceps surge larger in quick succession. His racing anxious breaths allow his chest to rapidly expand. Pecs quickly tatter his shirt as criss crossing veins decorate arms thicker than his legs once were. 

Under the table his legs push larger and his bulge demands his attention. Lips suddenly surrounded by a thick beard, biting his lip he quickly snaps a picture of himself before following in the path of his five best friends as his hands quickly find his newly massive cock. The air of their apartment swiftly smells more of sex than one can imagine. Each man a perfect test case for Chad’s grand plans, perfect frat bros whose dicks will lead their frat to expand. Kiran and Amir hosting parties that no Desi man could resist, no one’s eyes will be able to avoid Dev and Mo as they’re all over each other at the gym, and Ajit’s new online presence and perfect form will send tendrils of change well beyond their university. One unreached community handled, Chad continues his grand plan of ensuring that Greek Life is the only group left standing.

[lambcultist]

wife!ellie fucking you for the first time after you've given birth | softdom!ellie, fingering, oral, lots of praise, some pain during sex, insecurity + body image issues, as well as descriptions of reader's body changing due to pregnancy (e.g. bigger breasts, stretch marks, wider hips, extra weight) and feelings of disgust. mom bod appreciation ♡   MINORS DNI ( 18+ )

it was life-altering. you were prepared in most aspects, but there was something you never anticipated would be so hard, and that was having time to yourself. feeling like a person again, and not just mama. ellie helps out wherever she can, there's no ill you can speak of when it comes to your wife's care for you and your little one.

but this is something you've needed for a long time now. baby girl at joel's for the night so you and ellie can have a proper rest. a full night of sleep. you couldn't help but cry after dropping her off—she's five months, and you left her there with everything she needs, but it's the longest you've been without her, of course worry will creep into your mind.

ellie had a few things planned to steer your mind away from mama mode and back into your usual self. she got your favourite delivered for dinner, a cheesy movie on tv, and, most importantly, she couldn't keep her hands off you. you can't tell if she's doing so because she can't help it, or if she feels obligated to. she was always the type to need constant touch with you, but you've changed now. your body is different and you never feel the confidence you used to. wider hips, a rounder, pudgier stomach, stretch marks, and fuller, harder breasts that ache. you feel like a failure for having not bounced back yet, you can only imagine how disgusted she might be deep down.

but you couldn't be more wrong about that. for ellie, her touch is something she can't hold back, because she's finally able to scratch an itch she has had for months. her lips are attached to your neck, and every moan she lets out is of gratefulness, that she can finally taste and lick the salt on your skin again. she can leave marks.

"this is a very unprofessional massage," you murmur, breathing out a small laugh. it's not uncommon for ellie to make you sit down and take a massage these days, she's dutiful in making sure you are cared for.

this is not a mere massage. this is her hands firmly pressing into your body, inconspicuously gripping at inappropriate places. you can feel her smirking into your neck.

"i never claimed to be a professional, babe," she replies, darting upwards to kiss the corner of your mouth. she almost seems to hesitate for a bit, her eyes looking into yours. "you think you might be ready for something more, darlin'?"

"ah..." you look away but ellie catches a sheepish glint in your eyes, her hand catching your chin and tugging you forward again.

"what's holding you back?"

"just— i dunno, ellie. i don't really know... my body's... different, now. what if it's a turn o—"

"don't be stupid, babe. come on. this is the most beautiful thing on earth," ellie cuts you off. she's actually rather shocked by this—that you think your postpartum figure may be a turnoff. it's actually the complete opposite.

"are you sure about that?" you don't believe her, it's clear as day, and whew, ellie's mind is whirring with this information.

"i'm actually pretty certain, yes, that my wife is the prettiest girl on the planet." she cups your cheeks and meets your lips warmly, then her hands slide down to your tender and sensitive tits, groping through your shirt. "your body is incredible. you grew a whole little human in here, darlin', cut yourself some slack. that's crazy."

"but it's been five months. and i still look like this."

"like what?" ellie asks, her intense, brooding gaze hooded by her lashes as she looks up at you. "like a kickass, sexy woman who just spent nine months growing our baby, a whole day in labour, and is still adjusting to motherhood? please, babe. you're not supposed to just fall back 'into shape'."

still, you don't get another word in. the most you get in is a whimper as ellie lowers her hands yet again, now beneath your shirt and over your stomach. "you gave me a child. you know how amazing that is? every change your body has been through has been with reason. your stomach growing, and making room for our little girl... you know it's so beautiful, right? i love you. i'll love you no matter how you look."

"i love you too. ellie..." you gasp as her hands smooth over the sides of your hips and down to your thighs. she rubs loose circles across your skin, and she smiles just slightly at the goosebumps risen along your thighs. that, and the little patch of wetness in your panties.

"you must be so sensitive now, huh?" she whispers. the words ghost over your clothed cunt, and she gently rests her palm over the seat. you swear she must be able to feel your heartbeat throbbing right there. "is this okay, babe? are you okay?"

you pause. are you? you want her. you are needing her now, it's been some time since she touched you here. you nod. "yes. i think so."

"good." ellie's fingers inch into the waistband of your panties quite quickly, but she pulls them down slow, and lays a small kiss atop your glistening clit, feeling it twitch under her lips. "i'm gonna be gentle, and slow..."

"mmm..." you take a shuddering breath and lay back as ellie reaches into the bedside table for a little bit of lube, just to make this a little easier on you. she worries you might be extra delicate this time. and that's okay. perfect, even.

"you're okay, babe." she squeezes the tube and coats her fingers fairly generously, the middle and ring finger—and when she begins rubbing the digits through your folds, it's cold and slick—it makes you jump. that little jolt makes ellie unable to hold back a grin. "see, baby, i got you... you're the most precious woman alive."

"ellie, please— i need you. you're dragging this out."

"am i?" she chuckles, movements pausing completely. ellie has half the mind to pull her hand away entirely, but that would just be cruel, wouldn't it? she kisses your lower stomach, lips grazing over a stretch mark. "you want me to fuck you?"

"yes, yes, baby," you plea, pushing through hand through her hair. "i miss you."

"you miss me, huh?" ellie laughs again, gazing up at you. "you miss me touching you like this, is that it? i miss it too. i miss it like you wouldn't believe."

her fingers push in, and at just the tips you let out the sweetest coo. it encourages her, and only at the base of her fingers do you feel a little bit of discomfort. she's slow about it, lets you take a moment to adjust, no matter how much she wants to give you the deep fucking you deserve.

but, ellie feels as though she may cum at just the feeling of your ribbed walls clenching around her fingers. she feels like you're gripping her so tight she couldn't even move them anyway.

more kisses pepper along your hips and waist. "you alright, sweet girl? c'mere, you wanna hold my hand?"

she holds her free hand out and you take it, holding on tight. her hand is warm, comforting, decorated with a wedding band. she squeezes back, and it does little to distract you as her hand inside you begins to pump slowly, in and out. you're a mess over it, a slew of weak moans falling from your lips, and pussy clenching on her.

"fuck, you like this, huh?" ellie smirks again, resting her head on your inner thigh. she's not sure whether to look up at your face or at her fingers slowly breaching back and forth from your soaked entrance. "yeah... you take it so well, you really do. my lady needed a service, didn't ya?"

"mm-hmm." you nod, squeezing ellie's hand with a strength unusual for you as she begins dragging her tongue ever so agonisingly slowly over your engorged clit. still, it's not as intense as the way you held onto her hand when in labour. her hand fucking ached after that. "ellieeee..."

she would do it all over again regardless; this is a callback to one of her greatest memories with you.

no more words leave her lips, she's focused, and more than focused, she is starving. lapping up your juices, even closing her eyes and savouring the taste of you. she doesn't care that it's quickly too much all at once for your sensitive body. ellie doesn't even anticipate it coming, but you tense, you whine, and gush all over her fingers quite soon, your peak longer than usual, and coming on quicker than usual.

and, you have to push her face away from your cunt, because you're so sensitive now that it almost hurts.

"oh, shit, that was good," she murmurs. ellie rises quickly to her knees, leaning over your trembling body for a kiss. "yeah?"

"yeah. i needed that, els."

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @emmap3rkins @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace

just wanted to write something small, and had this idea for a while. it's kinda like a late mothers day thing if you think about it. still working on my one-shot ♡

[strwberri-milk]

Hello!! If it's okay to ask for characters from different media (and if you still do genshin lol) I was wondering if I could request headcanons for Diluc and Sylus about sharing a bed with him for the first time.

I gotta be honest, I have no idea about the story of lads but you made me love these guys from the way you write about them ♡

:D im glad you like my perception of the lads guys so much you love them without playing the game LMAO im very flattered <3

Diluc is a little shy and awkward about it. You can't tell because he has a killer poker face but his hands are a little clammy and he won't stop touching his hair for some reason. He combs it over once, then twice, than another time when he thinks you aren't looking. He's just trying to keep himself busy, not sure if he's really ready for this.

You don't notice until he's actively trying to find things to do to avoid going to bed at the same time as you. Again, it's not obvious but when you watch him pull out a letter opener just to re-open a contract he already signed earlier in the day you figure out what's happening.

You tell him it's fine if he's a little nervous about sharing a bed with you. Hell, you know you're a little nervous about it as well. But that doesn't mean that you have to hide it from him. The two of you decide to take things even slower, just chatting and getting into bed together. The added distraction makes it easy but Diluc also isn't too sure about grabbing for you. He decides instead to just lay near you, a respectable distance between the two of you until the middle of the night. His body instinctively looks for yours, pulling you into his arms and keeping you there for the rest of the night.

Sylus doesn't tend to sleep the same time you do so you also will have to coordinate actually going to sleep with him. If you either manage to "schedule" going to bed together or manage to catch him during one of the rare times where he's going to sleep at the same time as you, he'll simply open his arms up to you.

He doesn't say anything. The invitation is clear even if you've never spoken about it with him before. Even if you have, he doesn't want to assume you haven't changed your mind. He'll let you back out if you want to, an easy expression on his face as he waits for you to crawl in.

He holds you like he's cradling you, arms wrapped securely around your form. You're kept against his chest, Sylus' breathing steady against you as you fall asleep. It really takes no time in his arms, just being in his presence comforting enough for you to fall asleep in no time.

[drdemonprince]

to answer the anon asking about how to flirt as an autistic woman, i feel like it's so hard to figure out if someone is interested or not, the best thing imo is to make interest explicitly clear. this interest doesn't have to be romantic at first! something as simple as outright telling someone you find interesting "i like talking to you, it's always fun" or "i like spending time with you" sets an established feeling of mutual enjoyment (that doesnt have to be implicitly romantic!!! this works for friendships too :) ). think about how often you think and remember that little compliment someone gave you in passing like that (i know i remember them and think about them) and this sets the base for a more in-depth interest in someone. personally i have trouble forming a crush or romantic attraction to someone i dont really know that well, and i know others often feel the same

of course theres still the issue of "well how do i meet people?" and that will vary depending on your personality, what you like, etc. some good catch-all advice is showing up to events on your interests, and something as simple as "is someone sitting here" or "do you mind if i sit here?" does a lot for starting a conversation. i personally struggle a lot with those unspoken friendship rules, but i saw this video that explained a lot of these in a clear manner and they make a lot of sense!! looking back at my friendships, they all seem to form in a very similar way https://www.instagram.com/reel/DGEVVtQSJ-r/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

I've been practicing telling people specifically what I like or admire about them lately, and it really makes them light up! We just can't take it as a given that those feelings are coming through, and everybody we love dies too soon so we might as well get our feelings out into the open while we can. It feels nice to do.

[amethystarachnid]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at��him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[bishovapls]

⚠️ MAJOR THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS AHEAD ⚠️

I’ve taken a moment to collect my thoughts, so this one’s a bit more organised than just me screaming about how much this movie destroyed me. I’ve got a few of these little rants sitting in my drafts, honestly not sure if I’ll post the rest but here’s this one because...Alexei Shostakov is not a good man and I hate that (some) people seem to think that he is.

Spoilers below the cut!

Alexei is not some bumbling, well-meaning father who just made a few mistakes. He’s not misunderstood. He’s not the comedic relief with a heart of gold buried under the bluster. No. He’s a coward. A narcissist. And worst of all, he’s a willing participant in the very system that destroyed Yelena and Natasha from the inside out.

Let’s be clear: That motherfucker gave them to the Red Room. He knew exactly what that place was. He chose to hand over two little girls, two children who trusted him, to a man he knew would brutalise them, rip away their identities, their agency, their futures. And he did it because it suited his goals. His comeback. His glory. That’s what mattered to Alexei. Not the children in his care. Not their safety. Just the chance to wear a red suit again.

And when he sees them again after all those years? He doesn’t apologise. Not immediately anyways. One of the first things out of his mouth isn’t regret, it’s a rant: “I could have been more famous than Captain America. Then he buries me in Ohio. Three years! Boring me to tears. Then prison for the rest of my life.”

As if he was the victim. As if he was the one who suffered most.

No accountability. No acknowledgement that he ruined their lives. No acknowledgement of the scars they carry, the memories they can’t speak aloud. That he was the one who tossed them straight back into Dreykov’s hands. Just ego. Just bitterness.

And when he does talk about the girls? It’s not with love. It’s not with pride in who they are. It’s pride in what they became. “Yelena, the greatest child assassin in the world.” “Natasha, not just a spy...but an Avenger.” He doesn’t see daughters. He sees achievements. Killing machines forged by the very system he sent them into. He doesn’t see the brutality, let alone take responsibility for it. Because in Alexei’s mind, it worked. That’s all that matters.

And then… suddenly he flips? At the end of Black Widow, he starts trying. He says sorry. He wants to be forgiven. And the thing is, he even seems genuine. But it’s not earned. Not even close. Because barely an hour earlier he was whining about being stuck in Ohio.

Then we get to Thunderbolts, and somehow, he’s meant to be this goofy dad again. Rolling up in a limo, talking like he’s here to save the day, when in reality he hadn't spoken to Yelena in over a year before she shows up desperate, barely holding it together, practically begging him for some sense of permission to stop. And he uses it as an opportunity to talk about himself again, about how he’d love to work for Valentina. Still, it’s about what he could be. Not what she needs.

Yes, in Thunderbolts, he tries. He gives a speech. Seems to care, is genuinely trying to be supportive. And okay, fine, he’s not completely useless. He does make an effort.

But even during that big speech when Yelena breaks down, he says he doesn’t see Yelena’s mistakes. And on the surface, that’s kind. But dig deeper? It’s just more of the same. Because to him, her “mistakes” weren’t mistakes at all. She did what she was trained to do. She killed. She was efficient. That’s what matters to Alexei.

The films want us to forget what he did. They want us to laugh with him. To see the warmth. The effort. But they’re asking us to ignore the damage. The betrayal. The fact that he let his daughters burn, and only now wants to hold the ashes like they still belong to him.

And here’s the part that really fucking kills me: Yelena accepts it.

She’s not angry that he gave her to Dreykov. Not angry about the years of torment. No. She’s angry because he didn’t call. Because after pretending to care in Black Widow, he just disappeared again.

And that's even more devastating for her. Because she’s been hurt so many times, by so many people, that even Alexei’s bare minimum, his delayed, fumbled attempt at showing up, is enough for her. She’s been taught to expect nothing, and she’s learned to be grateful for scraps. She’ll take whatever little piece of warmth he offers, and call it love, because she doesn’t know what love without condition looks like.

He was never a father. Not in the way that matters. He was another person who broke her, who gave her away and never looked back. And now, he wants forgiveness. He wants to be seen as someone worthy of redemption.

But forgiveness without accountability is meaningless.

And Alexei? He still doesn’t understand what he did. Not really.

[sour-cherryyy]

PRETTY BOY. 〜Ni-ki

Pairing: bsf!Ni-ki x fem!reader Summary: What starts as a lazy afternoon and a casual offer to do Ni-ki’s makeup quickly turns into something much more intimate. Between teasing remarks, lingering touches, and a tension that refuses to be ignored, your flirty friendship takes a turn neither of you can pretend is just playful anymore. Word count: 1.3k A/n: Fluff, suggestive??? But this is all quite new to me so I'm keeping it a little PG- but I hope we enjoy it. Now playing: Pretty Boy By P1Harmony

---------------------------------------------------------˚✿🎀

You blink at the last sentence of your book, the words blurring before you shut it with a soft thud. The ending was decent. Not world-shattering, but satisfying. Your eyes wander, seeking something else to entertain you. Anything, really.   

Afternoon light streams through the window, spilling over tangled sheets and soft pillows. The room is wrapped in a calm kind of quiet. It's the kind of silence that leaves your fingers itching for something to do. 

Ni-ki is half-reclined against the headboard, legs stretched out, phone resting in one hand as his thumb scrolls steadily. His hair falls a little messy over his forehead, and his lashes are so unfairly long they cast shadows on his cheeks. 

His expression shifts now and then- amused, unimpressed, soft. You wonder what he’s watching, but more than that, you wonder how someone can look that good doing absolutely nothing. 

You roll onto your side, elbow propping up your head. “You’re such a Pretty Boy, you know?” 

He doesn’t look up. “Thanks for the update.” 

“No, seriously. Like, it’s criminal. Your face is kind of stupidly symmetrical.” 

He pauses mid-scroll, glancing sideways at you with one brow arched. “You good over there?” 

You ignore the teasing in his voice and sit up; legs folded under you. “Let me do your makeup.” 

Ni-ki actually laughs — short, amused, and a little disbelieving. “What?” 

“I’m bored,” you say with a shrug. “You’re just lying there being so photogenic. Let me do something productive with it.” 

He tilts his head, considering it. “You want to play with my face for fun?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

There’s a pause where he looks you over like he’s weighing the risk versus reward, then finally sighs and tosses his phone onto the nightstand. “Fine. But if I look like a clown, I’m ending our friendship.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” 

“Try me.” 

You climb off the bed, digging into your drawer where you keep your little stash — some palettes, a couple brushes, a tinted gloss or two. You’re not a professional, but you know how to make things sparkle. 

When you turn back, he’s shifted- now sitting upright with his back against the headboard, arms relaxed at his sides. The image alone is enough to make your stomach flutter a bit. His sleeves are pushed up, exposing his forearms. His legs are slightly spread, leaving just enough space between his thighs to make your breath catch. 

You stand beside him and lean forward with a brush in hand, but the angle is awkward. Even standing, his height makes it hard to reach both sides of his face without hovering over him weirdly. 

You purse your lips in frustration. 

He notices, obviously. “Problem?” 

“This is an awkward angle,” you grumble. 

Then, without giving you a moment to protest, he grabs your waist and gently lifts you, guiding you to straddle his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Your heart practically leaps out of your chest. 

“Better reach?” he asks, like he didn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire. 

“Um.” You clear your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

His hands linger at your hips before settling on your waist. You try to focus- seriously, you do- but he’s warm beneath you, and his face is now inches from yours. Your mind keeps drifting, caught on the way his hands rest so easily on you, sending a flutter of butterflies through your stomach. 

His gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, then back again. His thumbs brush the hem of your shirt- not pulling you in, not pushing you away. Just there. Steady. Intentional. 

You reach for the small palette of blush, trying not to let it show — but your hand trembles slightly as you apply it, giving your nervousness away. 

The quiet between you isn’t awkward; it’s charged, humming with something unspoken. His head tilts slightly as you work, a small, unconscious movement that makes your fingers brush his cheek. His skin is warm there, too. Warmer, maybe. Or maybe it’s just you. 

Then you feel it. 

Ni-ki shifts beneath you- not much; just enough for his hands to tighten ever so slightly at your waist, and just enough for you to feel him growing harder beneath you. Grounding. Intentional. 

“You sure this isn’t some elaborate plot to make me fall for you?” he asks, voice low and amused. 

Your eyes flicker down, and you snort. “If it were, it’s working remarkably well.” 

His lips quirk. “So, you are trying.” 

You lean in again. “I didn’t say that.” 

He stays still, but you can feel the shift in the air — like something between you has tilted. Just slightly. Just enough to matter. 

The pad of your thumb rests lightly on his jaw as you blend the finishing touches .

You lean back to admire your work. 

“Done!” you announce, triumphant, reaching over to grab your pink camera. “Say cheese…” 

He complies, the smile small and obedient — but there’s something distracted in his eyes. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you never gave. 

You snap a few photos, lingering longer than you need to. And even though the makeup’s finished, you don’t move off of him. 

“I mean,” he murmurs after a beat, “if this is a plot... you’re dangerously good at it.” 

You don’t answer. Not out loud. You don’t have to. 

Your eyes stay on the screen, casually surveying the photos you just took, but your lips curve up at the corners — just enough to give you away. 

His gaze doesn’t waver. It hasn’t left your face once. 

You should move. Say something clever. Make a joke to cut through the heat coiling in your stomach. But you don’t. Can’t. Because he’s looking at you like you’ve already crossed a line. Like he’s just waiting for you to realize it. 

You finally lock eyes. You forget to breathe. You don’t even blink. 

He leans in, slow enough to give you time to stop him. But you don’t. You lean in too- heart racing, mouth parted- until there’s nothing left between you. 

And then he kisses you. 

It’s neither soft nor gentle. Not the least bit hesitant as his lips crash into yours. 

It’s a breaking point. 

Warm and breathless, his mouth finds yours like he’s been holding back for far too long. His hands slip from your hips to your waist, fingers pressing just enough to keep you there, right there, like he’s worried you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. 

You kiss him back, instinctively, desperately- fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until your chest brushes his. 

He groans softly into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, and it sets your nerves alight. 

His hands roam- up your back, over your ribs, skimming just beneath your bra strap. Your thighs tighten around his waist, the tension between you pulled taut like a wire. 

You gasp into the kiss as he gently moves your hips against his, making your whole body heat up- and he uses the moment to deepen the kiss, his tongue brushing yours in a way that makes your head spin. 

Every part of you is hyperaware; of the way his body fits against yours, of the heat pooled low in your belly, of the ache blooming at your core. 

This isn’t casual anymore. 

It’s messy and hungry. 

When you finally pull back, it’s not because you want to, it’s because you need to breathe. 

Your forehead rests against his, your breaths coming hard and uneven. 

His eyes flutter open, dark and glassy, a smile curling lazily at his lips. 

“Guess I should let you do my makeup more often,” he says, voice rough and low. 

You laugh — shaky, breathless. “Shut up.” 

But you’re still holding him like you don’t plan on going anywhere. 

And judging by the look in his eyes, he’s not going anywhere either.  

I fear this may be my best one yet... Lmk if i should make a part 2!!! I should probably go revise now, though :( Thanks for making it to the end, -EL (masterlist)

[quinloki]

Kink Headcanon request: Spanking, Roleplay, and CNC for Rayleigh, Beckman, and Marco please

>.>

okay but Marco sandwiched between--

AHEM.

This is a great collection of blorbos and kinks, and before my mind goes down a rabbit hole, I should probably work toward focusing on the actual kinks XD

Benn Beckman:

CNC - Yes- Free Use might rank a little higher for him, but not by much honestly. He enjoys the consent. I mean, well, you know what I mean, but specifically he likes having you ask for it. He likes asking, or telling you that he's going to do something and have you agree.

He could probably get it with CNC or Free Use, making you agree even though you don't have a say, but that's not really what he's after. Even if you do say no, he's not going to take the first no as gospel. He won't do anything until he gets that yes, but he's not negatively coercive about it.

He'll just plead his case, explain in detail exactly what he means to do, and how you'll react, and well, I mean, maybe the CNC has its uses if you're nervous.

Roleplay - Yes - He's not against it, but for the most part I feel like time can be of the essence for this man. He's got ample enough down time to take care of you, but you never know when there's going to be a battle. When his captain's going to come calling for him, or when one of the crew is going to knock on the door.

He's more than happy to play at interrogation, or let you pretend to be a maid and serve him, but what he really wants is to buried deep inside you, telling you how good you are, how good you feel, how much you've begged him for this.

Spanking - Yes - He does love the way it makes you squirm. the sharp gasp of surprise, the sweet mewl of pleasure, the way you wiggle when it starts to sting, the way you cling to him when he squeezes your red cheeks with his hands.

He certainly has nothing against it, that much is clear. He'll pepper it in between other things, but unless he's using it as a kind of punishment, it's not something he does often.

>.> Ask him to spank you though, and watch that tanking tick up a notch or two.

Marco:

CNC - FUCK Yes - There's a good bit of overlap between Free Use and Consensual Non Consent, but there's definitely a difference in vibes. At least from my perspective, and I think from Marco's too.

Enough that Free Use is a rank higher than CNC, though if you start taking different Marcos into consideration it would waffle a bit XD but Free Use sounds like something you volunteer for, and CNC is something you're volunteered for. (I'm sure others see it in the other directions because things that overlap this much can have very personally variable nuances.)

But I'll say - Good Marco isn't too different between Free Use and CNC, though he might be a little meaner with CNC, reminding you that you conceded your right to consent.

BAD Marco, however, might be all smooth and gentle with a Free Use agreement, "reluctantly" listening when you ask him not to. But with CNC he's going to have you so tied up you won't be able to ask him anything.

Roleplay - FUCK Yes - Ranked a little lower when it came to Teacher/Doctor specifically, but I do think Marco likes the idea of roleplay overall. He might get hung up on some of the details, but he's more than happy to indulge in it.

He does need some time to really get into it. The first time you can see that usual confidence slip a little. Maybe he's the big bad pirate, and you're the poor, helpless marine recruit. Maybe after a few tries he's the corrupt Marine Captain, and you're the poor helpless little villager. This time there's outfits, and he's wearing the cape he took off a captain or admiral.

Role Playing certainly awakens Marco to how fun it is to bully you.

Spanking - FUCK Yes - I think he's fairly neutral about it until he lands a good slap on your ass and you make a sound you did not mean to make. You both expected a squeak of surprise, and instead it was one of those kinds of moans that rolls around in your bones and makes your back arch involuntarily.

Next thing you know he has you over his knee, legs locked with his, one hand at the back of your neck holding you in place and the rubbing your ass cheeks while he's telling you that he needs to see exactly how much you enjoy this.

For science. Nah, he's not going to lie, he's doing this until he knows how to bring you pleasure or pain exactly as he wants. Maybe you'll cum from it if he gets good enough.

Silvers Rayleigh:

CNC - Yes - Rayleigh is the kind to check in once and probably not worry about it after that. Between his experience and his skills, he can pretty much guide you to where he wants you. That makes something like CNC or Free Use not all that different from how he operates.

But if you talk to him about doing either beyond just a session, he's happy to oblige. The way he'll rut against you from behind, holding you in place with one hand, kissing your neck with his lips, and fingering you with his other hand. Bringing you to orgasm while you've got dishes in your hands from the chores you were in the middle of, and once you're satisfied he'll go back to what he was doing before.

If he desires more, he'll take more, and probably take over doing the dishes if he's railed the life out of you. He's a good guy like that XD

Roleplay - Oh god you don't even know - He's probably pretended to be all manner of things that weren't pirates, spending years by Roger's side. He probably had a good number of jobs before he even met Roger, and more after he retired. And the jobs he hasn't worked I imagine he knows a lot about.

He'll be a marine, a teacher, doctor, captain, etc. etc. He's more than happy to oblige. You won't get him to break character either. The one time he played a priest, you ended up spending the entire day completely nude in penance for your naughty thoughts. Sitting on his face while you tried to get through prayers without cumming certainly off set him making you pull weeds in the garden for an hour, swatting your ass when he felt like it.

Spanking - Yes - Oh he is good at it, don't doubt that, but it's just a little lower on the list for him over other things. He'll pepper a swat in here and there as he does other things. A sharp slap on your ass to get you to focus, a precise smack of your pretty pussy to push you over the edge despite your babbling that you can't possibly cum anymore.

He may, on occasion, bend you over his knee and give you a full and proper spanking, but he's more likely to spend more time fingering you while you're in that position. Forcing you to squirt while you're bent over, or prepping your ass for the next round.

If you ask him nicely, however, and you've been good for him, he'll spank you until you're crying for him to stop.

How May I Kink Your Head Canon?

[cultkinkcoven]

okay so I guess I’m back to losing my fucking mind.

Did that ritual with Lucifer yesterday, offered him some blood and a chocolate apple. He expressed that he wanted me to put all my sigils in one place so I got this case for him, he really liked it. I wrote him a little letter and all that.

At some point I expressed to him that I was somewhat disappointed that he seemed less willing to engage with me seriously when I was trying to practice automatic writing on the type writer. and he said something like "well, you didn't really have anything to ask me."

So I tried approaching him with a real question, the answer to which I do not know. The one thing that has been agitating me lately is whatever occurred during our last meeting, with that lady spirit. He provided a very brief explanation at the time, but I still had questions. What happened there? It seemed really random and strange.

And he was like alright, I will give it a serious attempt. This was after we'd already spent some time together, cleared our space, meditated. But I still took quite a while to lock into some sort of trance state that would allow me to simultaneously take control out of my body whilst also not paralyzing myself. Idk if that makes sense but if you know you know. And after what might have been a whole hour or two, maybe an hour and a half, I felt his energy creeping up on me. In my mind's eye I saw a snake entering my room through my window (funny because I'm on the 4th floor). It was very dark in the room, the only light was his candle. I could not see what was being written entirely, although I could still somewhat see the keys, and I knew their position through muscle memory, so there is that.

But when that snake slithered around my abdomen and coiled around my body, my left hand, my non dominant hand, which happened to be wearing his ring at the time, rose. The snake coiled around it, and I watched in that silent trace state, where you can see yourself moving, but you are observing it in second person. It actually kind of tickles in a weird way. At first my hand did not type at all. I felt his whisper dance over me and my hand stroked my thighs and stomach. After about maybe 20 minutes of that, a good while, my hand crept over to the typewriter and began to type quickly. Slower than before, but quickly. I don't really know how to explain this but I really liked doing that. It's a very silent unspoken form of communication, I feel him move me and I obey, I have to respond quickly and be completely submissive to his will. It's... nice.

I was trying to track what I thought he was saying based on the keys being clicked, but I lost him at parts. I fully and completely expected this to come out really crude, perhaps gibberish. When I tried to predict the next key I would hit, I was wrong. The sentence would trail on in a way or use a word I didn't expect. A sentence would end when I was sure there was going to be another word.

When I hit the end of the paper I wanted to take a second to read it, but he didn't want to let me. I took a bit more control back, gained a bit more lucidity, and fed the back half of the paper back in without reading it. I was quite sure that I had wasted a sheet of paper at this point. The writing got a lot faster near the end. I was having a hard time keeping up and I was quite sure whatever this was would be very difficult to decipher, if it had any meaning at all.

When the note was finished, he did not pull away from me entirely. I was so eager to read it, but he made me lay with him for a bit before I got up. Sexy stuff, skip.

When I eventually did get up and read it in its entirety, I was like on the verge of freaking out. It's less so what he said (although that is also making me weep because wtf) and more so how legible and clear it is that bewildered me. There are a few mistakes, but I know they are mine. They occurred when I either couldn't properly respond to his command or fumbled in surprise at an unexpected move. Its legibility immediately made me doubt myself. I'm bullshiting myself right now. I could still somewhat see the keys, I still had a vague idea of what might have been said. Does this count? Surely this doesn't count.

I read this thing like 500 times. and I just

idek

It sounds like him at least. But there's also a lot of me in there, surely.

So I was like, I need to do this completely blank. And I gave him full permission to take me deeper into trance. I turned off all the lights including his altar lights. I closed my eyes, I sat for about another hour maybe until I was completely immersed in him, submitted to him. Until I was almost not even aware if I was typing or not.

and I'm not even entirely sure what I really asked him. It was something about myself, something about feeling crazy, or him driving me crazy. He only moved my left hand, again, and he only used one finger, my middle finger (which my ring was on) this time. And he typed quickly. And I genuinely had no clue which keys my finger was hitting. And I was like oh yeah, okay. Gibberish. I let it happen completely. I don't really care what it says at this point.

and he started to speed up again near the end, and the pain in my hand was bringing me back into lucidity. and I could feel his energy above me, almost mounting me. And he was telling me to stop. It wasn't forceful, it was playful. Enough work now, lets play now. Lay down, lay back. And I started kind of laughing because my hand was moving so erratically. He pulled me back, I felt it with a force, and I laid back on my pillow. Something something, sexy stuff. skip.

I ended up actually passing out after. and I didn't read this one until later. I didn't really care because I thought it would just be nonsense again, I thought he was trying to prove a point or tease me.

So when I did eventually read it, ngl babes I cried.

It is definitely less legible but I'm pretty sure I understand what he meant to say. The parts that are really garbled are the parts where he started to speed up, and looking back on it, this letter perfectly aligns with what I was doing and thinking at the time. idk. I'm kind of spiraling.

EDIT: COMPLETELY FORGOT TO MENTIONIT WAS STORMING LIKE A MF WHEN INWAS DOING THIS. Which added to the atmosphere but also made everything so much more intense. Wind howling, thunder, everything. Wild.

IM just a boy with a type writer fr.

[ollyissleepy]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞. '𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥' 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

summary: a series of not-so-accidental run ins with Gojo Satoru a/n: I was supposed to update it last week (which didn't happen due to a few things going on in my life at that time), then I move it for tomorrow, but I finished it much earlier so enjoy! cw: stalking,

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Satoru panics after not finding (name) all cosy in his home. He could've sworn that he checked that the man had a day off and no plan with any of his (new) friends.

Gojo frantically looks for (name) using his six eyes. He checks all possible locations that the man could head off to. Satoru lets out a sigh of relief when he finally finds (name) sitting at a coffee shop. He sits down at the edge of a roof, watching his friend enjoy a book with a hot drink on the table.

He watches (name) for a while with a soft smile on his face. Then, he sees an opportunity in the situation. After all, the man shouldn't be too suspicious about Satoru coming in and joining him at the table.

He doesn't really think of what he'll say or do before teleporting to an alley close to the coffee shop. He stops inside, making sure not to look towards (name) just yet, trying to make it look like he's in there by accident. Gojo orders the sweetest drink on the menu, ignoring the judging stare from the barista.

Only after his order is being made, Gojo starts looking around the coffee shop, trying to look as little suspicious as possible. He 'spots' (name) as one of the tables, noting how the man probably still isn't aware that Satoru came in. Glancing back to the counter, making sure he'll have enough time to at least exchange a few words with the man.

He steps up beside the table where (name) is sitting, clearing his throat to get the man's attention.

"It's nice to see you here, (name)," Satoru says with a playful grin.

"Gojo." (Name) glances up, uninterested in entertaining the white-haired man in front of him.

Satoru doesn't seem to notice (name)'s disinterest and slides on a chair across from him. There's a moment of silence between the two of them, with (name) trying to focus on his books while Gojo stares at him. The blue-eyed man opens his mouth to say something, but the barista calls his name from the counter — his order is ready.

"Wait for me, pretty. I’ll be right back." He flashes a quick smile.

Satoru comes up to the counter, ready to collect his drink. He thanks the barista, taking a small sip from the cup. After deciding it was sweet enough for his taste, he turned around, planning on returning back to the table. He stops, noticing that the table that just moments ago was occupied by (name) is now empty.

Gojo doesn't waste any time, looking for the man using his ability. A smile forms on his face when he sees (name) quickly walking towards his house, looking back to see if Satoru would follow him.

Next time Gojo tries to insert himself in (name)'s day-to-day life, he finds himself at a train station. He doesn't plan on coming up to bother the man, deciding that watching him from afar would be enough.

He notices (name) staring at him with furrowed brows. Satoru looked back at the man with a smile. He sees his friend's jaw tighten, and before he knows it, (name) storms towards him.

"What are you doing here?" (Name) asks, eyes narrowed.

"Can’t I enjoy a nice train ride?" Gojo replies, casual as ever.

"I’m surprised your family even let you near one," (name) says flatly.

"I don’t care about them. They’re too old to dictate my life anymore," Gojo says, brushing it off.

"Oh, so now you don’t care?" (name) scoffs. "Where was that energy years ago when—"

He stops himself. "Never mind."

(Name) quickly walks away, getting inside the train that just arrived at the platform.

"(Name), wait—" Gojo calls out.

But he’s already on the train. There's nothing Gojo could do to stop him. But it's fine; he'll get close to the man another time.

After their last encounter, Gojo decided to lay off for a little while, opting to -stalk- watch over (name) from afar whenever he had the chance to do so. It was going rather well, Satoru being satisfied with their current arrangement.

Until it wasn't. Until one of the nights, after seeing way too many men in (name)'s surroundings, being away stopped being enough. Satoru knew he couldn't just walk into the club. So he waited outside, near the back, until his friend stepped out at the end of his shift.

Gojo ignores the way (name) rolled his eyes at the sight of him. He tries to offer taking the man home but never even gets the words out.

"You think I don’t know what you’re doing?" (Name) snapped. "Leave me the fuck alone."

He turned to walk away, then paused, turning his head around.

"If I see you near me again, I might have to kill you, Gojo."

And with that, he was gone.

[ogcalesgf]

windbreaker | chojinirei as cousins!

i had a dream, a vision, a whatever you guys call this !!!

summer vacation had been a blast, and everyone got to know each other so much with how much they hang out together. another school year was due to start, and today is their first day!

sakura yawned as he slid the classroom’s door open, and he nodded at everyone who greeted him. yawning again as he took a seat beside kiryu who’s clearing one of his games.

“is nirei here yet?” sakura asked, leaning on his chair with a bored look on his face.

“he’s not here yet, sakura-kun. he said something along the lines of being late, last night in our LINE group chat. are you worried?” suo responded, perhaps a bit too teasingly as sakura’s cheeks flushed a cute hue of red.

“i’m just asking!” sakura shouted in reply, and then the door opened loudly revealing nirei, and a familiar beige-haired guy on the other side of the door.

nirei looked tense, if not, a bit too tired.

“good morning! i heard that this is aki-chan’s class?” tomiyama shouted, a little bit too loud for everyone’s liking.

“tomi- i mean, choji-chan-san, you need to go okay? the teachers might start arriving. you said we’ll walk home together, so see you later okay?”

“okay, aki-chan! see you later! i’ll bring my friends okay? so you should bring yours too okay?!” nirei nodded tiredly.

the whirlwind who calls himself tomiyama choji finally left, leaving everyone in class 1-1 except nirei, confused.

“was i dreaming or was that shishitoren’s general, tomiyama choji?” anzai whispered.

“i don’t know, man. everything kind of happened so fast.” yuri whispered back.

nirei sat next to suo as he sighed.

“nirei, why was tomiyama-san with you?” leave it tsugeura to just ask question bluntly.

“can i tell you guys later? please wake me up when it’s our turn to patrol.” without waiting for anyone to respond, nirei comically fell asleep on his desk.

meanwhile, on tomiyama’s side—

“kame-chan! kame-chan!”

togame smiled at the sight of a happy tomiyama. their general has always been a ray of sunshine everyday, but togame thinks this version of tomiyama is a bit too bright.

“anything good happening recently?” he asked. tomiyama nodded enthusiastically.

“mhm! i’m a big brother now!”

togame blinked. “huh?”

late afternoon came and class 1-1 went out for patrol, but even with a few hours of sleep, nirei can’t stop yawning.

“i’m sorry everyone, don’t mind me. i really lack sleep today.” he said, yawning.

then, the questioning began. tsugeura excitedly rapid fired his questions and nirei had half the mind to keep track of it. thanks to suo though, he gets to tell where it all started.

“do you guys remember the outing anzai arranged, two weeks ago? the one where i wasn’t able to come because my dad wanted me to meet some relatives outside makochi?”

“well it turns out, tomiyama-san is my cousin. i guess, he liked that he’s cousins with someone from furin, and has agreed to my dad’s proposal to stay with me while my parents are currently overseas for work.”

“so the two of you now live together?” suo asked, making sure.

“temporarily.” nirei replied, yawning again.

“does that have anything to do with you lacking sleep?” kiryu asked, a bit worried.

“yes, for a different reason…” nirei started going beet red.

“did he talk your ears off ‘til morning or something?” sakura asks, confused.

“well, yes and no. you see, i got excited when he told me i could ask anything about shishitoren,” nirei looked away as his friends stared at him unbelievably.

yeah, they now know why.

“i’m amazed that tomiyama-san willingly shared the information with you.” suo stated, to which kiryu agreed on.

“well, the only stuff i got to ask him are something similar to what i have on almost everyone. any specific information relating to shishitoren itself are no-go’s.”

“and you got carried away with that?” tsugeura chuckled.

“i only have the profiles of their most popular members at best, so i thought i’d expand it.” nirei shyly replied.

“aki-chaaaaan!” the group turned to where tomiyama’s voice is. they see a few members of shishitoren, mainly those who fought on the one on one brawl.

nirei smiled and waved at his cousin. to which the shishitoren members immediately saw the resemblance of their general.

approaching them, nirei greeted them all knowingly.

but what shocked the group was togame’s lazy response, “‘s nice to finally meet choji’s little brother,” then everyone turned to nirei.

who sighed.

alternatively, after meeting nirei in a family function on one sunny day, tomiyama immediately adopted nirei and decided to claim himself as the pseudo-blonde’s big brother.

anyone who would say otherwise would have to deal with a sulky tomiyama, and nobody wants to deal with a sulky tomiyama.

they had to learn it the hard way.

bonus scene!

nirei hangs out in the theater where he’s surrounded by a bunch of shishitoren members; they freely talk to him as he asks his questions about them.

“but hey nirei, your hair looks good though. like the color doesn’t seem bad, what routine do you do to keep it that way?” arima asked.

“nirei’s hair is dyed? no it isn’t.” tomiyama suddenly butts in.

“it is, actually, choji-chan-san!” nirei replied.

“but, don’t we have like, almost the same hair color because we’re cousins?”

“PFT-“ tons of members looked away from tomiyama who started realizing he was wrong, as he slowly pouting and puffing his cheeks out.

the member’s shoulders shook as they keep they positions of looking away.

“uhm, your hair doesn’t seem so much far of a color from before i started dyeing my hair, choji-chan-san! would you like to take a look at my photos?”

“oh look, your hair is like a lighter version of nirei’s older one!” togame said, seemingly interested on nirei’s middle school photos.

nirei, and togame has saved them from dealing with an upset tomiyama, again.

i just want my favorite characters together !! also, if we have big brother ume, we can also have a sulky big brother tomiyama who wants to look cool in front of his “little brother” PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

[syluses]

big girls dont cry QNA

i know you guys have lots of curiosities about this fic lolll so i’ll try to answer some of the questions i received (∗ᵕ̴᷄◡ᵕ̴᷅∗) 💕 if u still have some, just shoot me an ask!! :] also im really bad at explaining so i apologize 🤦🏻‍♀️ i have the plot nailed in my head but its tricky to articulate it in a clear, linear way for yall considering all the little nuances i added lol. i’ll try my best tho hehe :,)

Okay so there’s a whole ‘nother plot that exists in the background of this fic- which was super fun for me to write, but im sure from a reader standpoint it’s also kinda thrilling to try to connect the dots i left lol. thats why theres so many interpretations for this story (which i love!! i loved reading all yall’s theories)! 💕 BUT. that being said, the ‘canon’ goes like this:

SPOILERS BELOW read it first then come back! ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ )

was caleb really dead?

No. Caleb staged his own death and then, similar to the main story homecoming wings, didnt tell mc :,) for his own reasons, for a time, he decides he’ll let her go on believing he’s truly gone…

why did he stage his death?

I dropped little crumbs of it in the fic, but it’s hinted that mc, on top of all her grief, feels a bit bitter over the whole shebang and also blames herself for it. hmm… why would that be? 🤔 well because their final moments together (or so she THOUGHT) were emotionally charged and volatile.

the foundation of their sibling relationship was growing weaker and weaker before the explosion. arguments are forming out of nowhere- things are becoming more tense and mc, for the life of her, can’t understand why her gege is always pulling her into a heated debate about safety, danger, blahblahblah, this that and the third, every time they interact. He’s being wildly unreasonable, which she knows, and protective- a trait that has snowballed as they entered their adulthood- but what she doesn’t know is the why behind it. she tells herself she just has a super protective older brother who views her as a little baby in need of his guidance- which isn’t entirely wrong… but she doesn’t see the full picture. His true feelings. All this tension eventually climbs to its peak. Caleb just gets worse and worse. He needs to do something before the world collapses on them both.

Now, in this au, he works at EVER, a somewhat shady but lucrative company- which dabbles in robotics amongst other things. I imagine they have abundant resources and wealth- and what with his promotions, it’s safe to say caleb is making a LOT. So, the delusional guy he is, he buys a big fancy suite with the idea in mind of two eventually living in it ;) but mc doesn’t want to- she has her own life in linkon!! She wants to spread her wings and separate from the nest anyway. Partly to start her own life; partly to prove to her gege that she can take care of herself. The argument that unfolds over this is the last they have before the big tragic explosion 😭 caleb, putting on a show with his beaten puppy eyes, leaves and then that’s the last time she sees him.

Caleb meticulously plans his ‘death’ out (with some help from his wingman ofc) and then eventually the robot is introduced to mc. It serves as a trojan horse. He’ll finally conquer her heart with it and win full autonomy over her. THIS IS HIS MAIN GOAL WITH THE ROBOT. WHY HE EVEN DOES ANY OF THIS TO BEGIN WITH.

Caleb gets to spy on mc with it and also slowly reshape her to accept his feelings; his ‘death’ has left her in a fragile state of mourning and he knows, after she warms up a bit to not-Caleb, he can more or less get away with anything- bc she will claw for whatever’s left of her family member. He can make her finally reciprocate and understand him— whether that be his feelings or fear or love. He tried to be patient, to be good, but obviously he had to travel a new route. He’s thinking of her 24/7. He’s obsessive, longing, protective, you name it- and all of this just worsens the more she denies him. When push comes to shove… well, caleb will do whatever it takes to win her :] He knows it’s unconventional and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt him too- monitoring his endearingly stubborn, but sweet meimei and the shattered pieces he left of her through his android’s eyes— but it’s all temporary, and he truly believes it’s for the better.

did gideon know?

Yes, Gideon knew all along. He’s Caleb’s best buddy after all. To be matter of fact- Gideon didn’t just know, he quite literally ‘herded’ mc into the lion’s den in a way. Mc knew vaguely of their work at EVER, but not too much; so Gideon was the one who shined that light on their robotics and really introduced her to the concept of not-Caleb. Now, i wouldnt say Gideon is exactly comfortable with his involvement, but he actually really does care for mc and thinks she needs that help- as dubious as the means are. Anyway, it’s almost impossible to shut out all of his buddy’s demands: the brunet is nothing if not insistent on getting what he wants. In his own whacky way, Gideon thinks what he did- playing into Caleb’s plan- was for the better as well. I mean, Mc clearly wasnt doing good before not-Caleb came along,… but with the few visits he managed before the android got a little too stingy and sent him off, Gideon actually managed to catch a smile or two from her! So clearly he did the right thing 👀 not to mention… the real caleb seems very pleased with the progress, too. besides- the whole robot situation is temporary anyway :] She’ll be reuniting with the beloved gege she misses so much sooner rather than later.

how accurate was not-caleb?

His programming is like 100% accurate. Mc, for a mix of both naiveity and delusion, thinks not-Caleb is flawed when he starts to show signs of amorous/romantic feelings for her. Really, though, after she tells him to stay the night with her (innocently; and after years of having not shared the same childhood twin bed), it triggers a part of his ‘brain’ that undoes all real caleb’s self restraint thus far :] If the same exact situation happened with the real caleb, his reaction would’ve more or less been the same. Homeboy can only keep his feelings in check for so long

who programmed not-caleb?

Real Caleb

how is mc pregnant?

Because the robot’s creator wanted to add his own special touch to his work if you know what i mean :) yeah he’s a freak like that. Dont think he WOULDNT install in his robot the ability to indirectly knock his ‘meimei’ up. I will say though, that while caleb wants to get mc pregnant, its not fully bc he wants to start a family- at least not right away- but because he wants to emotionally and legally trap her with him. Besides monitoring her/wearing down her walls while she thought he was ‘dead’, this was actually one of caleb’s biggest goals with sending not-caleb into her home.

is not-caleb self-aware?

Yes

what’s real caleb been doing all this time?

Basically climbing the ranks of EVER from his lil perch somewhere in skyhaven. all the while, of course, spying on mc like a hawk. Biding his time & waiting for the right moment when she’s at her weakest, most codependent state to replace his carbon copy :)

was caleb controlling his robot?

No. But he essentially created its whole program. And there are cameras inside its eyes in which he watches mc from :) and cant help but snap pics with sometimes: she’s just so pretty— and endlessly sexy when he finally, in a vicarious way, gets to lie her back and make love to her <3

what is real caleb’s motive/ultimate goal?

1. to control/protect/‘tame’ mc through the robot; get her to see things from his point of view (which means realizing she belongs with him- where it’s safe and he can protect & love her)

2. to knock her up (hence the. ahem. reproductive abilities of the robot) so that he can trap her with a baby on top of all the other emotional strings he’s hogtied her with.

does gideon want mc too?

the question is not would gideon smash her. the question is would caleb LET him…. 👀

also, below i just attached a screenie from some of the notes i took. theyre ofc a little disjointed but i think it might clarify things too :] im so bad at answering questions esp for a plot this spiraling but i really tried my best guys my brain is tired forgive me :,)

[yuma-mukami-garden-god]

could we get a continuation of “The Gravity of Composure”? Maybe Reiji’s s/o asks for a massage for the back pain? thanks 🙂‍↕️

The Gravity of Composure – Part II: Pressure Points

Reiji Sakamaki had faced alchemical disasters, noble scandals, and the daily idiocy of his brothers without so much as wrinkling his sleeve.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

“Reiji,” you said sweetly, peeking into his study where he was meticulously cataloging a collection of rare herbal tinctures. “Can I ask you something?”

He didn’t even glance up. “You may.”

“My back’s been hurting lately.”

That made his hand pause mid-label.

“…I see.”

“I was wondering,” you continued, stepping into the room with that gentle grace that sent shivers up his spine, “if you’d be willing to give me a massage. Just for a little bit.”

The quill in Reiji’s hand snapped in half.

You blinked. He cleared his throat sharply, concealing the sound with the rustle of paper.

“I-I see,” he said, standing too stiffly. “A massage. For your back. For… health reasons.”

You nodded innocently. “Mhm. All that weight on my chest can really throw my posture off.”

He made a sound that could only be described as an internal scream.

Composure, Reiji. Composure or death.

“Very well,” he said with the precision of a man walking into a war zone. “Go lie down. Face-down, obviously. On the chaise lounge.”

You padded over and obeyed with ease, laying face-down on the velvet chaise, your back arched just slightly as you got comfortable. Reiji’s hands hovered mid-air like they were afraid to make contact, trembling with all the shameful temptation of a man on the verge of sin.

“Reiji,” you murmured, voice muffled by the cushion, “you’re allowed to touch me. I trust you.”

That made something in him ache.

“…Very well,” he replied, voice suddenly hoarse. He placed his palms gently on your shoulders and began to knead, slow and deliberate. It was… professional. At first.

But then you sighed. A soft, relieved little sound that made his breath catch.

And then you shifted, and the back of your shirt pulled just enough to expose skin. Smooth, warm skin. His composure fractured.

The heat of you under his hands, the curve of your spine, the slight swell of your sides… and the knowledge—the unbearable, mind-breaking knowledge—that just under that fabric, your breasts were pressing against the cushion like divine punishment—

He swallowed hard. “Does this pressure feel adequate?”

You hummed. “Mm… maybe a little lower?”

He did.

God forgive him, he did.

His thumbs moved with skill—Reiji never did anything without excellence—and yet the muscle in his jaw twitched with every inch he worked down your back. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to imagine what would happen if you turned over. If you shifted. If that shirt slipped just a little more—

And then you sighed again, dreamily, “You really have magic fingers… I can see why you’re so good with potions. You're so thorough…”

Reiji stopped mid-movement. His entire soul left his body and ascended to judgment.

“I—must—pause,” he said suddenly, standing as if he’d been electrocuted. “To avoid further… spinal injury. You clearly need a proper chair. Or corset support. Yes. Perhaps even a brace. I’ll begin drafting a prototype immediately.”

You blinked up at him, lazily, chin resting on your folded arms. “Reiji… are you flustered?”

“I am not!”

You smiled knowingly, cheeks flushed with affection. “You know, if you ever wanted to touch me, you could just ask.”

He spluttered, then turned violently away, a hand over his mouth.

“Y-You’re incorrigible. Shameless.”

“Yet here you are, shaking.”

“I am not shaking! I am trembling from indignation!”

You laughed softly and leaned your head back down, stretching your arms forward like a content cat.

“Maybe next time you can do the front.”

He ran.

From you. From his own thoughts. From the treacherous image seared into his mind.

God help him, he was going to die a sinner.

And he’d like it.

[dead-dolphins]

You've become a very lazy writer. You used to write and post constantly but now we have to beg you for an update. It's really annoying girl. At this point you'll never be a true author if you keep like this.

i wasn’t even going to respond but you sent the same message THREE times in under thirty minutes so i’m guessing you were looking for engagement. well, here it is. everyone forgive me if i’m making a scene but congratulations to this person, you officially got on my last nerve.

in the past eight months, i almost lost my cat, who isn’t just a pet but my emotional support. i watched my grandfather go through a long and painful illness until he passed away. my autoimmune condition flared up badly because i wasn’t taking proper care of myself, and on top of that, i developed nutrient deficiencies from neglecting my diet while trying to keep up with life. i’m now severely anemic, seeing a hematologist, and spending a lot of money on specialized treatment just to stabilize my health.

during all of this, i’ve been receiving hate from anons just for writing the stories i love. also some people on twitter have been behaving in creepy and invasive ways too, practically stalking me and making me feel deeply uncomfortable. i didn’t say anything. i didn’t start drama. i stayed silent and kept to myself because that’s what i’ve always done. just try to survive and hope it goes away. out of sight, out of mind.

and now, after everything, people are calling me annoying because i haven’t updated? because i stepped back to take care of myself? REALLY?

maybe you didn’t know. and if that’s the case, fine, i get it. but just so it’s clear, IM NOT A MACHINE. IM NOT SOME EMOTIONLESS CONTENT GENERATOR. i’m a PERSON trying to hold things together, dealing with way more than i care to explain in detail. i’m a PERSON who has been through a lot in a short period and is tired. and, really, i don’t owe anyone a performance of my pain just to earn basic kindness.

if a fanfic update matters more to you than a real human being’s wellbeing, then maybe take a moment to think about what that says about you bc really. bc this tells me you have zero empathy and genuinely believe i owe you something just because i wrote a story. and the truth is, i don’t. i’m sorry if that disappoints you, but i don’t owe you anything. not even a little.

now this being said: i’m tired. please leave me alone. if you keep coming back on anon, you will be blocked. and by the way, i know you're a coward, like most of the hateful anons that end up in my inbox. but next time, try sending that same ask without hiding behind anon. i’d love to see just one of you be brave enough to stand behind your words, because in the four years i’ve been here, not a single one has.

[alltimecharlo]

Me frothing at the mouth: MoRe! MORE!! Honestly love you and the work you’re doing. Honestly you are so right about how no one writes enough Omega Will x Alpha Mack fics. Humbly requesting something like that. Maybe them doing media and answering questions about each other after they have officially mated? Idk you choose.

thank you!!! 🥹🩵 i love your idea about a post-bond media interview hehe — fic under the cut!!

Mack’s been through a lot of media days. He’s done early-morning promos, charity shoots, feature interviews with sports networks where they make you wear suits and talk about your “journey.” He’s good at it. Quiet, polite, focused.

But this is the first time he’s done one with Will since they mated.

And he’s not okay.

Will is perched on the stool next to him, bouncing one leg and grinning at the small group of Sharks media staffers behind the camera. He’s wearing Mack’s chain, his scent is everywhere, and he’s clearly feeling himself.

“Alright,” one of the staffers says. “Let’s start with some basic questions. Just say the first name that comes to mind. Ready?”

Will leans forward. “Ready.”

Mack nods, already nervous.

“Who’s more likely to wake up early?”

“Mack,” Will says immediately, poking him in the arm. “He’s like a golden retriever. Up at dawn. Looks personally offended when I sleep in.”

“You fall back asleep after breakfast,” Mack mutters, nudging him back.

“Yeah, because you wear me out.”

Mack freezes. The room laughs.

Will just looks pleased with himself. “What? We work out together.”

The staffer clears her throat. “Okay, uh—who’s the better cook?”

Will points at Mack again. “No contest.”

Mack shrugs. “I like it.”

“He meal-preps for both of us. Labels my tupperware. He made banana bread for my mom last week.”

“She said she liked it.”

“She asked if he could marry me again, just to be sure.”

Will’s teasing, but his voice softens near the end, and Mack can’t help the way his chest tightens. His omega always says stuff like that—offhand and bold and proud—and it never stops wrecking him.

“Alright,” the staffer says, smiling. “Who’s the clingy one?”

Will raises his hand. “It’s me. I’m the problem. I would like to be held at all times.”

Mack grins, eyes still on him. “That’s not a problem.”

Will glances at him, a flicker of something softer passing between them.

The staffer flips to the next card, a little more cautious now. “Uh, okay. What’s your favorite thing about your bondmate?”

Mack opens his mouth—and then immediately closes it again.

Will watches him. Doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

Mack exhales slowly. “He’s…” He shakes his head. “He’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. Not just on the ice—like, yeah, he’ll throw himself into a corner with a guy twice his size and chirp him the whole time—but more than that.”

Will’s teasing grin fades, his expression going still and open.

Mack goes on, voice quieter now. “He never hides who he is. Not once. He walks into a room like everyone should be lucky to know him. And he’s funny, and smart, and a pain in the ass, but he makes me feel like I’m more than just a hockey player. He makes me feel like I’m wanted.”

Will stares at him. Breathes in, slow and deep.

“Mack,” he says softly. “…you really like me a lot, huh?”

The whole room breaks into laughter. Even Mack has to duck his head, laughing with them.

Will leans over, grinning, and touches their shoulders together. “It was very sweet. You’re gonna get laid for that one.”

“Will,” Mack groans, face red.

“I mean, I was gonna jump you anyway, but now it’s confirmed.”

“I hope we cut these.”

“Oh, we’re not cutting anything,” Will says brightly.

“Alright,” the media girl says, laughing. “One last one: how did you know he was the one?”

Will turns serious faster than Mack expects.

“I didn’t,” he says. “Not all at once. I just—every time I looked at him, I felt steadier. Like I could handle anything, as long as he was there.”

Mack’s throat goes tight.

“And I’m annoying,” Will adds cheerfully. “So if he didn’t run away in the first month, I figured it was meant to be.”

Mack laughs again, a little hoarse. “I was never gonna run.”

Will looks at him, eyes bright. “I know.”

They sit in silence for a second, the air thick with the comfort of being known, of being chosen.

“Okay,” the staffer says. “That’s everything. We’re done—thank you guys so much.”

Will leans back, stretching his arms overhead. “Can we get smoothies on the way home?”

“Yeah,” Mack says automatically.

Will hops up from his stool and walks past the camera crew, ruffling Mack’s hair on the way. “I’m gonna drive. You’re in a bond-haze.”

“I am not.”

Will snorts. “You said I was brave. You’re wrecked.”

He walks out, smug and glowing.

Mack stares after him, heart pounding, scent heavy with mine.

He is, in fact, wrecked.

But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

♡