𝐌𝐲 𝐄𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭

𝑻𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑾𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒈 - 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅? - 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒚, 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅~

[myeagleexpert]

Welcome to the blog!

Call me Eagle, I'm 20 years old and I love writing from a different perspective~

Looking forward to RECEIVING REquests! Tell me, what are you thinking about today?

Masterlist Twisted Wonderland Masterlist Dormitories Masterlist Batfamily Masterlist Yandere

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Every like, repost and comment is very welcome and appreciated. ♥

[cloudy-strawberry]

Leona scents you to keep away other beast men.

And clearly you are unaware that every time he forces you to cuddle with him he makes sure to bask you in his scent so no one gets any funny ideas.

After all you are his cub, and it’s his responsibility to protect you. Be it either from someone at school or from his very dorm mates.

He’s always been the possessive type and that extends to you as well. Since technically you are HIS.

So maybe that’s why no one at savannaclaw wants to beef with you!

[luminaryorbit]

──────── "i want you to always be by my side in every sky i fly to."

love & deepspace "your skyblue" / nixscriptum / love & deepspace "your skyblue" / luminote / love & deepspace "your skyblue" / nixscriptum / love & deepspace "your skyblue" / nixscriptum / nixscriptum / love & deepspace "your skyblue" / love & deepspace "your skyblue" / nixscriptum / love & deepspace "your skyblue"

[laurxmel]

This card is ruining meee

He looks so happy and it brings me to tears because he truly deserves nothing but the best

My baby I’m so happy that you can be filled with this much joy 🧡

[venomandvigor]

Hmmmm Jason using your care as a way to regulate his own stress. He pins you down for a back rub, and only feels the weight off his own shoulders when yours melt. Or as his day goes on outside, he finds his hands itching to do your hair care. His outlook gets a little better when your skin brightens under the right diet.

You feel like his tamagotchi.

[itsangelic]

Captivity

PAIRINGS: yandere!arkham knight/jason todd x reader | WC: 10k

SUMMARY: when you find out that your situation-ship you met at a bar a while back has literal trackers on you, you try to end things. only problem is that he isn't to keen on letting you go.

WARNINGS: angst, captivity, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, toxic love, emotional abuse, bittersweet ending, lowk only semi-canon jason todd bc it’s a yandere fic…

A/N: another thing from my drafts that i just tidied up. its lowk been a while since ive played arkham knight but it has always been one of my favorites lol. it may be a little ooc tho so my bad! i need more arkham knight verse fics its so good ughhhh. i know a lot of people would say that jason would be a good or at least decent boyfriend, but i feel like that's only after he made ‘peace’ with batman. jason is a traumatized, bruised man, he's not gonna have a perfect relationship with someone. esp since this is a yandere arkham knight jason, i imagine him to be particularly more unstable. if you want me to keep posting please consider hearting and/or reblogging my posts, maybe even following 🥹 i was considering writing a batfam x neglected!sis reader too but i dunno….. plsplsplsplspps send requests in tho

you’re sitting on the worn couch, the one with the springs that dig into your ass if you sit too long. the apartment is quiet, too quiet for your liking at least. it’s always like this when he’s gone. a hollow echo of his absence.

you sit and you wait, and you never fucking know when he is actually going to show up, it takes days to weeks to sometimes (albeit rarely and never more than one) a month.

you trace the faded pattern on the cushion with your finger, your mind replaying the last few months, trying to piece together how the fuck you got here.

how you got here.

it started in that dive bar, the one on the very end of crime alley. you were just trying to forget a shitty day, planning to recklessly spend your last savings on some cheap drink, when he slid onto the stool next to you. dark hair and pretty eyes, and a massive ‘J’ scar on his cheek that promised you chaos.

jason. he also had this massive, ridiculous frame that looked like it belonged on a football field, a white streak in his dark hair that made him look older than he probably was, and a grin that was way too cocky for a guy wearing a jacket with literal stains (whether those were tear or blood stains you do not know and do not want to know) on the collar.

he bought you a beer and he made a terrible joke about the smell of the pier. you laughed, and he looked at you like you were the first person who had actually listened to him speak in ten years.

even though he was cracking jokes, didn’t say much back then. he just sort of… watched you, and god, it was intense. one drink turned into another, then his hand on your arm, a spark, a pull you couldn’t ignore. you went back to your place. it was reckless, stupid, but you didn’t care. you hadn’t felt alive like that in years.

it was a good night. a really great night. after you woke up in the morning, everything felt heavy and loud and sweet that if you were a disney princess, birds would’ve surrounded you and you would've broken out into song.

after all, who wouldn’t be happy about bagging the hot bad-boy guy of their dreams? how could've you known that jason was well…

an actual fucking criminal.

because then the pattern started. the exhausting, fucked up pattern.

he stays for three days straight, sleeping like a dead man with his arms wrapped so tight around your waist you can barely breathe.

he cooks breakfast and burns the toast every single time, muttering under his breath while he scrapes the black stuff into the sink, looking slightly flustered in a way that made you giggle.

it also made you oddly aware that while jason has a strict routine he abides himself to, he really doesn’t know how to take care of himself. you took over breakfast, lunch (unless you both got take out) and dinner while teaching jason to cook meanwhile.

his arms wrapped around you, slowly kissing your neck while paying attention to your teachings with half a mind.

he kisses the top of your head before you go to work. and then, without a single word, he just disappears.

he is more like a storm, or a hurricane. you can't control neither and what they do. because when you guys are good, you're great, and if you're bad, it's fucking awful.

he’d sweep into your life, sweep you off your feet, then disappear without a trace. no calls, no texts, just gone. for days, sometimes weeks.

his phone goes straight to voicemail, that stupid, grainy recording of his voice saying ‘leave a message or don't, i don't care.’

you spent the first week he did this crying, thinking the worst. gotham is a graveyard; people get eaten alive by this city every single day. of course you fucking thought he died! he basically screams danger and danger attracts danger.

especially with that arkham knight guy being on the lose and wrecking havoc - apparently even batman struggled with him.

you checked the news reports for bodies found in alleyways. then, just when you are about to finally pack his extra hoodies into a trash bag and throw them away, he crawls back through your window at three in the morning. he is usually bleeding when he does this and he always smells like gun oil.

this is what made you figure out he probably is a criminal too.

and if you dare to ask him where he was? he snaps. he gets this ugly, defensive snarl on his face, slamming his fist against the kitchen counter until the dishes rattle in irritation. ‘don't start with me,’ he'll yell, his beautiful eyes looking more terrifying than endearing in the dark. ‘i was busy. i’m here now, aren't i? drop it.’

then he pulls you against him, rough and needy, burying his face in your hair until you give up and hold him back. he didn't even put a label on your relationship and never ever referred to you as his girlfriend. there were no promises made. you aren't his girlfriend. you are just the person he runs to when he needs some refuge, and you are so damn tired of it. why should you put up with this?

you’d try to move on each time he was gone, to forget the way his body felt against yours, the way his lips tasted like - but then he’d be back once more. a key in the lock, the heavy thud of his boots.

there was one time jason found out about your ‘moving on’ shit, and went completely off the rockers.

talking as in, he made sure you would never see the guy again as he didn't reach out to you anymore after jason ‘met up’ with him.

luckily he didn't get mad at you, although it was safe to say he was certainly irritated. fortunately (or unfortunately) he stayed a bit longer with you after that.

he’d never apologize and never explain. just took what he wanted, and you, like a fucking idiot, would let him. you’d tell yourself it was just sex… friends with benefits sort of situations to explain the affection. just a distraction, but the way he looked at you, sometimes, like you were the only good thing in his fucked-up world, made you hope. made you darn stupid, too.

to say the least, jason was a paradox. the days he stayed were usually great. he’d fix your leaky faucet without a word, leave crisp hundred-dollar bills on your nightstand, hold you in his arms at night so protectively.

he’d bring you takeout from that little chinese place you loved, remembering your order even when you more often than not forgot it yourself.

then he’d snap.

a harsh word, a possessive grip on your arm, a flash of anger in his eyes if you even looked at another man. you soon realized into this… situationship that he was one jealous bastard, but you told yourself it was just his fucked-up way of caring because you liked him.

you were a civilian, a nobody, living in crime alley. you didn’t need this drama. but you couldn’t seem to let go.

you were stuck in this hellish situationship, doing everything lovers did, but without the label, without the commitment, without the safety net.

it was exhausting, mentally draining. you felt like you were constantly walking on eggshells, waiting for the next shoe to drop, the next disappearance, the next outburst.

but today is different.

today, the tired feeling didn't make you want to cry. it just made you angry.

your eyes drop to the coffee table.

right there, sitting next to a half-empty mug of stale coffee, is the plastic back of your phone. next to it is the little green motherboard, and right in the center of the chip is a tiny, black dot that does not belong there.

it is a tracker. a real, high-tech tracking chip glued right inside the casing. you only found it because your battery was draining in two hours flat, and you took the case off to see if the battery was swelling.

hell, when you thoroughly checked all your apps, you even noticed a small, almost invisible icon.

it was tucked away in a folder you rarely open because you had a lot of apps installed on your phone, buried under a bunch of default apps.

you tapped it and what was it? a damn tracking app alongside a tracking chip. ‘find my phone.’ but you didn’t install it. you’re sure of it.

and that isn't even the worst part.

your hand goes into your pocket, your fingers curling around the cold, heavy square of metal you scraped off the undercarriage of your car an hour ago.

you had to crawl into the wet gravel of the apartment parking lot, ruining your favorite jeans, just to pull the magnetic box off the axle. it has a little red light on the side that blinks every five seconds.

blink. blink. blink.

like a little eye watching you turn every corner, watching you go to the grocery store, watching you visit your family.

the bastard was tracking you because who else could it be? the jerk is literally tracking your every move.

the anger in your throat feels hot.

how long has he been doing this? since the bar? since the first time he stayed over? you let this guy into your bed.

you let him hold you while you slept, hell, you slept with him! and all the while, he was treating you like a dog on a leash.

the lock on the front door clicks.

your whole body goes stiff and the heavy wooden door swings open, jason steps inside.

he looks… regular. he is just wearing a black leather jacket and gray jeans, his boots dark from the rain outside. he has his keys in one hand and a paper bag from the bodega in the other.

"hey," he grunts, not even looking at you yet as he kicks the door shut with his heel. "they had those stupid little powdered donuts you like. the bag is greasy, so don't put it on the-"

he stops. he finally looks up, his blue eyes taking in the posture of your body, the way your shoulders are hunched, and then his gaze drops down to the coffee table.

he sees the phone parts and then he sees the magnetic box. he takes a step back and he closes the door behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

jason doesn't flinch at the accusation. he doesn't look guilty. he just sets the bodega bag down on the kitchen counter, his movements really damn slow for someone caught red handed.

he unzips his leather jacket, tossing it over the back of the kitchen chair, revealing the tight black t-shirt underneath.

his shoulders are massive, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"you're scratching the table," he says and it irks you how casual he sounds.

"what is this, jason?" you whisper. you try to keep your voice steady, but the edge of it breaks. you pick up the metal box from your pocket and slam it down onto the wood. it makes a loud, ugly clack. “what is this?"

jason walks over. he doesn't stay across the room; he comes right into your space, towering over the coffee table. he looks down at the little black eye blinking on the wood.

then, his mouth twitches.

a sound comes out of him. a low, breathless huff. his head tilts back, and he actually starts to laugh. it is a ridiculous, barking laugh in the small living room. he rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head like you just told the stupidest joke he has ever heard in his entire life.

is he serious right now? he is laughing?

"oh, man," he mutters, his voice dripping with this dark, annoying amusement. he sets his hands on his hips, looking down at you with a grin that makes your skin crawl. "you actually crawled under the car? wow. i gotta give you credit for that one. didn't think you had it in you to get that dirty."

"stop laughing!" you scream, standing up so fast your knees hit the table, sending the coffee mug rattling. "it isn't funny! you are stalking me! you put a tracker in my phone, jason! you put a tracker on my car! who do you think you are?"

he shakes his head, still chuckling. “you’re so dramatic, doll. it’s just a little precaution. a security measure, if you will.” he walks a little closer. “for your safety, obviously.”

"a security measure?" you feel like you are losing your mind. the room feels smaller. "i am a normal person, jason! i go to work, i come home, i buy groceries. i don't need a security measure! you have no right to do this to me. we aren't even dating! we aren't anything. you're the one who didn't want the labels, remember? you disappear for weeks and you don't tell me anything, but i'm supposed to let you track me like a criminal? what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

the mention of the labels makes his jaw lock. the smirk finally vanishes from his face, replaced by a dark, sudden irritation. his blue eyes narrow, fixed on yours.

"don't use that against me," he snaps, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. "the no-label thing was your choice too. you didn't press it. and don't give me that civilian crap. do you know what city you live in? it's fucking gotham. do you have any idea what kind of people are walking these streets? i put those there to keep you alive. you think i want to wake up one day and find out some guy put a knife in your throat for ten bucks? you think i want you missing?"

"i don't care why you did it!" you yell back, the tears finally burning behind your eyes, hot and angry. "i don't care! it's over, jason. whatever this messed-up thing is between us, it's done. i’m telling you to leave or i will. pack up your boots and get out of my apartment! don't come back. i never want to see you again."

silence follows then, you can hear the rain starting to lash against the glass of the window - a frantic, tapping sound that does nothing to calm your nerves.

you expect him to explode.

you brace your body for him to throw something, to scream, to kick the coffee table across the room. you know his temper.

but jason just stands there.

he tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning your face, taking in your trembling lips, the wetness on your cheeks, the way your hands are clenched into fists at your sides.

the anger seems to drain out of him, but it isn't replaced by regret. it is replaced by this patronizing, deeply unsettling calm. he looks at you the way a parent looks at a toddler throwing a tantrum. like you are just being silly. like you are saying something impossible.

"you're emotional," he decides quietly.

he steps forward, closing the final bit of distance between you. before you can move, before you can bolt, his large, calloused hand comes up. his fingers curl around the side of your face, his palm warm against your jaw.

you flinch, trying to jerk your head back, but his grip is solid. it isn't hurting you - he isn't squeezing - but it is completely unyielding. you can't move an inch away from him.

"get off me," you hiss, your voice cracking.

"shh," he murmurs softly, his thumb moving in a slow, gentle stroke across your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear. his eyes are dead serious now, staring straight into yours with a terrifying kind of clarity.

"you're stressed. you're not thinking clearly right now. you had a bad day, you found the gear, and now you're panicking. there is simply no way you'd leave me."

is he crazy? he has to be crazy. you are literally telling him to leave, and he is talking to you like you're a tired kid.

"i mean it, jason," you choke out, your hands coming up to push against his chest. his muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. he doesn't even budge.

"let go of me. it's over."

"you're not like him," jason whispers, his voice dropping so low it is almost a growl, but he isn't looking at you anymore. his eyes are focused on something far away, something dark inside his own head. "you're not like him. you wouldn't abandon me. that man... he replaced me before my body was even cold in the dirt. but you? you're too good for that. you're sweet. you're gentle. you wouldn't just throw me away over a couple of trackers."

his thumb presses a little harder against your skin, grounding himself.

"i know i have my issues," he continues, his voice steady, reasonable. completely unhinged. "i know i disappear. i know it's hard. but it worked up until now, didn't it? we had fun. we have a good thing here. after everything i've done to keep you safe in this city, you wouldn't just leave. you're just confused."

he pulls his hand back suddenly, leaving your skin feeling cold. he takes a step back, sighing as he checks the heavy watch on his wrist. his demeanor shifts in a second, like he is suddenly remembering he has somewhere else to be.

"i gotta go," he says smoothly, adjusting the collar of his t-shirt. "i have a lot of work to do tonight. some things to take care of downtown."

"did you hear a single word i said?" you scream at his back as he walks toward the front door. "i'm breaking up with you! i am leaving! the second you walk out that door, i am packing my bags and i am going somewhere you can't find me!"

jason stops right by the entryway. he doesn't turn around to face you. he just looks down at his boots.

"you'll understand eventually," he says calmly.he doesn't reach for the doorknob. instead, his hand goes into his back pocket, and he pulls out a sleek, thin control pad. it looks military-grade, the screen glowing with a blue light.

his thumb taps the glass three times.

thud.

the sound is massive. it vibrates right through the floorboards, rattling the bones in your feet.

you gasp, spinning around. from the top of your living room windows, heavy, solid steel shutters are slamming down. they drop with a terrifying speed, obliterating the view of the gotham skyline, cutting off the neon lights, cutting off the rain.

slam. slam. slam.

the apartment goes completely black for a split second before the dim lamps on your side tables flicker back to life.

then comes the sound from the door.

click. hiss. click.

the heavy deadbolts on your front door are moving on their own. you watch the metal knobs turn, locking once, twice, three times. a computerized hum echoes from the frame.

"jason!" you scream.

you sprint across the room, your socks sliding on the hardwood. you throw your weight against the heavy wood of the door, grabbing the handle and pulling with everything you have. it doesn't move. it feels like trying to pull open a bank vault. you twist the lock manually, but the little metal piece is stuck fast, held in place by an electronic current.

"jason! open the door!"

you slam your fists against the wood, the impact stinging your knuckles. you can hear his footsteps on the other side, slow and completely relaxed as he walks down the hall.

"just get some rest," his voice comes crackling through the apartment's small intercom system near the kitchen. it sounds smooth, completely unfazed, like he is just telling you he'll be late for dinner. "i'll be back in a few days. don't do anything stupid. don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. don't want you getting hurt, doll."

the intercom clicks off with a dull static hiss.

the apartment is completely silent now. the heavy steel over the windows muffles even the sound of the thunder outside.

it is just you, the dim yellow light of the lamps in the apartment , and the greasy bag of donuts sitting on the counter.

you slowly slide down the front door, your back scraping against the wood until your knees are pulled up to your chest. your hands are shaking so bad you can barely interlock your fingers.

he locked you in. he actually locked you in.

your mind is spinning, a wild, chaotic mess of panic and fear. you look at the broken pieces of your phone on the coffee table.

the tracker is gone, but the battery is out, and even if you put it back together, jason probably blocked the signal somehow.

he did this. jason did this. the guy who holds you when he has nightmares. the guy who looks so small and broken when he thinks you aren't looking.

and the absolute scariest part? the thought that makes your stomach turn completely upside down?he didn't do it because he was angry because you know jason when he's angry. he didn't do it to punish you.

as you stare at the greasy paper bag on the counter, a tiny, sickening thought starts to form in the back of your brain, creeping in like poison.

he really thinks he is protecting you. he genuinely believes that this is love. he thinks that by locking you in a box, by stripping away your choices and your life, he is keeping you safe from the world that hurt him.

he thinks he is saving you.

and you're not tech savy at all, so you have no idea how you are ever going to get out.

what the hell do you do now? you sit on the floor for what feels like hours, the wood is hard and cold under your thighs.

your knuckles throb from where you banged them against the door, a dull, aching heat that matches the rhythm of your heart which is beating like crazy.

the silence in the apartment does only more to creep you out. usually, you can hear the faint rumble of the subway two blocks over, or the muffled shouts of people arguing in the street below. now, there is nothing. just the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint buzz of the lamps.

jason really did it. he fucking locked you in.

your eyes drift back to the coffee table. the little green motherboard of your phone sits there like a corpse. you push yourself up from the floor, your legs shaking slightly. you walk over and pick up the battery, forcing it back into the plastic slot with clumsy, trembling fingers. you snap the back cover on and hold down the power button.

the screen lights up. thank god… the little loading logo spins and spins. you hold your breath, waiting for the home screen to pop up, waiting to call for help, to call anyone, really. except jason of course.

the screen finally loads… but there are no service bars. there is just a little x next to the signal icon. no network available. you try to connect to the apartment wi-fi. the network name is there, but when you tap it, a red box pops up: access denied by administrator.

"fuck," you whisper, slamming the phone face down onto the couch cushion repeatedly.

he didn't just block the physical door. he blocked the damn airwaves, he erased your voice from the outside world with a few taps on a damn screen. how fucking long did he have this installed anyways and you didn’t know?

you walk over to the living room window, the heavy steel shutter looks like a garage door, thick and matte black, sealing you off from the glass. you reach your hand out, your fingers hovering an inch away from the cold metal.

don't try to mess with the shutters, either. you'll just shock yourself. his voice echoes in your head, so casual, like he was warning you about a hot stove instead of literally electrocuting yourself while trying to break free from him.

you pull your hand back, pulling it tight against your chest. you want to scream. you want to kick the walls until your toes break. instead, you walk into the kitchen.

the greasy paper bag from the bodega is still sitting on the counter. you open it, your eyes burning as you look inside. three powdered donuts, white and fluffy, smelling faintly of sugar and oil.

he bought them because he knows you get a sweet tooth when it rains - knows exactly how you like to get comfortable and put on a movie and snack while listening to the rain. he bought them right before he decided to turn your life into a fucking prison.

the contrast makes you nauseous. he makes you nauseous.

you shove the bag away, throwing it into the trash can under the sink.

you spend the rest of the night pacing. you check the bathroom. no windows there, just an exhaust fan that blows cold air from a vent way too small for a person to squeeze through.

you check the bedroom. another steel shutter, solid and of course, unbreakable.

you are trapped in your own home. four walls, a kitchen, a bed, and a door that won't open.

by the time the clock on the stove says 4:00 AM, the adrenaline finally runs out. your body feels like lead. you crawl into bed, fully dressed, keeping your boots on. you don't pull the covers up. you just lie there on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling, watching the dim light from the hallway cut across the plaster.

your brain won't shut up. it keeps looping back to the bar, when you first met. to the way he laughed, to the way he held your hand when you walked through the park. how did you not see this? how did you let a guy this dangerous get so close to you?

because he was nice, the quiet voice in your head answers. because when he looked at you, he looked like he was starving and you were the only food in the world. he made you feel wanted, needed.

it is a messed up thought. you roll onto your side, burying your face in the pillow, trying to shut it out.

three days pass.

you lose track of morning and night because the shutters never go up. the only way to tell time is the digital clock on the oven. 12:00. 04:00. 08:00. the numbers just keep changing, a slow countdown to nothing.

you try to keep a routine. you wash your face. you eat cereal and snacks because you can't be bothered to cook. you watch movies on the dvds you have stacked under the tv, but you can't focus on the dialogue. your ears are always strained, listening for the door.

on the fourth day, the electronic hum changes pitch.

click. hiss. click.

your whole body goes rigid. you are sitting on the kitchen stool, a glass of water in your hand. you set it down so fast some of it splashes over the counter.

the heavy deadbolts slide back. the door swings open.

jason steps inside.

he doesn't look like the guy in the leather jacket anymore. he looks tired. really, really tired. he is wearing a dark gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the thick, pale scars running up his forearms. his hair is messy, sticking up in different directions like he has been running his fingers through it for hours. he carries a large paper bag full of fresh groceries in one arm.

he looks at you. his blue eyes are bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin underneath them.

"hey," he says. his voice is a low, gravelly rasp.

not saying anything back, you just stand up and back away, until your spine hits the refrigerator.

maybe you can make it out?

your eyes slide to the open door behind him. just for a second. just a tiny glance.

but…jason notices.

of course he fucking notices because nothing can ever go your way. he doesn't get mad, though. he just kicks the door shut with his boot, and the automatic locks hiss back into place before the wood even settles in the frame.

"brought some stuff," he mutters, walking into the kitchen. he sets the grocery bag on the counter right next to where you were sitting. he starts pulling things out. milk. eggs. fresh bread. apples. a couple of steaks wrapped in butcher paper. "figure you were running low on the good stuff. didn't want you living on crackers. not good for your health, y'know?"

he talks like he just got back from a business trip. like he didn't lock you in a box for ninety-six hours.

"let me out, jason," you say. your voice is dry, barely louder than a whisper, but it makes its way through the room.

jason stops. his hand is hovering over a carton of eggs. his shoulders drop, a long, heavy sigh escaping his nose. he doesn't look at you. he just keeps his back turned, his large hands resting on the edge of the counter.

"we're still on this?" he asks, his tone leaning into that familiar, sassy irritation. "i told you, babe. it's not happening. it's dangerous out there right now. things are getting… messy downtown, you're safer here."

"i don't care about downtown!" you scream, the anger exploding out of you because the quiet was suffocating you for four days straight. you step away from the fridge, your fists clenched.

"i don't care about your stupid excuses! you can't keep me here! this is kidnapping, jason! this is a crime! the cops are going to look for me. my job... my boss is going to call the police when i don't show up!"

jason finally turns around. he leans back against the counter, crossing his massive arms over his chest. the dark circles under his eyes make him look menacing, but his expression is completely blank.

"you don't take me for an amateur, do you? that's already handled," he says calmly.

your heart drops. "what?"

"your boss got an email from your account two days ago," jason explains, his voice entirely too casual. "you resigned. family emergency out of state. handled your landlord, too. rent is paid for the next six months in advance. nobody is looking for you… and your friends won't reach you. i'll make sure of that.”

the air leaves your lungs in a painful gasp.

the son of a bitch thought of everything. he systematically erased your life while you were sitting on the couch watching movies.

"you son of a bitch," you choke out. the tears are back, hot and blurry, blinding you. "you absolute piece of shit."

you lunged at him. you don't even think about it, the pure, raw panic taking over your muscles. you swing your fist, aiming right for his arrogant face.

jason doesn't even blink. his hand moves like lightning, catching your wrist in mid-air. the impact makes a dull thud. his grip is like iron, wrapping completely around your skin.

before you can swing with your other hand, he grabs that wrist too, pulling both of your arms down, pinning them against his chest.

you try to pull away, twisting your body, kicking at his shins with your boots. "let go of me! let me go!"

“stop it," he grunts, easily absorbing your kicks. he doesn't hit back. he doesn't even shake you. he just holds you tight against his chest, locking your arms so you can't move. "stop throwing a tantrum. you're going to hurt yourself."

"it's not a tantrum!" you scream right into his face, your chest heaving against his. "it's my life! you stole my life!"

jason's face tightens. for a split second, the calm mask cracks, and you see that raw, volatile anger flashing in his eyes.

he leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

"i saved your life," he says, his voice dropping into a harsh, gravelly register that doesn't sound like the man you thought you knew at all. "you think the system cares about you? you think this city cares? if i leave you out there, you're just a target. some freak in a mask or some low-life with a gun will take you just to get to me, or just because they can. i'm the only one who actually gives a shit about keeping you breathing."

he squeezes your wrists a little tighter, just enough to make you wince, before he suddenly lets go. he steps back, breathing heavily, running a hand through his dark hair.

the anger drains out of him as fast as it came, replaced by that weird, unsettling calm. he looks at your red wrists, then looks away, his jaw clenching.

"i'm making dinner," he decides, turning back to the grocery bag. "go sit down."

you stand there for a second, your breath hitching in your throat. your wrists ache where his fingers were.

if you could, you would fight more but your damn knees feel like water. what is happening instead is the reality of the situation settling on you.

there is no police backup coming. there is no landlord coming to check the apartment.

you are completely, utterly alone with him.

you slowly walk back to the living room and sink into the couch.

the kitchen fills with the sound of cooking. the clatter of a frying pan. the sharp hiss of meat hitting hot oil. the smell of butter and garlic starts to drift into the living room. it is your favorite meal. the one you told him about during that rainy night a while ago when you were both crammed into the booth at the diner.

you sit in the dim light, listening to him move around the kitchen.

he didn't hit you at least. he could have broken your wrists, but he didn't. it is a terrifying thought, so you try to shake it away, angry at yourself for even thinking it. you shouldn’t be grateful that he didn’t do it - it's the normal fucking thing to do.

he locked you up, he lied to your boss and he is a criminal.

but as you look at the kitchen doorway, watching his massive shadow move against the wall, a sickening wave of pity hits you.

he looked so tired when he walked in. those dark circles under his eyes... he looks like he hasn't slept since he left.

well, why should you care? your fingers are digging into the couch fabric.

let him be tired. he deserves it. but… the memory of his voice stays with you. i’m the only one who actually gives a shit. he said it with so much conviction. he genuinely, truly believes he is the good guy here. he thinks he is the hero protecting his prize or pretty little civillian.

"hey."

you look up. jason is standing in the doorway, holding two plates. the steak is perfectly cooked, steam rising from the meat, smelling incredible. at least his cooking has improved greatly.

he has washed the grocery dust off his hands, too. he looks at you, his blue eyes nervous, completely devoid of the anger from a few minutes ago. he looks almost like a little boy waiting to see if he's in trouble.

"you hungry?" he asks softly.

you don't answer, you just stare at the plate.

jason walks over, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table right in front of you, setting the plates down between you. he picks up a fork and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours. his touch is oddly gentle now. so soft it hurts.

"eat," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on your face, watching for any sign of a smile, any sign that the storm has passed. "i made it exactly how you like it."

you take the fork because your stomach is hollow and you don't have the energy to fight the food. you cut a small piece of meat and put it in your mouth.

instantly, jason's whole face changes. the tension leaves his broad shoulders, a tiny, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his lips. his eyes brighten up, completely mistaking the fact that you are starving for the fact that you are forgiving him.

"good, right?" he says, his voice lighter, returning to that sassy, familiar jason from the bar. "told you i could cook. better than that greasy diner crap."

you chew slowly, looking at his bandaged forearms, at the ‘J’ scar on his cheek. your mind is a chaotic mess, twisting itself into knots just to make the air in the room breathable.

if he loves you this much, maybe it's not a cage? maybe you're just the only thing he has left to save. you know that deep down jason is a good guy… you just need to get through his head that locking you up is not okay.

you swallow the food, the warmth of the meal settling in your chest, even as the walls of the apartment feel like they are closing in forever.

the clock on the microwave says it is three in the afternoon, but it might as well be midnight. who fucking knows anymore. trying to convince him that locking you up is a literal crime? yeah, that was a massive waste of breath.

you tried screaming until your chest burned, tried crying until your eyes felt like they were full of sand, and what did he do? he just patted your head like you were some stray mutt throwing a fit over a leash.

you’ve pleaded, you’ve reasoned. you’ve pointed out every single logical flaw in his plan. that locking you up isn’t okay. that it’s illegal?? that it’s wrong. but it doesn’t work. it never works.

he just looks at you, sometimes with a flicker of irritation, sometimes with that infuriating calm he always has. he treats your arguments like tantrums. your attempts to escape, like childish games. he gets low-key pissed, you can tell, but he puts up with it. he just waits for you to tire yourself out. for you to ‘understand’. well, fuck him. you’re not understanding anything.

but the weirdest part is the anxiety. it isn't hurtful anymore. it doesn't claw at your throat the way it did during those first few awful weeks. the panic has dulled into this flat, heavy numbness.

you aren't constantly checking the door handles or looking for a way to break the steel shutters because your brain is just too fucking tired to care. you know exactly what your day looks like: four walls, the same couch cushions, and him.

and honestly? he is around all the time now. he used to ghost you for weeks, leaving you to wonder if he was lying dead in some gutter, but now he is practically glued to the apartment. he is running some massive, terrifying crime empire from your living room, barking orders into a secure radio headset while sitting in his sweatpants, but he never takes his eyes off you for long. you knew he was a criminal but you didn’t know it was this big.

should’ve left him when you had the damn chance, fuck those books for making you believe bad boys are hot.

his personality is still the exact same exasperating, moody mess it always was.

one minute he is making some sarcastic, sassy comment about the trashy reality tv show you're watching, and the next he is staring at the wall with this dark look that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

but… he is calmer. you can see it in the way his shoulders don't bunch up as much. having you under his thumb twenty-four-seven is apparently like a fucking sedative for him. he knows exactly where you are, so he doesn't have to worry about the world chewing you up.

whenever you do try to pick a fight - whenever you yell at him to give you the door code or throw a couch pillow at his stupid head - he doesn't even take you seriously.

“are you done with your little tantrum yet?" he sighs, not even looking up from the laptop where he is tracking weapons shipments. his jaw clenches, and you can tell he is low-key pissed that you are still complaining, but he just puts up with it. he treats your valid, desperate desire for freedom like a toddler's mood swing. "i told you to sit down. stop stressing yourself out over nothing."

it drives you insane, but the real nightmare hits on another day.

the deadbolts hiss and click with a frantic, messy speed. the front door flies open, and jason practically stumbles into the living room.

your breath hitches. he is wearing that terrifying, high-tech tactical gear - the dark armor, the camouflage plates, the massive arsenals strapped to his thighs. but the bright blue helmet is cracked completely open down the center, pieces of the visor missing, revealing his sweat-soaked, pale face beneath it. his shoulder is torn apart, dark, thick blood soaking through the fabric and dripping onto your rug.

you stand up slowly from the couch, staring at him. and suddenly, the pieces finally click together in your head.

the radio orders… the high-tech military lockdown on your apartment… the brutal, faceless armor.

he's the ‘arkham knight’ or at least thats what you think they call him (not that you could look it up). the psycho the news has been screaming about for months. the guy trying to tear gotham apart and who seems to have a strong vendetta against batman and robin and whatever else bat creature works with ‘em.

fuck. fuck. fuck. you’re living with a supervillain. a fucking supervillain.

you don't run to help him. you just stand there by the cushions, your face completely cold and indifferent. good. you hope it hurts.

jason stops in the middle of the room, ripping the broken helmet the rest of the way off his head and letting it heavy-drop onto the floor with a loud metallic clang. he looks up, his blue eyes bloodshot and wild, taking in your dead expression. his face twists into something incredibly upset, a raw look of betrayal taking over his features.

"you're just gonna stand there?" he asks, his voice cracking, sounding so small and pathetic despite the massive armor. "what? no sympathy? no ‘oh, jason, are you okay?’ after everything? god, you're looking at me like a piece of garbage.”

"you are a piece of garbage, jason!" you snap, the numbness finally breaking as the anger surges back into your throat. "you're killing people! you're running a fucking militia! you're out there hurting the good guys, trying to destroy the city, and you have me locked in a box like a goddamn trophy!”

"the good guys?!" jason yells, stepping toward you, his boots leaving wet, bloody streaks on the floor. his eyes have that scary look once more.

"you think batman is a fucking good guy? you don't know shit! that son of a bitch left me! he let the joker torture me in an abandoned wing of arkham asylum for over a year! a whole fucking year! i was rotting in the dark, screaming for him, and do you know what he did? he replaced me! he got a new robin before my body was even cold! he abandoned me!"

“he’s not the good guy. he’s a hypocrite. a self-righteous bastard who thinks he knows best.” the raw pain in his shout rattles the glasses in the kitchen. his chest heaves under the heavy chest plate, his lips trembling.

"and now you," he whispers, taking another desperate step toward you, his good hand reaching out, his fingers shaking. "why are you trying to abandon me too? after everything i've done to keep you safe from them? why does everyone fucking leave me?"

oh.

oh.

you feel a sudden pang of pity in your stomach. it makes you feel sick. he looks… so broken. no one ever took care of him. hell, you taught him how to cook and reminded him regularly to care for himself too and not only you. you hate yourself for it, but the thought is there.

fuck. you’re starting to feel bad for him. you’re starting to justify his cruelty because of his past torture. you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but feel bad.

you open your mouth to answer him, to tell him that keeping someone hostage isn't love, but jason violently shakes his head. he slams his eyes shut and pulls back, turning his face away.

he can't handle the truth. he never stays long enough to let you actually answer because he knows it will break his twisted reality.

instead, he forces the old normalcy back into the room like a suffocating blanket. he lunges forward, his large hand gripping your jaw to tilt your head up. he leans down and shoves his lips against yours.

it is a desperate, heavy kiss. he forces his tongue deep into your mouth, kissing you with a frantic, needy hunger, moving his mouth against yours as if this messy, aggressive display of affection can somehow make the kidnapping and the blood disappear.

he acts like you're still those two people from the bar, completely ignoring the prison he built around you.

tears finally slip down your cheeks, hot and miserable. you start to curse at him between his suffocating breaths. "fuck you... jason, stop... let me go, you psycho..."

jason pulls back a fraction of an inch. seeing you cry makes a look of genuine, agonizing heartbreak cross his face. he looks like he wants to die right there just because he made you weep. but his brain snaps out of the panic within a second, his jaw hardening into a defensive line and his eyebrows furrowing as he lets go of you and sighs.

"suck it up," he snaps, his voice rough and loud as he drops his hand from your face. he turns his back on you, gripping his bleeding shoulder. "it's for the best, you're safe here. just stop fucking crying."

he stumbles into the bathroom, slamming the door hard behind him.

the apartment drops into a dead, awful silence. you slide down onto the couch, staring at the floorboards. through the thick walls, you can hear him. he isn't patching himself up yet. he is just sitting on the bathroom floor, his back against the door, completely quiet.

you can already guess what he's doing because he tends to lock himself away and sulk after he came back without telling you why - now you know.

he is sitting out there, deeply wondering why you are so unhappy, because his broken mind completely refuses to accept the obvious truth: he is the reason.

twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opens.

you don't hear him yelling or cursing anymore. instead, the clattering of bowls and spoons starts up in the kitchen. he is moving fast, working with a nervous, hyperactive energy.

jason walks back into the living room a few minutes later. he took off the heavy tactical armor, wearing just a pair of loose gray sweatpants. his left shoulder is crudely wrapped in white gauze, a fresh red stain blooming right through the middle of the fabric. in his hands, he is holding a small bowl. it's that stupidly sweet chocolate lava cake you always order when you're stressed out.

he stops in front of the couch, holding the bowl out toward you. his blue eyes are incredibly wide, practically vibrating with anxiety.

"you want a sweet treat?" he asks. his voice is so soft it sounds like a different person. he is totally desperate for you to take it.

you don't even have the energy to fight him anymore.

you are just too mentally tired to shove him away or throw the bowl across the room or do whatever. you take the small spoon and take a bite of the warm, rich cake.

instantly, jason brightens. the terrifying aura he just had a few minutes ago disappears, and the heavy tension completely drains from his massive shoulders. a small, relieved smile tugs at his lips. he leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your chocolate-stained lips, and this time, you don't even try to push him off. you just let him hold you.

as his arms wrap around your waist, you sigh.

he looks so tired… your eyes ate tracking the fresh blood soaking through his bandage as the thought from earlier creeps up once more. he was tortured for a year. and knowing that he was ‘abandoned’ (as he put it) by batman, leaves you to guess he was the past robin - which means he'd been fighting for so long. you find yourself actively justifying his cruelty, maybe it’s just your mind bending over backward just to make the captivity feel bearable.

if he is doing this because he was broken by the world, then maybe he isn't a complete monster. maybe he's just someone who went through hell, and you're the only peace he has left.

the clock on the oven says it has been four days since he crawled back bleeding from his fight with batman, and jason hasn’t moved from the couch once (except to go the bathroom or eat something, but thats barely).

the living room smells like old copper and cheap rubbing alcohol be probably used for his wounds. he looks like a giant, broken action figure slumped against your throw pillows, his knees bent because he is way too fucking big to fit on the cushions properly.

you are stuck playing nurse, and honestly? it is the most exhausting shit you have ever had to deal with. you have to change the gauze on his shoulder twice a day, and every single time you peel the sticky white tape back, he tenses up like he’s about to swing at you.

look at him. he’s a literal psycho who runs a militia, and now you’re the one scraping the dried blood out of his skin. this is so fucked.

but as you set the bowl of warm water down on the coffee table, the thoughts in your head do that weird, annoying flip they keep doing lately. you look at the nasty, puckered scars on his collarbone - not the fresh one from batman, but the old ones from, you assume, the joker.

if you were forced to fight all your life, then abandoned and tortured and replaced, no wonder he turned out like this. how could anyone be normal after that?

"you're staring," jason grunts, his voice incredibly raspy from sleep. he shifts his weight, wincing as the movement pulls on his stitches, his jaw clenching hard.

"i'm trying to see if you're dying yet," you say, your voice flat as you sit down on the edge of the couch by his hips. you reach out and pull the zipper of his hoodie down, exposing the messy, blood-stained gauze covering his left shoulder. "sit up. i need to change the wrapping."

jason lets out a sassy, annoyed huff, but he rolls his shoulders back anyway, letting his head drop against the top of the couch. "you wish i'd die. then you'd have to figure out the door code yourself, and you're waaay too dumb for military encryption."

"fuck you, jason," you mutter, but there is no real heat behind it anymore. the cuss words just slide out of your mouth out of habit, like a routine the two of you play.

ou start peeling the old tape away. your fingers are surprisingly steady. a few weeks ago, touching him like this would have made your heart hammer against your ribs in pure panic. now? you just want to get the dried blood off so he stops groaning in his sleep. you dip a clean washcloth into the warm water and start dabbing at the edge of the wound. the gash from batman's batarang is deep, a nasty purple line held together by clumsy black stitches jason did himself in the dark and you're glad that you're not the one fighting the big scary bat of gotham.

jason lets out a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth when the wet cloth hits his skin. his good hand flies up, his thick fingers locking around your wrist.

you freeze, your eyes snapping to his face. "jason. let go. i can't fix it if you're holding me."

he stares at you, his blue eyes wide and entirely too bright. he looks so young when the cocky smirk drops off his face. he is looking at you like he's terrified you're going to push the cloth into the wound on purpose just to hurt him. but then he looks down at your wrist in his grip, notices the way his fingers are squeezing your skin, and his expression instantly softens into that weird, guilty panic. he drops his hand back to his lap like he just got shocked.

"sorry," he mutters, turning his head away so he doesn't have to look at you. "just... it stings, alright? don't press so hard."

“i'm barely touching you, you big baby," you say, but you make your movements even slower, gently wiping the copper-colored crust away from the stitches.

the silence settles over the room again. it’s that heavy, suffocating quiet that used to make you want to scream. but today, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the quiet feels almost... cozy. the steel shutters are still down over the windows, blocking out the absolute hellscape of gotham outside, and for the first time, you don't feel like a hostage. you feel like you're in a bunker. he’s keeping the bad stuff out. the city is full of monsters.

if you were out there alone, who would look out for you? nobody. bruce didn't even look out for him.

you finish cleaning the blood and unroll the fresh white gauze, taping it down securely over his skin. “there, done. stop moving around so much or you're gonna rip the thread."

you start to stand up to take the bloody water back to the bathroom, but jason moves like lightning. his good arm hooks around your waist, his massive hand anchoring into the fabric of your shirt, and with one easy pull, he drags you down onto the couch right next to him.

"jason, stop, the water-"

"leave it," he murmurs softly, burying his face straight into the crook of your neck. he is so heavy, his broad shoulder pressing into your side, his breathing hot against your collarbone. his whole body relaxes the second your skin touches his, like you're some kind of medicine that stops his brain from firing.

“just stay here. i'm freezing."

you sit perfectly still, your hands hovering in the air. you could shove him. his shoulder is hurt; if you pressed your elbow right into the stitches, he'd yell and let you go, and you could run to the kitchen and grab a knife. you could try to fight him.

but as you look down at his dark hair, your fingers twitch. he still looks absolute exhausted. and during your stay here, and even before, you never noticed anyone looking for him. he has nobody else. if you leave him, it will completely break him.

your hands slowly come down, your fingers sliding into the soft, messy strands of his hair. you give a tiny, tired sigh, leaning your weight back against the pillows, completely letting him hold you. jason lets out a low, content sound in the back of his throat, his grip around your waist tightening just a little bit more, pulling you so close there is no space left between you at all.

you close your eyes in the dim yellow light of the lamp, completely numb to the trap, just letting the warmth of his body wash over you until the rest of the world doesn't matter anymore.

the apartment is so quiet it makes your ears ring. you sit on the edge of the mattress, your knees pulled tight against your chest, staring at the empty hallway. he’s been gone for five days this time. five whole days of absolutely nothing.

you catch yourself straining your ears, tilting your head toward the front door. you are listening for the heavy thud of his military boots in the corridor. you are waiting for that loud, hiss of the deadbolts sliding back. you even miss the static-heavy crackle of his army radio and the stupid, sarcastic comments he makes about the clothes you wear.

"fuck," you mutter into the dark room, slamming your forehead against your knees.

you get so pissed at yourself. the irritation burns in your chest, making you feel sick and disgusted with your own brain. you know exactly what he’s done. you haven't forgotten the trackers. you haven't forgotten the day he trapped you in this box and systematically erased your old life. he is a criminal, a psycho in a mask, a kidnapper.

yet, the apartment feels completely empty without him.

the reality is just brutal and simple: you have no other company.

jason is the only person you ever see now. he is the only voice you get to hear. he’s the one who brings the bags of groceries so you don't starve, the one who gently cleans the sparks-burns off your fingers when you get too close to the windows, and the one who provides the only warm comfort you can get in this living hell. he completely controls when the doors open and close.

after months and months of that twisted routine, not missing him would almost be stranger. your brain has been entirely re-wired by the isolation, shrinking your whole universe down until he is the sun.

you stand up, your socks padding silently across the floorboards as you walk into the living room. the dim yellow lamp throws long, creepy shadows against the walls.

you sit down on the couch, rubbing your arms against the chill in the air. the apartment feels like a tomb when he isn't here to fill it up with his massive frame and his loud, angry energy.

you stare at the front door, your heart doing a pathetic, eager flutter when a pipe rattles in the wall. false alarm. just the building settling.

you lean your head back against the cushions, closing your eyes in the dark. you hate him for what he did, but god, you just want the locks to hiss. you just want him to come home.

and suddenly, they do.

the months just blur together into one long, dark room. you stop looking at the clock on the stove because the numbers don't actually mean anything when the windows stay covered.

the shouting stopped weeks ago. you don't even remember the last time you threw a pillow at him or screamed until your throat was raw. what was the point anyway? it never changed anything.

now, when the heavy door clicks open, you don't look for a gap in the frame to bolt through. you just look at his chest, looking for the dark stains of fresh blood, tracking his posture to see where he is hurting so you can grab the medical kit before he even asks.

tonight, the deadbolts slide back with a soft, familiar hiss.

jason steps inside, but he isn't wearing the heavy, terrifying carbon plates or the broken blue helmet. he is just wearing an oversized, soft gray hoodie and dark sweatpants, his hair messy and damp from the rain. he looks completely normal, like.. civilian-like normal (as civilian like as he could be).

he doesn't say a word. he just crosses the living room with heavy, exhausted strides and slumps right onto the couch next to you. before you can even move the book in your lap, his massive arms wrap around your waist, pulling you hard against his chest. he buries his face straight into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that vibrates right through your ribs.

"missed you," he mumbles against your skin, his voice thick with a deep, crushing weariness.

your hands hover over his shoulders for a second. a few months ago, your brain would have been screaming at you to fight, to scratch his scars and make him feel pain. you would have been calculating how to steal his control pad, tracing the seams of the steel shutters, or figuring out a way to break his high-tech system.

but tonight, your mind is completely quiet. the thoughts that crawl up are different now. they are softer, maybe more dangerous than planning an escape too.

you know this is bad. you know it is totally messed up, but you just can't help it anymore. maybe it really is better to just stay. it's not like a normal civilian could outdo the damn arkham knight anyway. he ran a whole military empire from your coffee table; what chance did you ever have of outsmarting him? plus, when you really think about it, it's not even so bad anymore.

the apartment is warm, the fridge is always full of the food you like and you don’t have to worry about bills or rent or break-ins. the heavy steel shutters over the windows don't feel like a cage anymore. they feel more like a massive shield, keeping the horrific, violent streets of gotham away from the two of you. the city outside is burning, full of freaks and monsters, but in here, nobody can touch you. he keeps you safe.

your fingers slowly drop, sliding into the damp, soft hair at the back of his neck. you lean back into the cushions, letting your body mold against his chest, finding a strange, heavy comfort in the tight, bruising grip of his arms.

jason pulls back just a fraction of an inch, his blue eyes searching your face. his thick thumb comes up, nervously tracing over your lower lip, his shoulders tense as he waits for the usual cold, dead look you always give him.

instead, you look right back into his eyes. and you let out a small, tired smile.

jason gasps. it is a soft, breathless sound, and his entire face instantly brightens with a pure, childlike joy. the dark, paranoid lines on his forehead completely melt away. he smiles back - a genuine, radiant smile that makes him look completely whole, like the boy who never got loved enough.

he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, holding you as if you are the most precious thing in the entire universe.

"you finally understand," he whispers against your mouth, his voice trembling with a massive wave of relief. "you're not going to ask to leave anymore, right?"

you close your eyes, burying your face into the soft fabric of his gray hoodie, completely surrendering to the warmth of the trap.

“no, i’m not leaving.”

[linarae119]

[anitalenia]

let’s go to the strawberry fields tonight, xavier. my lips will be stained pink from nectar and your fingers will stick from the frosting but… you always give the sweetest kisses when in love. — 𝓐

[twis-world]

Dick Grayson is uninterested in the concept of personal space.

Let me make this clear. It's not that he's unaware of it, no, he just does not care for it. Why would he want to spend any moment NOT touching you???

When sitting at restaurants he wouldn't be the type to sit across from you. Hell no. He would plop down right next to you, making himself comfortable as he sits shoulder to shoulder with you. Ankles hooked together and hands intertwined.

When walking through the city of Gotham he would always have at least one hand touching you. Whether that be through holding hands, wrapping his arm around your waist, or throwing an arm over your shoulder. Not once would he separate himself from you unless absolutely necessary.

And in bed? Oh, he's practically fused to you, arms tightly wrapped around your waist and head buried in your neck. If at any point you need to get up for the bathroom or a drink of water he's trailing right behind you, clinging to your shirt as he trails behind you.

It's utterly pathetic, but he could care less.

[cherryscript]

ᯓᡣ𐭩 THE ART OF GIVING HEAD ᝰ.ᐟ

𓏲ּ𝄢 featuring 𓂃 XAVIER, RAFAYEL, ZAYNE, SYLUS & CALEB — how lads men would give you head.

𓏲ּ𝄢 content warnings 𓂃 lots and lots of cunninglingus, they EAT it (that's the main point here), pwnp, somno in xav’s part, lots of focus on female orgasm, praise & degradation, clitplay, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, fingering, sixty-nine position in zayne’s, oral for both f&m in his part too, riding nose for sylus, caleb is stealing panties (.... again), whimpering and begging for him as usual... (I don't know what else)

𓏲ּ𝄢 cherry’s note 𓂃 I've spent embarassing amount of time and effort into this. so, if this flops I'll blow up with everyone here. thank you @lunarkyn & @beatricetonguedi for helping me sorting out xav ’n raf’s part...also, this ask right here....you guys saved me there. big kisses for y'all <3

沈星回 ⛦ XAVIER !

Xavier slips through the door just past three a.m., the apartment dim and quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. His shoulders sag under the weight of the day —endless missions, blood, light-blades, paperwork— but the moment he sees you curled in the middle of his bed, everything else fades.

You’re wearing his favorite oversized sweater, the one that smells like him even after a wash, sleeves slipping over your hands, hem riding high on your thighs. Nothing underneath but a whisper-thin pair of panties—pale blue, already darkened at the center with the faintest hint of want. You’re on his sheets, in his clothes, breathing slow and sweet… it’s the only reward he ever needs.

He exhales, long and shaky, kicking off his boots. Doesn’t bother with the light. Just shrugs out of his jacket, peels away the holster, and crawls onto the mattress like a starving man finally allowed to eat.

You stir when the bed dips, murmuring his name in that sleepy-soft voice that makes his cock twitch painfully against his zipper.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your knee as he settles between your thighs. “Go back to sleep. Just need my dessert.”

He starts slow—god, so fucking slow—like he has all the time in the world. Mouth warm and lazy, kissing over the damp cotton first, breathing you in through the fabric until the panties are soaked twice over. Only then does he hook a finger under the gusset and tug it aside, humming at the sight of you make—swollen, glistening, already fluttering for him.

The first lick is a long, flat stripe from entrance to clit, deliberate, savoring. He groans like he’s tasting something forbidden and perfect, the sound rumbling straight into your core.

“Fuck… missed this all day,” he mumbles against you, voice thick with exhaustion and hunger. “Missed this pretty pussy waiting for me.”

His thumb settles over your clit, pressing in slow circles—just enough pressure to make your hips jerk—while his tongue pushes inside you, slow and filthy, curling like he’s trying to drink you dry. Every tiny reaction you give him—the gasp, the whimper, the way your thighs tremble on either side of his head—he catalogues it, stores it, uses it. He learns you like he learns constellations: reverent, obsessive, permanent.

Hours. He stays down there for hours.

Sometimes he pulls back just to watch his thumb work you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, lips shiny with you. “Look at you leaking for me already… such a messy girl.” Then he dives back in, lips sealing around your clit in a tight, perfect “O,” sucking soft and steady while two fingers slide in to stroke that spot that makes your back arch clean off the bed.

You’re close—so close—when he suddenly changes.

It’s like a switch flips.

The lazy worship turns feral in a heartbeat. Tongue flicking fast and hard, thumb grinding rough circles, fingers curling and pumping with ruthless precision. The wet sounds are obscene—loud, sloppy, echoing in the quiet room. He growls against you, hips grinding into the mattress because he’s so hard it hurts, chasing his own edge just from the taste of you.

“Give it to me,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Cum on my tongue—wanna feel you fall apart, baby, please—”

You shatter—sobbing his name, thighs clamping around his head, whole body shaking as he drinks down every pulse, every gush, licking you through it like he’ll die if he misses a single drop.

When the aftershocks fade, he doesn’t stop. Just slows again, gentle now, soothing, pressing sleepy kisses to your swollen folds, your inner thighs, the soft crease where leg meets hip. His lower face is drenched—chin, lips, even his nose glistening—and he doesn’t care. Wipes it off on your thigh and smiles, drowsy and satisfied.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

He gathers you close, pulling you into his chest, your back to his front, legs tangled. His cock is still hard against your ass, but he ignores it, nuzzling into your hair.

“Love you,” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Love how you taste… love how you sound you make when you come for me… love you in my sweater, in my bed…”

You feel him smile against your neck, hear the soft, contented hum as he finally lets sleep take him.

“Just needed my dessert,” he mumbles, already half-gone. “Best part of the whole damn day.”

And with your taste still on his tongue and your body limp in his arms, Xavier drifts off—happy, full, and utterly yours.

祁煜 ⛦ RAFAYEL !

Rafayel comes to you pouting.

You hear it before you see him— the dramatic sigh, the keys tossed onto the counter with theatrical flair, the soft thud of his shoes kicked off one by one.

“Cutie ignored me all day,” he announces to the empty living room, voice lilting like he’s wounded. “Left me to rot in that boring studio while you were out doing… whatever mysterious human things you do.”

You’re on the couch in nothing but his silk button-up—three buttons done, the rest hanging open) and a pair of lace panties he bought you “as a joke.” The joke’s on him; they’re already ruined.

He stops in the doorway, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that dangerous little smirk.

“Oh. Look who decided to dress up like a present.”

You don’t even get to answer before he’s on you, knees hitting the rug, hands sliding up your thighs and spreading them wide like he’s unveiling a masterpiece.

“Missed this pretty cunt,” he murmurs, voice velvet and venom. “Bet it missed me too, hm?”

He starts slow, cruelly slow. Kisses everywhere except where you need him: soft presses along the crease of your thigh, the delicate skin just above your clit, the lace edge of your panties. Every time you twitch toward his mouth he pulls back, laughing under his breath.

“Rafayel—”

“Shh. Good art takes time, baby.”

He drags the flat of his tongue over the soaked fabric once, just once, then blows a cool stream of air right through it. Your hips jerk; he pins them down with one hand like it’s nothing.

“Sensitive tonight? Cute.”

Finally, finally, he tugs the lace aside with his teeth. The first real touch is just his lips: plush, warm, closing over your folds in a slow, open-mouthed kiss. He makes out with your pussy the way he kisses you when he’s trying to ruin your lipstick: deep, lazy, filthy, lips sliding and catching and sucking like he’s trying to drink you through them. A soft, wet sound every time he pulls away and dives back in.

You feel it in your spine.

He hums some annoying pop song that’s been stuck in his head for three days, the vibration rolling straight into your clit. Your hand flies to his hair on instinct.

“Yes—fuck—pull it,” he breathes against you, tongue flicking out to trace your entrance. “Use me, cutie, c’mon.”

You do. You fist those soft violet strands and shove his face exactly where you want it. He moans like you just gave him a gift, nose bumping your clit, rubbing it in messy circles until it’s shiny with you. Then he pulls back just far enough to spit, once, twice, watching it drip down your folds with half-lidded eyes.

“Pretty,” he whispers, and seals his mouth over you again.

He edges you twice. Brings you right to the cliff with that wicked mouth and those long artist’s fingers curling inside you, then stops, blowing cool air over your throbbing clit until you’re shaking and cursing his name. The third time you sob, actually sob, he laughs softly and gives in.

“Alright, alright. Greedy baby.”

And then he doesn’t stop.

He sucks your clit between those sinful lips and flutters his tongue so fast your vision whites out. Fingers scissoring, stroking, spitting again just to hear the wet sound when he pumps them back in. You come with his name cracked in half on your tongue, thighs clamping around his ears, and he just groans like he’s the one unraveling, drinking every pulse like it’s paint and he’s starving.

You’re still trembling through the aftershocks when he starts again.

Second orgasm. Third. Fourth. By the fifth you’re crying, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his forehead while he licks you open like he’ll never get enough.

“R-Raf—please—too much—”

He pulls off just long enough to flash you a lazy, smug grin, lips swollen pink, chin dripping, eyes glassy with lust.

“One more,” he coos, voice hoarse. “You can give me one more, can’t you? For your poor neglected boyfriend who missed you all day?”

He waits until your hand falls limp against the cushion, until your body going soft and trusting again.

Then he dives back in.

By the time he finally lets you breathe, you’re boneless, tears drying on your cheeks, his silk shirt twisted around your waist. He crawls up your body, kisses you slow and deep so you taste yourself all over his tongue, and smiles against your lips.

“Best welcome-home ever,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Next time leave the panties off. Save me thirty whole seconds.”

You’re too wrecked to even roll your eyes.

He just laughs, tucks you into his chest, and hums that stupid song again, content, smug, and absolutely drenched in you.

黎深 ⛦ ZAYNE !

You come home dragging your feet, shoulders knotted, temples throbbing from twelve straight hours of deadlines and idiots. Zayne is already there—white coat traded for a charcoal sweater, sleeves pushed to the elbows, glasses low on his nose while he reviews charts on the couch. He glances up once and immediately closes the tablet.

“Bed. Now,” he says, voice calm, clinical, final. “You’re presenting with acute sympathetic overdrive. Heart rate elevated, trapezius spasming, cortisol through the roof.”

You groan. “I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” He stands, towering, gentle but immovable. “Doctor’s orders: you need to relieve yourself properly. Thoroughly.”

You flop face-first onto the mattress still in your work clothes. He follows, fingers already working the buttons of your blouse with surgical precision.

“And you?” you mumble into the pillow. “You pulled a double shift yesterday. You must be just as tense.”

A low hum behind you. “I am. Which is why we’re going to treat both of us at once. Efficiency, darling.”

Before you can ask what that means, he’s sliding your skirt and panties off in one smooth motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing, settling on his back in the center of the bed. His cock is already hard against his slacks—thick, flushed, curving slightly toward his stomach when he frees it. He pats his chest.

“Straddle me. Face down.”

You know the position. You love the position—sixty-nine. Still, your thighs shake as you climb over him, knees bracketing his ribs, hands bracing on either side of his hips. He guides you back until your soaked cunt hovers an inch above his mouth.

“Good girl. Now lower yourself. Let me take care of you.”

The first touch of his tongue is precise—one long, deliberate lick from entrance to clit that makes your arms buckle. He groans, deep and satisfied, hands clamping on your hips to pull you flush against his face.

“Labia minora engorged,” he murmurs, voice muffled, vibrating straight into your clit. “Clitoral hood retracted. Perfect autonomic response.”

You whimper around the head of his cock as you sink down, lips stretching wide. He’s thick, hot, pulsing against your tongue, and the taste of him—clean skin, faint salt, pure Zayne—makes you dizzy.

He starts slow, academic, like he’s mapping you. Tongue tracing every fold, cataloguing every twitch.

“The levator ani is fluttering beautifully,” he says, breath ghosting over your clit. “Pelvic floor tension releasing already. Excellent.”

Then his fingers slide in—two at once, no resistance because you’re dripping for him—and crook upward in that cruel, perfect angle that hits your front wall dead-on. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking in steady pulses while his fingers pump slow, deep, relentless.

You choke on his cock, eyes watering, throat working to take him deeper. He rewards you with a throaty moan that you feel in your spine.

“Sexual release triggers oxytocin and prolactin cascade,” he lectures between licks, voice wrecked now. “Reduces serum cortisol by up to thirty percent. You’re going to come for me at least three times. Minimum therapeutic dose.”

You try to pull off to breathe and he growls, hips flexing up, fucking shallowly into your mouth.

“No. Stay. Breathe through your nose. Relax your soft palate—yes—like that.”

His fingers speed up, scissoring, curling, while his tongue flicks your clit in tight, merciless circles. You come the first time with a muffled scream around his cock, thighs clamping on his head, entire body seizing. He doesn’t stop —just switches to soft, soothing licks while you ride it out, murmuring praise against your folds.

“First orgasm achieved. Heart rate one-thirty and climbing. Preparing second.”

The second hits harder, faster, because he adds a third finger and sucks your clit like he’s trying to leave a bruise. You sob around him, tears streaking into his trimmed hair, hips grinding helplessly.

He’s leaking steadily now, precome painting your tongue, cock jerking every time you swallow around him. You can feel him getting close—his thighs tensing under your hands, breath ragged against your cunt.

“Cum with me,” he orders, voice cracking for the first time. “Third one. Now.”

He curls his fingers hard, tongue lashing your clit without mercy, and you shatter again—vision whiting out, whole body locking up. The clench of your throat around his cock drags him over with you; he spills hot and thick down your throat with a broken groan, hips stuttering, fingers buried to the knuckle inside you while he licks you through both climaxes like he’ll never get enough.

When it’s over you collapse forward, cheek against his thigh, panting. He gently maneuvers you off him, turns you around, gathers you close. His face is flushed, lips swollen and shining with you, glasses fogged and crooked. He kisses your temple, voice soft again.

“Cortisol levels should be negligible now,” he whispers. “Sleep. I’ll run a warm bath in twenty minutes. Hydration and electrolytes next.”

You laugh, hoarse and wrecked. “You’re such a nerd.”

He hums, already half-asleep, arms locked around you like steel bands.

“And you’re cured,” he murmurs against your hair. “For tonight, at least.”

秦彻 ⛦ SYLUS !

Sylus is sprawled on the couch in nothing but low-slung grey sweatpants and that infuriating little smirk, scarlet eyes flicking across the tablet in his hand like the numbers on the screen are more interesting than you.

You’re curled against his side, wearing his black dress shirt and literally nothing else, pretending to scroll on your phone. Except you’re not pretending very well. Your gaze keeps sliding to the sharp, arrogant line of his nose, the way it cuts through the dim light like it was sculpted for sin.

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Your nose looks so rideable.”

Silence.

Then the tablet lowers, slow and deliberate. Those crimson eyes lock onto you, amusement and pure danger swirling together.

“Come again, sweetie?”

Heat floods your face. You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified, but it’s too late. The smirk spreads, wicked and slow.

“Didn’t know my kitten was so obsessed with my nose,” he drawls, voice velvet and smoke. “How long have you been thinking about grinding that pretty little cunt all over it, hm?”

You squeak. Actually squeak.

He tosses the tablet aside, stands in one fluid motion, and scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Two strides and you’re in his bedroom, the city glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows behind the massive bed.

Sylus drops onto his back, arms folded behind his head, looking like a king waiting for tribute.

“Well?” He arches one brow. “Ride it, then. Ride until you’re satisfied, kitten. I’ve got all night.”

Your thighs are trembling before you even straddle his chest. He watches, hungry, as you crawl forward, knees settling on either side of his head. The moment your slick folds brush the bridge of his nose he inhales, deep and filthy, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re already dripping for me. Greedy girl.”

You sink down slowly, gasping at the first contact (his nose is perfect, straight and firm, slotting right between your lips, the tip nudging your clit). The groan he lets out vibrates through your entire body.

“Move,” he orders, voice rough. “Use me.”

You do.

It starts tentative—little rolls of your hips, testing, savoring, but his big hands slide up to grip your ass, spreading you wider, guiding you harder, faster. Every forward drag smears your wetness along the sharp ridge of his nose; every backward glide has the tip bumping your clit so perfectly your vision sparks.

“That’s it,” he growls against you, tongue flicking out to lap at your entrance between breaths. “Fuck my face exactly how you want. Make a mess.”

You lose it.

Hands flying to the headboard, you start riding him in earnest—hips snapping, thighs burning, tits bouncing under the open shirt. His tongue spears inside you every time you glide back, nose grinding your clit mercilessly when you rock forward. The room fills with wet, obscene sounds and your broken moans echoing moans of his name.

“Sylus—oh god—right there—”

He laughs, dark and filthy, the sound muffled against your cunt. “Not God, sweetie. Just your very devoted boyfriend letting you ruin his face.”

You’re dripping everywhere—down his nose, his cheeks, his chin, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He drinks it like wine, tongue thrusting deep, nose rubbing hard circles until your legs start shaking uncontrollably.

“Close,” you sob, nails scraping the headboard. “Sylus, I’m—”

“Do it,” he snarls, fingers digging bruises into your ass, forcing you to ride faster. “Come all over my fucking face. Mark me up, kitten. Want to smell you for days.”

The orgasm slams into you so hard you nearly collapse. Your whole body locks, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you gush against his mouth, hips jerking helplessly while he keeps licking, keeps rubbing keeps you riding the peak until you’re crying from overstimulation.

When the tremors finally fade, you try to lift off, legs jelly. His arms lock around your thighs like steel.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he rasps, voice hoarse, face absolutely drenched and gleaming. “I said until you’re satisfied. We’re nowhere near done.”

You whimper, because you’re still pulsing, still empty and aching in the best way.

He grins up at you, wicked and adoring, nose shiny with you, lips swollen and red.

“Round two, sweetie. And this time I’m setting the pace.”

He flips you effortlessly, pinning your thighs open with his broad shoulders, and dives back in like a man possessed.

You’re not leaving that bed until the sun comes up—and neither is the smug, perfect, rideable nose that started it all.

夏以昼 ⛦ CALEB !

You can’t even remember how you got here.

One minute you were storming into Caleb’s room, cheeks burning with second-hand shame embarassment—finding your favorite pair of panties balled up under his pillow like some dirty little secret. The next, he was on his knees in front of you, sunshine smile gone, pupils blown wide, begging in that cracked, desperate voice you’d never heard from him before.

“I’m sorry, pipsqueak—fuck, I’m so sorry, I just—your smell—”

And now it’s been hours.

Hours of him on his knees between your spread thighs, face shoved into the soaked cotton of the panties you didn’t even bother taking off. Hours of his tongue dragging slow, worshipful stripes over the fabric, nose buried so deep he’s practically suffocating himself in you. Hours of him whining like a kicked puppy every time you let him up for air.

You’ve got one leg hooked over his shoulder, knee locked around the back of his neck, heel digging into his spine to keep him exactly where you want him. His hands are fisted in the sheets because you threatened to stop everything if he touched himself.

“Please,” he mumbles again, voice muffled and wet against your crotch. “Please, I’m sorry—”

“Please what, huh?” You tug his hair hard enough to make him gasp, forcing his red-rimmed eyes up to yours. “You thought you’d just get away with stealing my panties like some gross little pervert? Look at you now.”

A broken whimper spills out of him. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, grinding against nothing, and you feel the wet spot on his sweatpants brush your ankle.

You laugh, mean and sweet. “Licking my cunt through my own panties like a dog. Pathetic.”

He sobs—actually sobs, hot breath fanning over the soaked fabric. His cock is outlined obscenely in his pants, flushed angry red at the tip, a steady drip of precome darkening the grey cotton. When his hand twitches toward it you kick it away with your free foot.

“Oh no no no. This is a punishment, remember? You don’t get to touch that filthy cock of your’s.”

Caleb’s whole body shakes. He leans forward again without being told, tongue flattening against the gusset, licking broad, desperate stripes like he’s trying to drink you through the barrier. You reward him with a slow roll of your hips, grinding your clit against the bridge of his nose, and he moans like he’s the one coming undone.

“You humiliated me, Caleb,” you sigh, threading fingers through his hair just to yank harder. “Ruined everything we had. Our friendship, everything. Least you can do is feel a fraction of it.”

You glance down and, oh. There’s a fresh, darker patch spreading at the front of his sweats. He came just from this. Just from tasting you through cotton and being called a pervert.

You laugh again, delighted and cruel. “Aww, did you just come in your pants? Already?”

He whimpers, nodding frantically, hips still twitching through the aftershocks.

“Poor baby,” you coo, and finally, finally hook your thumbs into the waistband of your ruined panties. “Guess I’ll be nice—ah!—wait, wait—ahhh, fuck!”

The second the fabric is pushed aside Caleb snaps.

Hands shoot up to grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open like he’s starving. There’s a sharp rip as he tears the panties clean in half, and then his mouth is on you, no hesitation, no teasing, just pure, sloppy desperation.

He buries his face so deep his nose is flush against your clit, shaking his head side to side to coat himself in you. Tongue plunging inside, curling, licking up every drop like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted anything good in his life. The noises are obscene, wet, animal, his moans vibrating straight into your core.

You cry out, back arching, fingers tightening in his hair until he whines. He doesn’t care. He’s humping your leg now, cock still hard and leaking through his soaked sweats, dragging himself against your leg like he can’t help it. You twitch at the sheer size of it, the feeling of it dragging against your skin through his pants.

“F-fuck—Caleb—”

He pulls back just long enough to gasp, “Taste so fucking good, pipsqueak, please don’t stop, please—”

Then he’s back, sucking your clit between his lips, tongue flicking fast and messy while his hips rut helplessly against your calf. You can feel how big he is even through the fabric, thick and ridiculous, and the thought alone makes you clench around nothing.

Your thighs start shaking. You’re close, so close, and he can tell because he doubles down, licking into you like he’s trying to crawl inside and never leave.

When you come it’s sudden and brutal, a full-body spasm that has you yanking his hair hard enough to hurt. He moans like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, drinking you down in greedy gulps, hips stuttering as he spills again in his pants just from the taste of you cuming on his tongue.

When the haze clears you’re both panting. He’s still on his knees, face shiny and wrecked, eyes glassy with devotion and shame.

You loosen your grip in his hair, petting gently now.

“Friendship’s not the only thing ruined,” you whisper, breathless.

Caleb just smiles, small and sheepish and utterly fucked-out. “Good,” he rasps, voice raw. “Was getting tired of pretending anyway.”

© CHERRYSCRIPT 2025 — don't copy, translate, feed my work to ai

[texasbama]

OFF CAMPUS (2026- )

[drouxerr]

É um pecado esse homem existir

[saucywendeee]

lover boy sylus is not beating the "jealous of inanimate objects" allegations

♡ Carrd - Kofi - Art Gallery - Shop - VGEN ♡

♡ Art Hub ♡

[acid-ixx]

clark kent's favorite act of indulgence. (soft yandere! clark kent x gn! reader)

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post !

a/n: can be read as either top/bottom or afab/amab reader. it's written vaguely because it's meant to fit with your narrative. unless explicitly stated, there's no mention of the reader's genitals here, only clark's service kink. i also just had the brilliant thought of clark servicing a chronically ill reader with mobility problems and i think that can produce something really soft and really intimate.

on another note, clark kent is also the type to willingly service you every time of the day whenever you're too exhausted yourself. if you want to sit on his face for hours then he'll encourage you to while donning that beautiful, bright smile of his. lay all your body weight on top of the man, pull at his hair while his lopsided glasses slowly start to fall out of the picture. he'll be gripping your thighs tight while you ride him like a bull, nearly cumming untouched without your assistance because the thought of pleasuring you alone makes him so aroused.

all you need to get him riled up is just simply moaning and telling him he's being so good for you.

if you want him to stroke you to completion then he'll practice finding the perfect angle, the perfect timing, if you prefer it faster or slower, if you like it when he teases, if he sucks on skin or kisses the back of your ears, if he whispers his own set of praises, everything— just so he could worship your blissed expressions afterwards; clark feeling a warm buzz in his chest because there's nothing more intimate to him than just seeing your content face after another orgasm he helped make you reach.

once you're that deep into your relationship, clark would have probably mastered not just what positions make you come best but also how to care for you after sex. he insists he's got endless stamina — which he does! there's no denying that — so there's no need to worry about him when he's already on the move to get you as comfortable as possible.

also, there's nothing better than the imagery of you sprawled out in bed, with no need for the bothersome act of opening your mouth, ordering him to fetch you something because he's already got the bath prepared, lights dimmed, a glass of water and paracetamol on the nightstand, your favorite snacks to munch on, and the bedsheets changed before you could ask— all while he wears a huge grin, happy to be of service to you.

you can try your best to mention your guilt for not trying as hard as him in your relationship, and yet he shuts you down before a self-deprecating word can escape from you with just a kiss on your sweaty forehead, arms already interlaced with your waist as he's already set to swoop you in the bathroom to clean both of you up.

it's irritating how sometimes, you can't get a word out. or how he always seems to outpace you before you can care for him for a change. but you also notice just how much at peace he always looked humming, closed-eyed with a shining smile battling hundreds of suns— just fruitfully thinking by himself whenever he'd boil water for the cup of coffee or tea he's making for you.

how he glows brighter whenever you praise him, tell him he's always done a great job time and time again.

to clark, knowing your body is just as important as knowing you emotionally. it's a way to spiritually bind you two. he sees your body as a temple to worship. every muscle, fat, scar, mark, mole, or burn— every inch of skin to him is as sacred as all the lives he's saved in his time as a hero. hence why every time it's his turn to pleasure you, he always makes sure to kiss every part of you he sees as beautiful, as praiseworthy, as deserving of veneration.

and that is, essentially, everything.

[scania-45]

nuzzling dragon (ಥ﹏ಥ)

[starmocha]

🥹🫶

[anitalenia]

autumn / coffee dividers ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪ ⊹

credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 | requested by @bunnysp1ce ( if you don’t like these please don’t hesitate to tell me 🫶🏻✨🌸 )

[maimaily]

sleeping habits.

midnight thoughts turned into headcanons.

a/n: wanted to finish some drafts to get out of writer's block before starting two recent requests!

headcanons masterlist

Zayne — Light sleeper. He always takes a shower before going to bed; he can't fall asleep otherwise. Has plain pajamas in cool tones, but in summer, he can sleep shirtless (🫦). Doesn't move much during the night and breathes softly, letting soft sighs pass through his lips when he's fully asleep. As a doctor, he is aware of the rule of no screens before bedtime, but 1) sometimes he goes straight to bed after typing reports, and 2) he likes to chat with you before going to sleep, so he doesn't follow it that much. When you're sleeping by his side, he either lets his arm open so you can cuddle beside him or he fully spoons you.

Rafayel — Heavy sleeper, but he wakes up at random noises, yet NEVER the alarm. He doesn't set alarms unless he has plans with you, and yes, he goes 5:50, 6:00, 6:10, 6:20- it's a nightmare. Can sleep very still and stiff when he finally rests after overworking himself (meaning he doesn't fully rest, but sleep is sleep), or in starfish mode. He has a huge bed for a reason, y'know? Gets tangled in the sheets, his pillows get all messy, and he can sleep in the weirdest positions when he's sleeping by himself. If you're with him, he needs to hug you or touch you in any kind of way.

Xavier — HEAVY SLEEPER. I don't think there's much I can say about him. We know he can sleep on the sofa, the bed, his bean bag... and he's definitely a pretty sleeper most of the time. Key word: most. When he's been sleeping for over 12 hours, his face gets all smushed on the pillows, his lips a little puckered, and cheeks squished oh so cutely, you have to take a photo! If you tease him too much, he won't wake up, but will start mumbling and bury his face in the pillows. Cuteness aggression goes hard with him. Rewarding of his clothes... whatever is comfy and warm will do. If you're sharing a bed, ditch one of the pillows; you're either sleeping on top or underneath him, so no more than one pillow is needed at this point.

Sylus — Oh, he's big. He's taking up a lot of space on the bed, that's why he has a custom-made mattress: perfect size, perfect cushioning. Wears fancy pajamas/robes or sleeps straight up naked/in underwear, on his stomach and face smushed on the pillows too... but he's too handsome, even his smushed face looks handsome, and kissable, too kissable... Don't kill me, but I think he snores a little bit, but it's more like a low grumble. He's a heavy sleeper, but his senses are too sharp; he will wake up if he perceives any weird noise. Most likely to sleep on top of you and bury his face in your neck. Sleeping on your bed will force you to snuggle closer, but oh well... can you reaaaally complain?

Caleb — My poor baby is a light sleeper :( I think it's rare if he gets to the REM phase, so he's always alert and frustrated because he can't fully rest. When he was younger, even if he had nightmares, he could sleep a bit more soundly. Of course, his sleep quality goes exponentially up when you sleep by his side. Spooning you is enough for him, and he likes it when you cling to his arm or put a hand on his chest. He feels like he can finally relax.

Tag list: @hirayalia @totallyuniquenut @foxfairylights @cherrysherryblossom @hilliserose @emowitchwithatwist @violasepals @animegamerfox

I hope that tagging you for headcanons is also okay !! If you don't want to be tagged, just tell me :)