#trans!reader

[carnalcrows]

PUNISHMENT - HYUNJU

pairing: professor!hyunju x ftm!reader

synopsis: Math isn't the only thing that's hard.

content warnings: 18+, teacher x student, blowjob, pre-transition hyunju, face fucking, slight choking, facial

word count: 1.4k

The lecture hall was eerily quiet as the last of your classmates filed out, their chatter fading into the hallway. You stayed behind, clutching your bag strap tightly, watching as Professor Hyunju erased the board with calm, methodical strokes. The squeak of the chalk against the surface was still fresh in your ears, the sound mixing with the rapid beat of your heart.  

You’d known this conversation was coming. Her sharp eyes had been following you all semester, and not just in the way that professors check in on their struggling students. There was something in her gaze—something that made your stomach flip, even as you avoided eye contact. You couldn’t decide if it was intimidation, curiosity, or something darker that kept your nerves on edge every time she called your name in class.  

“Wait here,” she had said earlier, her tone even but leaving no room for argument. It wasn’t a request.  

Now, you stood awkwardly by the door, your feet refusing to move any closer. She hadn’t said much else, letting the silence grow heavy as she finished erasing the board and organized her papers into a neat stack. The tension was suffocating, the space between you filled with all the words you were too afraid to say.  

Finally, she turned to face you, leaning casually against her desk, arms crossed over her chest. Her sharp, fitted blazer and pencil skirt made her look more like a corporate CEO than a college professor. Her presence was commanding, the kind that drew your eyes even when you didn’t want to look.  

“Close the door,” she said simply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.  

You hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, the click of the door shutting making you flinch. When you turned back to her, her gaze was fixed on you—steady, unwavering, and entirely unreadable.  

“You know why you’re here,” she said, her tone calm but tinged with disappointment.  

You swallowed hard, nodding. “I’m failing.”  

“Failing doesn’t begin to cover it,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re barely scraping by, and if this keeps up, you won’t pass my class—or this semester.”  

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, even though you already knew the truth. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.  

“I… I’m trying,” you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.  

“Are you?” she asked, her sharp tone cutting through your feeble excuse. “Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like it.”  

You flinched, your gaze dropping to the floor. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been trying, but between juggling other classes, working part-time, and dealing with the weight of everything else in your life, something had to give. Unfortunately, it had been this class—and she wasn’t letting you forget it.  

Her heels clicked softly as she stepped closer, the sound echoing in the empty room. You froze as the scent of her faint perfume wafted toward you, a subtle mix of floral and spice that made your head spin.  

“You’re capable of so much more,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “But you’re not putting in the effort. That’s not just disappointing—it’s unacceptable.”  

The way she said it, her words laced with both criticism and something almost… personal, made your throat tighten. You hated how small you felt under her gaze, like you were back in high school, getting scolded by a teacher. But this wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t just any teacher.  

Hyunju had a presence that couldn’t be ignored, a charisma that made her stand out even in a room full of people. It was more than her looks—though you’d be lying if you said her sharp features, immaculate style, and piercing eyes didn’t make your chest tighten every time you saw her. It was the way she carried herself, the quiet confidence that demanded respect and made you want to prove yourself to her, even if you weren’t sure why.  

And now, standing here alone with her, that presence was overwhelming. It pressed against you, making the room feel smaller, making it impossible to think straight.  

“Do you want to fix this?” she asked, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine.  

You nodded quickly, desperate to end the suffocating silence. “Yes. I do. I’ll do better, I promise.”  

Her lips curved into a faint smile, but it wasn’t comforting. If anything, it made your heart race for all the wrong reasons. She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving yours, and you felt your knees weaken under the weight of her attention.  

“Good,” she murmured. “Because I’d hate to think you were wasting my time.”  

Her words lingered, heavy with something unspoken, as the air between you grew charged. You couldn’t look away from her, even as every instinct screamed at you to run. This wasn’t just a lecture anymore—it was something far more dangerous.  

She stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. The scent of her perfume—something subtle but intoxicating—filled the air, and you suddenly found it hard to breathe.  

“You don’t take yourself seriously,” she continued, her voice dropping to a softer, almost teasing tone. “And that makes me wonder… should I take you seriously?”  

Your eyes snapped up to meet hers, your heart racing at the implication in her words. There was something in her gaze now, something darker, something… playful.  

“I-I’m trying,” you stammered, your words faltering under her piercing stare.  

“Are you?” she asked, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for someone to put you in your place.”  

Her words hung in the air, charged and heavy, and you felt your knees weaken. She took another step forward, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from her.  

“Do you want me to put you in your place?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes boring into yours.  

Your breath hitched, and before you could think, you nodded.  

That was all she needed. Her hand shot out, gripping your chin firmly but not painfully, tilting your face up to hers. “Good,” she murmured, her breath ghosting over your lips. “Then pay attention.”  

Her lips crashed against yours, and for a moment, the world stopped. Her kiss was fierce, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation or doubt. You melted against her, your bag slipping from your shoulder as your hands found her waist.  

She didn’t pull away, deepening the kiss instead, her other hand threading through your hair and tugging just enough to make you gasp. The sound seemed to please her because she smirked against your lips before pulling back, her eyes blazing with satisfaction.  

“You do want your grades to improve, yes?”, she daunted, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Yes professor,” you mumbled, eyes staring up into her own.

Wordlessly, she pulled up her skirt and slid down her panties to reveal her aching cock. You marveled at the sight before she gently pushed you onto your knees.

With a look of understanding, you took her length in your hands, slowly pumping it up and down before giving kitty licks to the angry red tip.

You slowly wrapped your lips around the head, before trying to take her whole. Your hand fondled over the parts that your mouth couldn’t reach, while your other hand went to the hem of your waistband, sliding through your boxers to reach your leaking cunt.

As you took her deeper in your throat, you rubbed circles over your clit frantically, trying to bring a release to you both.

When you finally managed to swallow her whole, she let out a breathy moan before grabbing you hair and moving your head back and forth herself.

“Breathe through your nose m’love, that’s it…”she cooed, gazing lovingly at your watering eyes.

Soon, she felt herself at the brink of a climax, so she released the grip on your hair, only for her to come undone all over your face, strings of pearly white essence sticking to you. Your ministrations over your clit had worked, making you arch your back as you came with a loud groan, staining your boxers.

The professor gently but firmly held your chin, forcing you to face her.

“Maybe now you’ll start listening,” she teased, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You’ll do better, won’t you?”  

You nodded breathlessly, the words catching in your throat.  

“Good,” she said, stepping back but not before trailing her fingers along your jawline. “Because if you don’t, we’ll have to do this again. And next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”  

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[itscodplicated]

Soap waking up after multiple surgeries and days in a coma thanks to that bullet in his head to find Ghost sitting next to his bed. There's apparently a lot of the past few years he can't remember, but having the other man sit there with no mask in sight and tender look in his eyes can only mean good thing, right?

Then you walk in. Soft, androgynous, a ring at our finger, carrying a young child and already round with another.

And Johnny... well, Johnny can't help but feel disgusted. Him, with a woman? Never. The only reason he could have married and have children with you is if his crazy religious family managed to force him.

He doesn't want to have to deal with that right now. Not with his injury and how hopeful he had gotten at the sight of Simon.

He hadn't realized how much it showed on his face. Not until he suddenly flinched at the feeling of danger. Simon was angry. Angrier than the Scott at ever seen him. Angrier then he thought possible. Johnny knew if he said anything right now, Simon would finish what Makarov had started.

"Don't you dare look at our husband like that. Especially when he stopped taking his hormones, delayed his surgery, and sacrificed his body to give us a second child like you wanted."

And Johnny couldn't help but sit there, completely confused. Husband? Second child he wanted?? Our???

[luffysbeetle]

➜ MASTERLIST ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

⋆. ❤︎ safe space for luffy luvrs ✧･ﾟ•

𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗬 𝗗. 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 ・・・・・

𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗬 𝗗. 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 . 𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗘𝗥 𝗕𝗢𝗬 . 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗘!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗖!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗦𝗟𝗘𝗘𝗣𝗬!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗘𝗬𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗔𝗖𝗧 . 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗦, 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗦! . 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗦 𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗘𝗥!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

MDNI: 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗞𝗘𝗬 𝗗. 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗡𝗦𝗙𝗪 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 . 𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗡’ 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬𝗦 𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗗𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗘𝗫 . 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗗𝗢𝗚𝗚𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗬𝗟𝗘

𝗚𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝟓 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 ・・・・・

GEAR 5 HEADCANONS .

𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗚𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 ・・・・・

𝗙𝗘𝗠!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 ・・・・・

𝗔𝗨𝗦!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 ・・・・・

𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗢𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗜𝗢𝗨𝗦!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗭𝗢𝗠𝗕𝗜𝗘!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗩𝗜𝗩𝗢𝗥!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗩𝗔𝗠𝗣𝗜𝗥𝗘!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 . 𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗘!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 . 𝗔𝗪𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗙𝗙𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗦!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗫 𝗚𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 . 𝗖𝗔𝗧 𝗛𝗬𝗕𝗥𝗜𝗗!𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦

@luffysbeetle - do not copy, translate, plagiarize or put any of my writings into ai ⋆˚⟡˖

[slasherscream]

──── Romantic Moments ┆-`♡´- / CRAZY ASS HUSBANDS GANG

﹙‧₊˚♡ pairings: homelander x reader, shane walsh x reader, pelle x reader, hellboy x reader

﹙‧₊˚♡ content: gender!neutral reader, race!neutral reader, toxic/yandere behavior — YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!! | wc: 4.3k

SHANE WALSH:

"Baby, you gonna pop a disc outta place one of these days trying to haul around that damn library of yours."

You tuned out Shane's words (and any variation of the words) the same way you tuned out everything else unpleasant about the world you lived in now: mosquitoes biting at you through the thinning layer of your grimy sleeping bag; the constant ache of your heels growing blisters and callouses from miles and miles of destination-less walking; the inability to get your skin truly clean with the little watered down bodywash you had left; and Shane bitching about a behavior he doesn't have a hope in hell of changing.

The end of the world had stolen everything. You didn't dare try and take an exact stock of all the losses. As sentimental as Shane liked to say you were, pragmatism had nestled deep roots into your soul the moment you realized the normal world you'd lived in had gone and died a terrible, screaming death and left shambling corpses in its wake to wander in search of more blood to spill. There was no safety in the past. No warmth there. It was a wormhole with an inescapable gravity. Beckoning you always to dwell a little more on the days when food came easy and the people you loved were always near or within reach. Nostalgia and the vault of your memories were a siren duo you kept locked up tight so they couldn't drag you into the murky depths of despair.

But survival was a marathon, not a sprint, and there was only so much focusing on the necessities your spirit could take. Shane's focus on the details of your continued existence was unflinching, no matter how grim they got. He settled his mind onto issues until they were solved and then plopped all his brain-power onto the next until the old problem would come rearing its head again. "Gonna have to keep moving until we find a camping spot next to a water source. We're almost out." or "That's the last few can of beans we got. We'll have to lay some traps tonight. Catch us some fresh meat." An endless slog of absolutely essential tedium.

People were not meant to live and focus only upon food, shelter, defense, food, shelter, defense. From the beginning of time, they told stories to soothe the ache of reality. You were simply continuing on in the age-old traditions of humanity sprung up from simplistic tales spun around the welcoming heat of a fire and ending here with you shifting around the content of your bag because you'd found a few books in the house you were using for shelter and you refused to let them go.

They were perfect books. Spines uncracked despite the covers being worn in some places. No mold or tiny bugs gnawing at the corners. It was becoming rarer to find books in adequate condition since most places had broken windows and busted in doors that let the elements creep in. You stuck your nose into the pages so you could smell something familiar and lovely: the pleasant dusty smell of paper and ink. It had been so long since you read something new. Good couldn't even be a factor. You took what you could find. Didn't have the option of being picky. It felt like a miracle to look at the synopsis of a book and feel excited and not just sated.

Shane watched you grimace down a can of tuna while fidgeting with your backpack and the balancing of the new weight with a huff of amusement. You were stubborn as a mule. Rather get bone tired from lugging around a bag stuffed to the brim just to keep a couple of books available for reading whenever you get a free second than be a little bored. If he didn't keep giving you nasty looks that screamed, watch those surroundings! he was positive you would walk (and die upon) the broken asphalt with your nose happily buried in the pages of the latest novel you'd scavenged.

But for all his warnings when it comes to the way you indulge yourself in this singular luxury, he's the one who's taking a downright stupid risk — not you.

A walker ambles too close to the shelf Shane is hiding behind, so he drives his hunting knife into the thing's skull and catches it before it can drop to the ground noisily and bring the hoard down on him in a swarm of limbs and teeth. The library is eerily silent besides the intermittent groans of the undead. It smells awful. The air is so thick with the smell of rotten flesh that the smell might as well be a second atmosphere. Oxygen and Decomposition. Luckily, it's the main entrance that must've gotten mobbed and overwhelmed, allowing this surplus of walkers to funnel inside. The windows in the adult section are still intact, keeping the books as protected as anything can be these days.

"Fuckin' dewey decimal system…" he mutters, squinting at the sides of the shelves as he works his way through genre sections, searching for one last particular book. He already has three others weighing down the pack he brings with him when he goes on supply runs alone. Something light so he can move fast. Squeeze into tight spaces.

He's preparing mentally for keeping his bag full of your precious books. It would be a waste of space and burnt calories except the moment he spotted the decently sized library in a town that bordered on becoming a full-blown city he remembered the nights of you laying against him, telling him about some of your favorite books in the world. You lit up as you explained all the plots and characters to him with such reverence that he had to wonder if literature didn't mean the same thing to you as God did to other people.

"Jackpot!" Shane could crow with relief as he finally finds it, your absolute favorite book in the world. He's even found it in a hardcover that will make it easier to protect, even as it makes it more annoying to keep around.

The sacrifices you make for love.

Shane is pushing it into the bag, down on one knee when he hears a chorus of groans from behind him. When he looks up, he sees no less than five drooling, gaping maws snapping at him. Eager to tear the flesh from his bones and make another monster out of him. But these creatures are mindless hunger. Shane isn't sure how human he acts nowadays; survival makes beasts of men, but he knows he's yours, and you need him — so he'll make it back to you. He stands up slow but unloads his gun fast, headshots that splatter brain matter across the titles of books on either aisle. The bang bang bang of his gun going off is like a dinner bell being rung, and within seconds the library is teeming with violence.

When Shane drops the books in your lap, he has to suppress a wince of pain from the way you throwing your arms around him in gratitude smarts the bruised rib or two he got while escaping the death trap he'd willingly sauntered into. He tugs you close and kisses your forehead, happy he can provide not just survival but living, too.

"Where did you even fucking get these, Shane?"

"I just went and supported the local library, honey."

HELLBOY:

"You know I don't want him to change who he is for me… but I guess I just want a little more romance. Do I sound like an asshole?" You lay on the floor of the BPRD library, using telekinesis to flip the pages of the books Abe is reading while he gracefully tolerates the role of relationship therapist.

Abe shakes his head, "You sound perfectly reasonable to me."

Hellboy can't get any closer than listening outside the library doors, which hadn't been closed all the way. Luckily for him, the damn room is so full of space it has an echo. He wishes he were some run-of-the-mill looking guy who could risk peering into the room so he can get a glimpse of your face. But the two of you would spot his bright red face and golden eyes in less than half a breath. Anybody would.

"I just don't know how to bring it up to him. I don't want to hurt his feelings and... Well, maybe it's just an adjustment period. It's not like we can go out to dinner and have a candlelit meal."

The words hurt. Tear at that tender part of him inside that's always worrying about what kind of life you can build together. Your love is a healing thing for Hellboy. It washes away what makes him alien until he is something clean and normal. The gaping wound of loneliness that has been screaming for attention since he was a boy goes quiet in your arms. Your love is good; it's freedom and peace. His love is a chain at the ankles and wrists, shackling you to a life in the shadows. Keeping you at his side — trapped with him by an anchor of affection — was selfish. One of the worst things he's ever done, but he'd do it over again. Wouldn't be able to help himself. You were as easy to love as he was to hate.

But much as he forgets it, you were making a choice to be with him. He wasn't a monster from a fairytale spiriting away the precious, pure-hearted noble that he'd spotted shimmering with beauty in an open field. You chose this life with him. The only thing he can do is make your choice feel like the right one.

Nearly everyone at the BPRD owes Hellboy a favor. Usually, that favor is him saving their life. He calls in quite a few of them to pull off this feat — the library transformed into a romantic getaway. Candles are everywhere to give the room ambiance (Abe had placed three new fire extinguishers in the room as he helped to arrange them…just in case). There's a table in the middle of the room, rose petals scattered along its stark-white tablecloth, and a bottle of champagne just waiting to be popped. No one dared busting his balls as they helped with the set-up; half the agents too afraid to be put through a wall and the other half simply taking pity on him. Someone had been brave enough to pat him on the arm, 'This will get you out of the doghouse for sure. It looks great, big guy!' He didn't refute being in trouble with you because wasn't he, in a way? You had been so sure you would just have to close the door on this type of romance in order to choose him. You hadn't even bothered bringing it up to him. Something is getting lost in the space between you.

He would let the world burn for you. He'd burn it down himself if you only asked. Anything that's his to give is yours; and whatever he doesn't have he'll find a way to get because that's the kind of love you deserve.

When you gasp walking into the library, turning slowly to take in the new look of the room — soft and dreamy — the knot of anxiety that lived in his chest all week finally loosens.

"It's not a candlelit dinner at some fancy joint, but uh... this ain't too shabby, right?" Hellboy asks, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling like a living, breathing exposed nerve. His eyes are glued to you, taking in your awed reaction and storing it away for the rainy days in his head when it's hard to believe he's good enough for you.

"Oh, Red—" and you're standing in front of him, hands on his broad shoulders to tug him down until he's at kissing height. He obliges, relishing in the warmth of your kiss and how you never seem to mind touching a monster. "Wait, did Abe snitch on me?" You pull away from the kiss to squint up at your boyfriend.

He shakes his head, "Nah. I was eavesdropping." This gasp you let out is less awe, more outrage, but you should know better than to get any sort of riled up while you're in Hellboy's arms; he thinks you look gorgeous when you're angry.

You only have the willpower to fight off the next kiss for a few seconds. His tongue slipping coaxingly into your mouth is a wonderful distraction. You'll remember to be mad at him later — after you've enjoyed your romantic dinner. And maybe a little dessert, too.

HOMELANDER:

"Wait — the 4th isn't your actual birthday?" One second you're curled into Homelander's side trying to fight off a pout because all his birthday plans seemed to involve a copious amount of PR, interviews, and very little time spent with you, and the next thing you know a curveball has hit you in the back of the head at top speeds.

"No," he scoffs like you've said something ridiculous when the more obviously ridiculous thing is claiming your birthday is the 4th of July to really nail home the all-American-hero schtick that he can't let go of. You do not say this out loud.

"When is the actual date? Why are we even talking about the fake one then?" You crawl into his lap to soften the blow of having the nerve to question him about anything (for a man who does so many interviews, you'd think he'd be able to tolerate the back and forth of normal conversation a little better).

He's silent in a way you don't like before his hands settle on your waist, pulling you in a little further until your head is laying on his shoulder and you can't look at his face. His gloved hand presses into the back of your neck and keeps you there. He does that sometimes; makes it so you can't look him in the eye when you hit a real sore spot of his checkered past. You lean into the touch because there's nothing else you can do. When he gets upset you become more an object of comfort than a person. The velveteen rabbit before all his pretty fur got snuggled off.

"I don't know the actual date. The scientists celebrated it randomly when they remembered a kid should have a birthday at all. It only became a big thing once I went public. Then Vought picked the 4th. Works with my brand." He says it all so matter-of-factly that you would think he didn't care at all. But his hands squeeze with the barest hint of too much pressure before they loosen all at once, like someone pried open a bear-trap so you could swing a trapped leg free from the steel teeth.

You want to say: I'm sorry, but that could make him snap that he doesn't need your pity when what you're trying to offer up is your love. The compassion he was never afforded that every child needs. You hadn't considered these things human necessities until Homelander. The scars his psyche had gained by growing up in the absence of these gentle fundamentals were not just tragic, but disturbing. Like watching a victim of a horrible house fire come stumbling onto their front lawn in flammable clothing, screaming in agony as the fibers melted to their skin and their skin melted to their bone. You tried not to flinch away from the sight of him.

Finding out Homelander's actual date of birth would be impossible. The truth of Homelander's upbringing is buried behind mountains of lies and bureaucratic paperwork meant to protect those lies. Even trying to dig for those records might get you in trouble with Vought. The only avenue available to you is the same one the marketing team took: close your eyes and throw a dart at a calender date. Mazel tov! Happy new birthday. Except the date you pick will be just for Homelander. Just for the two of you. A day to privately celebrate something real, even if it isn't perfect.

He can be Vought's poster boy on the 4th, and you will play the role of adoring eye-candy. You don't complain when he has to fly off several times that day to put out fires across the country — some of which you're sure Vought has orchestrated just so they can get videos of Homelander saving the day and boost their joint approval ratings — only give him a kiss on the cheek and a 'Go get 'em, Tiger,' because this is just an arbitrary date to smile through now. You cling to his arm at the party the company throws for him. Smile and take a step to the side as shareholders and lesser celebrities approach Homelander like he's a god or a dangerous animal. It doesn't matter. They muster up the courage to ask for autographs and pictures either way.

Ten days later he comes home too early. All the corny decorations are only haphazardly put up. You'd taken a break in order to ice the cake. There's a sign with bright blue lettering hanging limply from the ceiling: happy birthday, John! Each letter after D droops toward the ground like a waterlogged flower heavily abused by rainy season. The exclamation point could be used to sweep the floor.

There's a guilty smear of violent red icing across your cheek. Your fingertips are sticky and eyes sore from squinting at all sides of the cake as you tried to get every detail perfect. You had stumbled narrowly past the finish line of subpar to land firmly among the rankings of middling bakers.

John takes in the scene, including the apron you're wearing which proudly orders: 'KISS THE COOK'. He blinks dazedly like a lion waking from a nap beneath the sweltering afternoon sun that bakes the tall grass of the savanna to a dry golden-brown.

"I was thinking we should have a new birthday for you. One that's just for us to celebrate?" You say, placing the icing bag on the counter and wishing to tuck the cake behind you. Wishing your power was the ability to grow to the height of a giant so you could tuck the whole of the apartment behind you.

You had wanted to present an entire, finished project of love. Not something that could be picked apart for all its unpolished flaws.

He walks closer, cape fluttering out behind him because he's perfected the exact stride he needs to always keep it flowing heroically in motion, and stares down at the cake. There's a picture of the two of you together printed on top, one of the few times you've managed to coerce him into the clothes of a civilian.

"Aren't you sweet as pie." He aims for nonchalance and misses by miles. You shoot him a blinding smile and go back to hurriedly trying to finish your monstrosity of frosting, even as you know his favorite part of dessert will probably be the glass of milk he drinks with his slice of cake.

He follows you around like a puppy, watching with hungry eyes as your hands perform the most mundane act of love he's ever been given. Vought calls him once during this birthday party for two, trying to send him somewhere far away from you in order to accomplish something meaningless. He rips apart the poor bastard who made the call with his bare hands.

He blows out his birthday candles with a splatter of blood in his hair. You kiss him like you don't notice.

PELLE:

It was a hard day, one of those days that dragged from beginning to end, with everything going wrong inbetween. You woke up late, but still needed to shower and so you'd had to accept the reality of making yourself triple late to work. The shower itself had been like taking a plunge into the freezing waters of the North Pole because evidently your water heater had broken in the seven hours you'd been asleep. You didn't have time for breakfast. Your boss had been pissed. The customers had been mean and quick to anger.

The last thing you wanted to do, once you finally got home, was to rush around making yourself presentable for date night.

You'd tried hyping yourself up to go out the entire commute back. 'It always makes your day to see Pelle,' and 'He was really looking forward to this date,' and 'Didn't he literally make a reservation? Stop being an asshole. Some people can't get their boyfriends to plan anything.' But the internal dialogue punishing you for your own exhaustion only added to it.

There was a weight on your chest like someone had poured concrete onto it. The dam broke as you faced the possibility of climbing back into the freezing shower, trying to make one more valiant effort to be a present, thoughtful partner. The sting of the cold water on your palm as you tested the temperature had brought tears to your eyes. And then you couldn't make the tears stop; something petulant and hysterical rearing up from deep inside you, refusing to be ignored.

You were still sniffling when you gave Pelle a ring. The man was allergic to being texted: 'I just like the sound of your voice,' he would always smile whenever you'd tease him about being an old man. "Honey, I'm so sorry to do this last minute, but can I take a raincheck on our plans?"

There was a pause as Pelle searched for the words you wouldn't say outright, picking apart your tone like the world's greatest detective, "Are you crying? What has happened, älskling?"

"Nothing really happened. Just had a bad day. And I'm sorry to be bailing on you so late; I just thought I'd still be up to going out and painting the town red, but I'm not. I'll make it up to you."

"There is no need to apologize or make it up to me." Pelle's tone is so gentle you can imagine him waving away your worries and guilt like a spring breeze. Your shoulders lose some of their tension. "You sound exhausted. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, but I'll just grab something out of the fridge soon. The glory of leftovers." You try to joke. You're too tired to make sure it lands. "We'll do something this weekend, yeah? Love you.

"I love you more. Please eat something soon."

You make a noncommittal noise of agreement before hanging up. Whatever small joy talking to Pelle brought disappears the moment he isn't on the line with you. With no plans left, you find yourself at rest for the first time since opening your eyes. But the buildup of sadness and frustration from the day doesn't leave you. There's an ache behind the intermission.

You were still sitting paralyzed on your couch when you hear the sound of your door opening (fuck, you were so out of it that you hadn't even locked your door. Another small fuck up in a long line of small fuck ups until the whole day had spiraled beyond your control—)

Pelle is kneeling in front of you, a kind but thin smile on his lips. The sweetness of his face weighed down by worry. "You did not hear me knocking, so I let myself in."

He looks you over and tuts when he sees you haven't even taken the smallest effort to lift your mood, you're still wearing your work shoes, the ones you say drive you crazy because they pinch your toes but you haven't been able to find better yet. He grabs your calf, rubbing tenderly, and slides your shoes off your feet, wincing in sympathy when you can't hide your grimace of pain.

"Oh, you poor thing." The words should sound condescending. Would sound that way if anyone but Pelle said them to you. But Pelle has a way of speaking that slows down the world and makes everything make sense again.

You almost cry when he begins to massage the thoroughly abused arch of your foot. "You don't have to do that, Pelle. I'm fine."

As you go to pull your foot away, he holds firm, settling himself more comfortably on the floor and pulling both your feet into the warmth of his lap. "You are not fine, and of course I don't have to do this for you; I want to do this for you. If you'll allow me the pleasure."

The phrasing is ridiculous. Allow him the pleasure of sitting at your feet and doting on you. Again, if the words came from anyone else you'd pat them on the head for working so hard to earn those 'good boyfriend' brownie points, but also tell them to be a little less obvious about it. But Pelle is staring up at you like you'll have announced to cancelling all the holidays on the calendar if you say no. Earnest. He's so earnest it hurts to look at him sometimes.

"If you're sure." You say, hesitantly, unused to and still uncomfortable with how easily he heaps care and attention and kindness onto you. He lifts your leg and kisses your ankle like he's grateful. Like you've given him a gift.

He passes you his phone, "Why don't you pick something out for us to eat while you tell me about your day?"

"It was just petty inconveniences. I shouldn't have let it all get to me."

"Nothing is petty if it upsets you so deeply."

"Alright, but don't say I didn't warn you—" You close your eyes, lean back into the couch, and let Pelle's attentive love cast its usual spell on you.

A/N: Sighed like a sap writing some of them because these freaks are IN LOOOOOOOVE baby!!! Please enjoy this story — I had fun writing it. I'll do a part 2. with some of the other husbands eventually. I'm thinking Joel, definitely. Who else do you guys wanna see?

if you enjoyed this drabble consider reblogging or leaving a reply. if you really dug it, check out my PATREON: slasherscream, for some exclusive content. this particular story was posted three weeks ago on the patreon, for early access. xoxoxo

a big thank you to my current subscribers: audrey, @bisexual-horror-fan, bella, @3d-wifey, em, goat, goth trash, hannah, jazz, kai, kas, kali, kelsey, nukusei, rocky, skwiggy, sy, and @u1tra-vi0lent, viv. without amazing readers like you, i wouldn’t still be up and kicking on this blog!

divider credits: @strangergraphics and @uzmacchiato

[sramoonlight]

Baby sister

What if the Batfam doesn’t care about one of their youngest?

Content you’ll see here: neglected!reader, trans!reader, yandere!batfam, mentions of death, mentions of prostitution, mentions of child prostitution

English it’s not my first language, so please be patient

It all started when you were born, well not like that but you had always been with your father, Bruce Wayne, not by choice because your mother left you without fighting back

I mean, you don’t mind, growing on luxury and being the daughter of an eccentric billionaire was enough to make every kid at the kindergarten jealous, except they didn’t know

Your name wasn’t Wayne, you kept your mother’s last name and doesn’t matter how much you ask for it

They tell you it will change once you are old enough to be presented to the public.

But the life at the manor is great, Dick is a good big brother even if he isn’t around that much and Jason? Much better! You’re much younger than him but he is the best

Probably because he always wanted a younger sister, or maybe you two just connected instantly.

None of it mattered when he was gone, when your father came with only his cold body everything felt worse

Dick stopped coming to see you, your father stopped paying attention to you and Alfred couldn’t contain his tears when he saw you.

— You know I was supposed to be the next Robin, right? — You told the replacement in front of you, looking down from the stairs

You and him were almost the same age, you were just 2 years younger than him but still, you couldn’t find yourself bonding with him

— Really? You? — He had a smile on his face, mocking the way your heart fell to your knees

He wasn’t taking you seriously, of course, the brilliant kid doesn’t think anyone could be better than him

— Big brother Dick gave me his blessing and brother Jason promised to gave me his suit once he returned from his trip to find his mother — except he didn’t

Of course, you hate Tim because of it, Jason died leaving the mantle available and still you didn’t took it because that was his legacy, no one could be Robin after him but Tim dared to took it

— You’re taking everything from us and I hope you feel how mad we are — “We” a way to tell him Jason wouldn’t be happy about being forgotten like this.

Of course your relationship was the worst, by this time he separated you completely from your father and Alfred, don’t make me talk about Dick

Everyone loved him, how couldn’t they? He was the thing they needed when everything was off, they don’t know nothing

And the worst part came, your little head peaking to see downstairs were Bruce was fixing his collar, a gala, he always goes alone but now there is a small demon besides him putting on some fancy shoes

Why does he can be in a gala? And why does he can be presented as his ward? You’re his child, you deserve it more than everyone

This is because you are a girl, right? Your father is so afraid you won’t be able to protect yourself because you are a girl, you don’t even want to be a girl, you didn’t have a choice and if you did you would absolutely ask to be a boy

What stops you from being a boy? I mean, you just need to have short hair and like cars and stuff, you don’t need to fake that last part

You do like things a boy would like, you and Jason used to share favorite things so you are technically a boy, right? But not to Bruce’s eyes, god you doubt he has ever seen your face since Jason passed away

What a sad way to say it, you’re sure Bruce doesn’t love you, not when he’s on the news laughing to a reporter about how Tim is the best kid he could ask for

— Miss (Y/N), don’t worry, you’ll be by their side soon — Alfred always said that

Always, because it wasn’t the first time you saw Bruce taking Tim to official events without even thinking about bringing you

Every time, his sweet and irritable giggle goes into your head making you want to tear your hair off or if you are lucky enough, damage your ears so you wouldn’t hear anymore

Why? Why him? You can be better than him, you have good grades, you do everything he could ask for and even better

Why? Why doesn’t he want you? You are a boy too! That excuse doesn’t work when you are trying your best to be the boy he will want! What do you need for him to love you back?

Oh god how is it going into your head, god how you want to just cry and lay on his arms like nothing happened

Then it came, the first time you called yourself a boy in front of Bruce, it wasn’t even a big deal just a simple word that made his whole face to change

Confused and.. disgusted.

that’s not what Bruce wants, he wants a girl right? You are a girl to his eyes, okay! You can do that, he prefers boys but he wants you to be a girl, you will do everything for him to love you the same way he did

And to not see that face again.

Because he loved you when you were a girl, how dumb you are to think he will like a girl who acts like a boy, that’s disgusting and he has too many boys on his life of course he needs a girl!

He used to call you princess, so that’s why! He’s too tired, you misunderstood his real needs

And still

Why does your name sound like an insult? Why he has to be so rude? Why does he-

— Father, when I’m debuting on the galas? — You asked, your hands grabbing the ends of the dress you had to wear for him to see a beautiful little girl

One who could be at the galas, one who will be worthy enough to be called his child

— Y/N, is best if you don’t attend to one —

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why does his voice sound too dead? Doesn’t he want you anymore? Why he doesn’t look at your eyes? He has to look at you! You put on this stupid dress so he could get you are worthy of him! He needs to look at your eyes!

You need him to look at you.

You don’t know when, but you ran away from the manor and even if you want to, no one will ever look for you.

Fourteen years old, 2:35 am at Gotham, a few things no one wouldn’t ask for it to happen together but they were, your legs moving on your own until you found some light.

A whole street filled with woman on mini dresses, some of them with not even that but they all looked.. weird

— Oh? Who you might be, sweetheart? — you looked up to a woman, her lipstick was smudged and her voice sounds too deep for being from a woman

Except, she isn’t? He? They? How are you supposed to call it?

— I see those eyes, I’m a she — oh, that makes sense? You hope it does, your hands starts fidgeting with the hems of your dress and she looks at it

She lets outs a whistled making you blush, there wasn’t any words on it but she said everything with it

— I don’t like it… — you mumbled, she raised an eyebrow kneeling to be at your eye level

You kept looking down, she tilted her head trying to see your face again but you were too shy to say anything about it

— Is it.. just a woman’s thing? — she made a sound, not understanding what you meant

Do you have to say it out loud? God you don’t want to

— Can I… be a boy? — you asked, she opens her eyes just a little noticing what you meant

She chuckled, her hand covering the way her lips curved on a smile and you feel like an idiot

— Of course, honey, you can be whatever your heart feels like — her hands moved to her thighs, ah, kneeling in a short dress and heels must be hard

Why does she do it? What is she doing here?

— What is your name, sweet boy? — boy

Boy, boy, boy, the tittle makes your lips moved in a smile imitating the way she smiled at you like this was a funny joke but it isn’t

She is looking at your eyes, the way they melt at the simple “boy” word

— I- uhm, Timothy — you rushed to say, she thought about it humming a little trying to feel how it sounds in her tongue

Why did you choose that? Are you going to be called Timothy the rest of your life? Maybe then Bruce would love you

Wait

What would be his reaction? You aren’t his sweet girl anymore, oh god if he hated you before he is going to do it more, you will be a disgrace for the entire bloodline

How could you do that to him? You’re such a bad-

— What about (Reader)? Timothy doesn’t fit you well, hun — (Reader) huh? It does sound like your old name but better

Is better than Timothy, you love it and she knows by the way your eyes are filled with excitement

— Hi (Reader), I’m Dana — She offered you her hand, you took it in a heartbeat shaking it with all your strength

Everything felt right just by that.

Something Jason does as the crime lord he is, he takes the responsibility to protect sexual workers when he has the time for it, if he doesn’t he will ask someone else to do it, but that’s just a thing he does out of pure courtesy knowing the type of clients they get.

Ever since he’s been revived he does this, every Friday he lays on his stomach, a gun pointing to the nearest pleasure street and when nothing happens he can go to another one

This time, the first one is the T special street, usually this kind of girls are ready to fight back any rude client and their boss is one of the best he has ever seen so he doesn’t usually watch over them, but tonight something made him want to keep an eye on them.

He looked around, there are boys who are new and he can’t understand how women can look for something on the streets, if the clients are women, of course, men are men, they can’t be put on a normal bag

— That looks young — he used his binoculars to see a small figure with a hat

Probably fourteen or fifteen, he is sure the owner of this street doesn’t let children sell their bodies, maybe just assist the adults who are too tired to do something and it’s only if they really need the money.

By the way their hat covers their face he can’t see if it is a boy or a girl but he can see how they are talking to one of the best girls

Still, he needs to watch them more than before, if a kid is there it means they’ll attract some weirdo’s attention.

Suddenly, the laugh of this kid went too loud he could hear it from the roof

So similar to.. no, it can’t be, you are on the manor

The last time he checked you were there, being happy but the voice is too similar, no, it’s your voice, only god knows how much he has it memorized by now

He tried to focus, to see any hint that it really is you and then you laughed moving your head back

Your smile

It’s you, but how? He knows you aren’t selling your body, I mean, you can easily ask Bruce for money then, why?

No matter what it is, you took a decision and even if he can’t understand it, he will make sure you don’t find some weirdo wanting to take you away from him.

He took out his phone typing something and sending one of his people to the other pleasure streets, for now on, Jason put himself comfy because this is going to be a long night

He can’t be angry about it, his baby sister is out on Gotham doing gods know what and his duty is to protect you

Even if you don’t know he is alive, he will compensate every day he’s been out of your life.

Still, he will investigate what is his dear sister doing there.

Tbh, this story is weird to understand and I get it if you have question bc, shit I though about it while drawing for my notebook cover

I love how this is supposed to go and I hope you do too so I can write more of it! Reader is supposed to be a trans masc but if you feel like being a trans fem don’t feel ashamed about changing it!

Coments and reblogd are appreciated

[aesthetically-dying101]

The man, the myth, the misunderstanding

A/N: you invite nanami kento to dinner and your anxiety commits several crimes. hrm hrm... hello... i have an offering for you all... based on a request for a trans!reader x nanami that i got like a bagillion years ago... also this scenario is legit based on what happened when a friend came out to me (i was trying to be supportive okay). not my usual style im rysty so gimme a minute to get back into it.

warnings: slight smut, talk abt scars, ftm!reader, tooth rotting fluff, pure yippie, clumsy writing

You have killed curses stronger than God. You have filed paperwork that would make a lesser man weep openly. You have survived three separate IKEA trips without screaming.

And yet.

You are currently losing a psychological knife fight to your own brain because Nanami is sitting on your couch, petting your cat, and you haven’t told him you’re trans in the way that matters to you.

Which is insane, by the way. Objectively. Clinically. Borderline embarrassing.

Because you are openly trans. You pass obscenely well. Your voice is deep, your shoulders are broad, your beard comes in evenly (thank you, hormones, light of your life), and your chest—

Well.

Your chest is gone. Flat. Scarred in that neat, surgical, clean way that makes you feel like a Renaissance statue some days. Other days it makes you feel like a poorly stapled IKEA box. Depends on the lighting.

And Nanami has never been weird.

Not once.

He’s polite to your trans friends. He uses the right names, the right pronouns, zero hesitation. No awkward pauses. No “I’m just trying to understand” bullshit. No podcast opinions. He once corrected someone else with the most mild, devastating tone you’ve ever heard. Like he was adjusting a crooked painting.

So why are you spiralling?

Because anxiety is a bitch, that’s why.

What if he’s secretly one of those people who’s fine with trans folks in theory but gets weird when it’s personal? What if he’s one of those guys who thinks being trans is “interesting” in a way that makes your skin crawl? What if he cares about what’s in your pants? What if he doesn’t? What if he cares TOO MUCH? What if he stares at your scars like they’re a crime scene? What if he outs you to someone by accident? What if he doesn’t mean to be cruel but still is?

Your brain is doing parkour. Olympic-level mental gymnastics. Simone Biles would be proud.

So naturally, you invite him over for dinner.

A calm, normal response.

*-*

Nanami arrives exactly on time, because of course he does. Literally, the instant the clock ticked 7pm, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to suggest relaxation without committing to it. He brings wine. Expensive wine. The kind you have to Google to pronounce.

“You didn’t need to bring anything,” you say, because that’s what people say, even though you absolutely did want him to bring something and would have been offended if he hadn’t.

“It’s polite,” he replies, already toeing his shoes off at the door like he’s been here before. Which he has. Repeatedly. In increasingly flirtatious contexts.

Chairman Meow immediately attempts murder. As is tradition.

“CHAIRMAN,” you snap as your cat launches himself at Nanami’s ankle with the fury of a disgruntled landlord.

Nanami doesn’t even flinch. He just looks down.

“…Why is he always like this?”

“Well,” you say. “He yearns for blood.”

“Understandable.”

And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—Nanami bends down and scratches Chairman Meow behind the ears. Your cat melts instantly, purring like a very, very furry lawnmower, traitorous little bastard.

You cook. Nanami offers to help. You say no. He insists. You compromise by letting him chop vegetables while you hover like a paranoid ghost.

Dinner is good.

Too good.

The conversation flows easily—work, stupid curse incidents, that one bakery Nanami likes that closes too early because the owner “values work-life balance” like a monster.

You laugh. Nanami smiles. The tension does not leave your body.

You are vibrating.

In a: "holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit" way.

Not in a "there's a vibrating egg up my ass" way.

Nanami notices.

“You’re quiet,” he says eventually, setting his fork down. Not accusatory. Just observant. Always observant.

You swallow. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Too fast. “No. God, no. It’s not you. It’s—”

You trail off.

Here it is. This is the moment. Say it. Be normal. Use your words like an adult human man.

Your mouth opens.

Nothing comes out. Well like a weird quiet: aeuuuugghhhhhhh.

Ah yes, eloquence.

Nanami waits. Patient. Unmoving. Like a statue carved from mild concern.

You exhale. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ah. The dreaded sentence.

Nanami stiffens just a little. You catch it. Of course you do. He’s thinking you’re ending things. Or confessing something insane like being secretly married. Or asking him to move in. Or asking him to give you his left testicle.

“All right,” he says carefully. “I’m listening.”

You stare at the table. Your hands twist together.

“So. Uh. This is kind of awkward.”

Nanami nods. “Often a warning sign.”

“Hey!”

“I’m joking.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. Okay. Good. Humor still online.

You try again. “I just—before things go any further, I wanted you to know… something about me.”

Nanami’s expression softens, but you can see the mental gymnastics he's doing: ?married? has a child?? allergic to cotton blend suits???thinks Gojo is mature???

“You can take your time.”

You inhale. Exhale. You've done this a thousand times before. C'mon. Fuck it.

“I’m trans.”

Silence.

Nanami blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then his brows knit together—not in disgust. Not in anger. In processing.

“…Thank you for telling me,” he says slowly. “Is there anything specific you’d like me to know?”

You blink. That was… easier than expected?

You open and close your mouth. Like a very dumb (but sexy) fish.

Nanami tilts his head. “May I ask… are you considering changing your name?”

You freeze.

“…What.”

“Or your pronouns,” he continues, earnest, completely serious. “If so, I want to make sure I use the correct ones. I can also speak with Shoko, if you’d like medical resources. Or—”

“Kento,” you interrupt, brain screeching. “Why would I change my name?”

He frowns. Just a bit. “Well, if you’re… transitioning.”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself.

Nanami continues, warming to the subject. “And if you’d like support with presentation, I know that can be overwhelming. Shopping, for example. I’m not an expert, but I could accompany you, maybe even makeup? Or we start slowly. Or we could ask—”

“You think I’m what,” you croak.

He pauses. Looks at you more closely.

“…You’re not… well this must be the beginning of your transition no?” He gestures to your-very-obviously-manly-man body, "You are aiming to be a woman, no?"

There it is.

The beat.

The realization slams into you like a freight train.

“Oh my GOD,” you burst out laughing.

It’s not delicate laughter. It’s not dignified. It’s the kind of laughter that bends you forward in your chair, makes your eyes water, steals your breath like a criminal.

Laughing is an understatement, it's more like the ugliest cackle you could muster.

Nanami looks alarmed.

“Did I say something offensive?”

“No—no—fuck—Kento—” you gasp, trying to breathe. “I’m—oh my god, I’m so sorry—”

He stands. Fully. Panic activated. “I didn’t mean to assume—”

“I’m like... already done,” you wheeze. “I already transitioned. Female to male. ”

Silence.

Nanami stares at you.

Then: “…Oh.”

The room is dead quiet for half a second.

Then he sits back down, pressing his fingers to his temples.

“I see,” he says, very calmly. Too calmly. “So you thought I might react poorly to something I already know.”

“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU KNEW,” you protest without realizing what he said, then it dawns on you: “I mean, wait how—I didn’t know you knew that—”

“You’re a man,” Nanami says. “That is what I knew.”

You grin. Wide. Relieved. Giddy. You almost preen.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He exhales. Long and slow. “…I spent the last three minutes planning how to support you through womanhood.”

“That’s incredibly sweet.”

“I was considering color palettes.”

You lose it again.

Nanami watches you with something fond in his eyes now. Amused. Warm. Entirely unbothered.

“…For the record,” he adds, “your transness is none of my business unless you want it to be. And what’s in your pants is also none of my concern unless invited for it to be.”

You swallow.

“Oh,” he continues thoughtfully, “and fetishization is abhorrent.”

You laugh, soft this time. “Yeah. Figured.”

Nanami meets your gaze. Steady. Certain.

“I like you,” he says simply. “All of you. The rest is just context.”

Chairman Meow jumps onto the table, knocking over a napkin, then jumps back down to chase said napkin.

You think—yeah. This is going to be something good.

*-*

Dessert was inevitable.

You are, tragically, a sweet tooth with legs.

Nanami learns this when you stand up after dinner, point at the kitchen, and say, with the confidence of a man who owns three kinds of sugar at all times:

“I made tiramisu.”

Nanami blinks. “You made tiramisu.”

“Yes.”

“From scratch.”

“Yes.”

“…You continue to surprise me.”

You grin. Victory.

You plate it nicely because you are trying to impress him, even if your brain is still cooling down from the earlier Misunderstanding Incident™. Espresso-soaked ladyfingers, cocoa dusted like sin, mascarpone so rich it should pay taxes.

Nanami takes a bite.

He closes his eyes.

You preen. “Yeah?”

“…I would commit tax fraud for this,” he says calmly.

Chairman Meow, offended he was not offered any, flicks his tail with murderous intent.

Dessert turns into tea. Tea turns into sitting closer on the couch than strictly necessary. Nanami’s jacket is now folded neatly on the armrest like he lives here. Outside, the city hums low and sleepy. You glance at the clock.

“…It’s late,” you say, casual. Too casual.

Nanami follows your gaze. “The metro’s still running.”

“Yeah.”

“But,” he adds, not moving, “I don’t particularly want to leave.”

Your heart does a little summersault and lands wrong.

“Good,” you say. “Because I didn’t invite you over just to kick you out.”

He smiles at that. Small. Private.

Chairman Meow hops between you, immediately ruining the vibe by stepping directly on Nanami’s thigh and kneading like he’s working out centuries of trauma.

Nanami stiffens. “He’s… very affectionate today.”

“He’s asserting dominance.”

“Over me.”

“Yes.”

Chairman Meow then leaps down and makes a beeline for Nanami’s shoes.

“No—CHAIRMAN—” you groan.

Too late.

Your cat has seized one pristine, thrifted leather shoe and is gone. Sprinting down the hallway like he just robbed a bank.

Nanami watches, stunned.

You grumble: “…Were those shoes expensive?”

“No,” he says quickly. “But they were vintage.”

You sigh. “Of course.”

Somewhere between chasing your cat and laughing so hard your stomach hurts, the tension breaks. You end up back on the couch, breathless, Nanami’s shoulder warm against yours.

There’s a lull.

A quiet moment.

Nanami clears his throat. “May I ask something?”

“Uh oh.”

“It’s not uh oh,” he says mildly. “It’s medical.”

“Oh. That’s worse.”

He ignores you. “Your top surgery. How was recovery?”

You blink. Then—surprisingly—relax.

“Long. Sore. Very boring. I watched an ungodly amount of bad TV.”

“And the scars?” he asks, careful. Respectful. Technical. Like he’s asking about a healed fracture.

You gesture vaguely at your chest. “Massage, silicone sheets, sunscreen. Honestly they healed great.”

“I'm sure they did,” he says, then pauses.

You look at him.

“…Sorry,” he adds quickly. “That was observational.”

You laugh.

His gaze flicks back to yours. Something shifts.

Slowly. Gently.

The air thickens.

You lean in first. Just a little. Enough to test it.

Nanami meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft at first—curious, warm, careful like he’s cataloging you. Then it deepens. His hand finds your waist. Yours fists in his shirt.

Chairman Meow returns, dragging the shoe like a trophy.

You do not stop kissing.

Nanami breaks away just long enough to mutter, “Your cat is rude.”

“I warned you.”

The shoe is abandoned. The cat sprints laps around the coffee table, possessed by the spirit of chaos.

You don’t care.

Your button-up comes off without ceremony. One moment it’s there, the next it’s somewhere on the floor, probably under the table.

Nanami stops.

Not abruptly. Not alarmed.

He just… looks.

His eyes trace the lines of your scars with something reverent. Soft. Happy. Like he’s seeing something equally beautiful, important and yours.

You swallow. “…You okay?”

He nods. “Very.”

His thumb brushes your skin, light as a question. “May I?”

You exhale. “Yeah.”

His touch is warm. Sure. Grounding.

“I like them,” he says quietly.

You laugh, breathless. “You would.”

“Of course I would.”

You straddle him without thinking. Grinding down, slow and deliberate, because fuck it. His hands grip your hips, firm.

Chairman Meow screams and sprints again, shoe in mouth, like the world is ending.

Nanami groans. “He’s watching.”

“He’ll look away, he's a holy child.”

You kiss him again, harder now. Hungrier. The night presses close around you, sugar still on your tongue, scars warm under his hands.

Everything is right.

Everything is yours.

And somewhere in the background, Chairman Meow commits yet another felony.

*-*

And good lord.

You barely make it to the bedroom.

Like. Barely.

There is kissing and stumbling and a chair nearly dies. Someone—YOU—knocks into the doorframe and Nanami goes, very calmly, “Careful,” while actively dragging you closer by the waistband like that is not mixed messaging. Well okay, it's not.

Clothes begin to vanish.

Not removed. Vanish. Socks? Gone. Shirt? Dead. Dignity? Executed on sight. Everything goes POOF.

You end up in the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and breath and heat, the city lights bleeding in through the curtains like witnesses.

Nanami sits on the edge of the bed and you—

You stop.

Because oh.

Oh.

This man.

First of all: he is ripped. Not gym-bro loud about it, but dense. Solid. The kind of muscle that looks earned through labor and rage and paperwork. His shoulders are broad enough to ruin lives. His chest is dusted with hair, darker down the center—

The happy trail.

You whimper. Audibly.

Nanami raises a brow. “Problem?”

“Yes,” you croak. “YOU.”

Then there’s the boxers.

Dark blue. Soft cotton. Snug in a way that should be illegal. And printed with the tiniest little cats.

Cats.

You laugh hysterically. “You have CAT BOXERS?”

“They were practical,” he says, deadpan.

“They are ruining me.”

And then—oh. Oh no. Because they are straining. And that is not a little something. That is a situation. A capital-S Situation. His cock is straining against the blue boxers, and maybe the lighting is helping (soft, golden ambience because you're not a monster), but holy shit it looks... uh.... present.

Your mouth waters.

Your brain leaves your body.

Like actually, pops open the top of your head like a submarine hatch, and climbs out. With lil legs and everything.

You launch yourself at him like a horny heat-seeking missile.

Nanami grunts as you push him back onto the bed, hands everywhere, mouth everywhere, marking him. Because yes, absolutely, you are that person. You kiss along his jaw, his neck, bite—

He hisses. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, IMMENSELY.”

You grind down, slow and deliberate, slipping your hands into his boxers... and oh ,the weight and heat of him... and he groans- GROANS like a WHORE-- his hands gripping your thighs like he might die without the leverage.

“You’re… very enthusiastic,” he manages.

“You wore cat boxers,” you huff against his lips. “This is on you.”

You strip down to boxers too, body on full display, and Nanami looks at you like—

Like hunger.

Like pride.

Like you are his.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, low.

You shiver.

Things get filthy. Quickly. Deliciously.

Nanami is attentive. Thoughtful.

His cock? God tier.

When you finally are able to witness the greatness that is Nanami's phallic situation... Well... You understand why ancient civilizations worshipped gods.

His cock is glorious, larger at the base, with neat hair, a bit of a curve to the left, tip pink and leaking.

You are VERY tempted to cackle and rub your hands together like some cartoon villain.

And sex with this man is... such an experience. First of all, he makes sure to PROPERLY eat you out (you saw Chairman's ancestors), he checks in without killing the mood. Calls you his good boy like it’s natural. Like it’s always been true. He does not flinch, does not hesitate, does not treat your body like a question mark.

He treats it like home.

And LORD.

You do not survive quietly.

Not when his cock stretches you oh so deliciously, not when his teeth graze your skin like he's asking politely, not when his hips slot perfectly against yours.

You leave marks. Teeth and nails and lips. By the end, Nanami is flushed, hair mussed, back arching, making noises he absolutely does not make in polite society.

At some point Chairman Meow screams outside the door and then—mercifully—leaves you alone.

The night is… thorough.

By the time you pass out, sweaty and boneless, Nanami has one arm around you and the other dangling off the bed like he’s been defeated by pleasure.

*-*

Morning comes soft.

Golden.

You wake up feeling complete. Like a cat in a sunbeam after eating an entire can of tuna and committing zero crimes.

Your body aches in the best way. You stretch and immediately regret it.

Nanami groans beside you. “…I should have stretched.”

You snort. “You did GREAT, grandpa.”

“My back,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his spine. “Is staging a coup.”

You roll onto him, kiss his jaw. “Worth it?”

He smiles, slow and satisfied. “Extremely.”

Breakfast happens in underwear. Pancakes—thick, fluffy, stupid. Chairman Meow hops onto the counter and licks Nanami’s hair.

Nanami freezes.

“…Is this acceptance?”

“Yes,” you say solemnly. “You are chosen.”

Later, Nanami watches you from across the table, syrup on his lip, something soft in his eyes.

“…Would you want this to happen again?” he asks.

You laugh. “Kento. Every night.”

He exhales. Smiles wider. “I’ll need to invest in stretching.”

Chairman Meow purrs.

Life is good.

A/N: cough cough i'm alive i swear, god i feel rusty as hell. i've been playing a lottt of zelda botw, its been very fun. i hope y'all are well and that y'all enjoy this, hope that everyone is live laugh loving.

Masterlist

:)

[invincibledc]

Period scare

Jon x Wonder!reader

Genre: Drabble/comfort

Note: Reader can be female or FTM!reader

Jon sniffles, resting his head onto your stomach as you laid on your back. He was your personal heating pad. He soon looks up, eyes teary and snot running down his face. “I would have a period everyday… just so you don’t have one..”

“It’s not that deep Jon.”

He continues to cry softly, he was traumatized smelling blood from afar as he entered your house to see blood on your sheets. Thinking you harmed yourself, he was soon educated on periods.

“It is that deep!” He exclaims, “You bleed once a month, get painful cramps that are supposedly the same pain as a heart attack!? How can I not get sniffle WORRIED??”

Jon then stayed by your side through your period cycle. It was sweet but shocking.

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Daddy - Venom x ftm!Reader

A/N: this is written for my wonderful 🎀 anon who requested it and my beloved mutual @worstwolverinesbf who got me to finish it

I hope you all like it :)

Written for this request

Dividers by @/kodaswrld

CW: possessiveness; monsterfucking; Venom uses it/its pronouns; mentioned Venom/Eddie; explicit sexual content; smut; Reader is dating both Eddie and Venom; Reader is a bit freaky in this, ngl; mild fighting between Eddie and Venom; Reader lives with Eddie; Venom has a dick; ftm trans Reader; kissing; making out; breeding kink; daddy kink; Reader’s parts are called dick and hole; fingering; Venom is in love with Reader; oral sex; cunnilingus; Venom has a prehensile tongue; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; ‘I love you’s; oviposition; Venom has a big dick; errr I don’t know how to tag this, so just take that last tag seriously; brief but descriptive (?) painful sex; penetrative sex; PiV sex; egg laying; Venom purrs; belly bulge; no aftercare; mild silly ending

2413 words

Venom was territorial. You’d found that out pretty quickly once you’d started dating Eddie. Venom had been wary of you at first, snippy and somewhat aggressive, even.

You hadn’t taken it personally. Eddie was the closest person Venom had to a best friend. Even more than that, sometimes. And it wasn’t like you were Mr Perfect when it came to possessiveness either.

But eventually, you both had come to be friendly. More than friendly now. You weren’t exactly as close to Venom as you were to Eddie, but they were a pair. Dating one really meant dating both, in their case.

So Venom was territorial. And you really didn’t mind. Except… it was suddenly getting worse.

Normally it would check up on you whenever you came home, but just a few days ago it’d sniffed you. Claiming it was making sure you still smelled like Eddie.

And part of you had liked it.

The other part of the issue… also came from Venom. Or so you suspected.

For the past week, all Eddie seemed to want to do was have sex. Which you definitely weren’t complaining about. But it was getting a little ridiculous.

He at least attempted to be subtle about it though. Sneaking in a smooth move here and there. Slowly feeling you up. But it kept happening. Day after day after day.

The last time he’d gotten like this, you’d had to leave for the weekend. Some stupid trip or whatever.

This time, it’s just you and him and Venom.

A shameful part of you likes it. Likes how much Eddie wants you. You’ve always had some more… daring ideas for a relationship. You just don’t want to tie Eddie down.

Especially not after everything that happened with him. You want to be a safe place for him, not something to run away from.

So you keep your ideas to yourself. You let Venom be as territorial as he wants. And you and Eddie fuck like rabbits.

Everything’s fine. Everything’s good.

And then you have the best fucking night of your entire life.

From the moment Eddie got home, it was clear something was up. He was muttering to himself more than normal, snapping “No!” at Venom. And Venom was growling back.

You’d seen them fight before. But this? This was different.

You stay out of their way for as long as you can. It’s your turn to make dinner anyway, so you hasten about to cook up something. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s good.

You wait for a while before finally interrupting their argument. “Uh… Hey…”

Both of them snap to you. Watching you with so much intensity… it’s kinda hot. You swallow, shifting your weight from foot to foot. Trying hard to ignore the thread of warmth in your core.

“Dinner’s done.”

Still they watch you. For a moment, no one says anything. Then Eddie swallows. “What if… What if we have you for dinner?”

You blink. Shift your weight again. “What?”

“Ven wants… It wants…” Eddie stumbles over his words. “Oh, for fuck’s—“

With a wave of black goo, Venom swarms Eddie’s body. Transforming into a bulk of a creature. It makes your mouth go dry and your boxers wet.

“We want you.” Venom growls, stalking closer to you. You back away from it, into the kitchen. It follows, blocking you in against a counter.

Its tongue snakes out, making you shiver. What you wouldn’t give…

What gives you pause, though, is the thing between Venom’s legs.

You’ve seen dicks before. But nothing like this. Venom’s huge. Thicker and longer than you could possibly take. You doubt you could even fit both your hands around it, let alone one. You’ve never wanted anything inside you more.

“Like it?” Venom leers. “We’re gonna make you take it all.”

You can’t deny the gush of heat between your legs at that thought. You can picture it now. You, fucked out on a bed, stretched beyond what you can take, crying as it fucks so deep into you it breaks you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “That’s hot.”

Venom’s tongue trails up your cheek, probing at your lips. You’ve never kissed it before, only watched Eddie do it. But you part your lips.

Its tongue invades your mouth. It curls around your tongue and feels along your teeth. Filling your mouth until all you can do is suck on it and whimper.

Part of you wants more. Wants to really take it down. Wants to suck on its tongue and let it fuck your throat until it’s in your fucking stomach.

But it retreats from your mouth all too soon, leaving you clenching hard at your own thoughts with nothing to distract you. You pant for breath, your mind a daze of heat and need.

Venom brings its face right up to yours. You think you could lick over every one of its teeth and still not be satisfied.

“We’re going to breed you.” Venom growls. “Stuff you full of our eggs. Make you into a daddy.”

Fuck. If he doesn’t fuck you right now…

“Fuck yeah,” you gasp out. “Make me a daddy, Ven.”

You’re scooped up within an instant. One moment you’re in the kitchen, the next you’re in the bedroom, Venom’s hands ripping off your clothing.

You barely have time to register cool air against your skin before its hands are on you. Sliding up your sides, caressing your stomach, up higher. For a moment, the tension in the room holds its breath as Venom follows the movements Eddie’s done so many times in the past.

It removes your binder. Carefully. It tosses it to the side and gazes down at you, a low purr in its throat. You can feel its gaze roaming over you. Hungry. Needy. Reverent.

Your boxers are soaked. Plastered to your skin, wet and sticky. Venom’s tongue snakes out, the tip trailing oh so lightly over the damp fabric. It growls, hands coming to grip your thighs. Pushing them up till it can press its face to your boxers.

For a moment, it just breathes, the puff of warm air making you squirm a little. You’re dying for its touch, but you don’t wanna break the moment. Even though everything in you is screaming to grind against its face.

Still, a whimper claws its way up your throat and escapes. It pulls Venom from its thoughts, prompting it into action. It curls its fingers under the hem of your boxers, pulling them down. Slowly revealing you to it.

It makes you squirm. Under its stare, you feel so naked. So vulnerable.

“You are magnificent,” Venom growls, voice dripping with hunger. “We would conquer a thousand worlds for you.”

That pulls a weak laugh from you. “Only a thousand?”

It merely looks at you, then opens its mouth. Its tongue snakes out. You clench hard at the thoughts whirling through your mind. God, if only it’d get to it and—

“Fuck!” You arch up, hips bucking as Venom squeezes your dick between its fingers. You’d been so distracted by its tongue and words, you hadn’t noticed its hand creeping up your thigh.

All you can do is cry out in pleasure, especially when a thick finger slips into your sopping hole. It’s so big, stretching you out with ease. Long enough to press against the spot inside you that has you scrabbling at the sheets, babbling its name.

“Ven, Ven, Ven!” You’re panting, gasping. Desperate moans spilling from your lips. Another finger nudges at your hole and you clench hard. The coil in your stomach builds.

The second finger slips in. Stretching your walls. Curling just right, and—

You cum. Hard.

Venom doesn’t pull its hand away. Not even when your breath returns and you grin lazily up at it. It just keeps its fingers stuffed inside you, unmoving.

It’s panting. Taking in huge gulps of air, chest heaving. Eyes so wide it’s almost concerning.

“Ven?”

A low growl spills from its lips. “We need you.”

Its words send a shiver of desire down your spine. But also a splinter of worry. You’re not wet enough to take it, not with its monstrous size. But the way it’s looking at you…

“I need more first,” you whisper. Then, with as much daring as you can push into your tone, “Fuck me with your tongue.”

Venom’s eyes flash. One moment it’s gazing at you in desperation, the next its face is shoved between your legs. It eases its fingers out of you, tongue twisting and curling around to slurp up every bit of slick that spills from you.

And it groans. Low and deep and hungry.

The tip of its tongue teases your entrance. Circling and probing, making you clench around nothing yet again.

“Ven,” you whine, fingers locked in the sheets as you finally buck your hips up to get more. Its hands clamp down on your thighs, pinning you down with ease.

But its tongue slips inside you. Rubbing and probing, but mostly just tasting you. It’s purring, groaning, rumbling with delight as your body gushes with slick.

It’s so hot; the intense focus in its eyes. The curious but direct way it fucks you. It’s like being with Eddie for the first time again; if Eddie was a giant, sexy alien monster intent on—

All thoughts leave your head the moment Venom finds that spot inside you. Its tongue is long enough, thick enough, strong enough that it bullies that spot. Rubbing and curling and fucking. But it never leaves your hole, keeping you full even as it pulls screams from your lips.

You feel blindsided by pleasure. It’s everything, everywhere, making you writhe and squirm. Tears spring to your eyes at the intensity. You’re gone in an instant, lost to the crashing wave of pleasure.

It lasts, and lasts, and lasts. Until you’re so sensitive it hurts and you have to kick at Venom’s shoulders to get it to finally stop bullying that spot inside you.

It takes you a long moment to catch your breath, but when you do, you pet Venom’s head. Stroking and caressing. Too weak to sit up and kiss it.

You have no doubt you’re soaked. You can feel the sheets under you, sopping with slick and monster saliva.

Venom rumbles softly, climbing on top of you and looming over you. Hot breath puffing against your face. The head of its dick nudges against your hole and you shudder, still just a little too sensitive.

“Eddie says he loves you.” Venom nuzzles into the crook of your neck, large hands braced on either side of your chest.

“I love you too,” you say softly. Tugging it down to press a kiss to the corner of its mouth. “But I was promised eggs. And I am definitely not full of eggs yet.”

Venom growls, low and deep. It lines its dick up with your hole, hungry eyes never leaving yours. It makes your spine tingle; your body acutely aware that Venom’s a very dangerous predator with its focus all on you.

But you force yourself to relax. “Come on, Ven. Make me a daddy.”

The first touch is delicious, just the head teasing your hole. And then it presses in.

“FUCK!” You arch up, and it’s only Venom’s body forcing you back down that keeps you from squirming away. “Fuck, that’s—! It’s so big! It’s too big! Venom, fuck!”

You can barely think. Your brain torn between pain and pure pleasure as Venom pushes your body to its limits. Inching in bit by bit, coaxing your hole to open wider and wider.

You scrabble at its shoulders, clinging to it desperately. You’re pretty sure you’re crying, breaths coming in heaving gasps.

Venom growls. And then starts to pull out.

“NO!” You clamp your legs around its waist, struggling against its strength to keep it in. “Please, please, please! I’m okay!”

“You’re hurting,” Venom snarls.

“It’s fine! It’s fine!” You didn’t know you needed it before, but now that you have an idea of what you could have? You need more. Just the thought of you with mini Venoms, of Venom trusting you— loving you— enough to give you its eggs is enough to make you dizzy with lust.

Venom growls again, and then thick goo is sliding over your hips. Encasing your pelvis in itself and easing away the pain. Leaving only sickening, blinding pleasure behind.

“More, more, more, more, moremoremoremore—“ You’re babbling and you couldn’t care less. “Make me a daddy, make me a daddy! Please, god!”

With a low snarl, Venom thrusts in. Making you scream with pleasure as it splits you open. Your eyes roll back. Your body writhes and arches under him. You cum so hard everything whites out around you.

For what feels like ages, your body is nothing but syrupy pleasure.

Dimly, you’re aware of something sliding further inside you. Nestling deep inside your body, all oozy and warm. One… Two…

You start to come back to yourself by the third one. Venom’s growling softly above you, cradling you against it. You moan softly as another egg makes its way inside you. All soft and small and delicate.

Venom nuzzles against you, its growls turning into soft rumbling purrs. It feels like hours before the last egg slides into place, your stomach lightly bulging.

Slowly, Venom pulls out of you, quickly filling you up with its fingers to keep the eggs from spilling out. The loss has your body aching, sore in ways you didn’t know were possible.

You groan softly, and find yourself utterly unable to move. Venom purrs again, before melting away, disappearing into the body of your boyfriend.

Eddie looks just as fucked out as you. He cuddles up with you, pressing soft kisses to your neck and cheeks. You smile, appreciating the gentler stretch of Eddie’s fingers compared to Venom’s.

“So,” you murmur, lazy mischief in your tone. “When were you gonna bring up the daddy thing?”

Eddie flushes, ducking his head against your shoulder. “That’s… That’s an it thing, actually.”

“Really?” You smirk, lowering your voice to a more seductive tone. “Don’t lie to daddy.”

Eddie twitches and lifts his head. “Don’t say it like that.”

You laugh. Jostling the eggs inside you.

You glance down at yourself, and Eddie does the same. “So…”

“So.”

You both are silent for a moment. Then, “Who’s gonna tell Venom that I can’t actually hatch its babies?”

Eddie just snorts.