Dominik—🫀

English major who uses their skills to…write fanfics…! { he/they }

[vktrsmonster]

“I am obscene to you…but to myself I simply am.” 🗝️

— ˚✧ Spontaneous posting, might go inactive every once in a while…!

— ˚✧ I create for myself, this is merely a place to pour all my thoughts into !

>> Requests !

>>> not new to tumblr, came back for the love of the game I suppose

[vktrsmonster]

Im alive !! And that Frankenstein fanfic is STILL on its way. The ao3 writers curse reached me through tumblr and I’ve been in and out of the ER for a couple of days 😵‍💫 but just wanted to let you all know I’m not abandoning this acc 🙇

[vktrsmonster]

…been awfully obsessed with Leon lately…would y’all be interested in a Leon x male reader…?

[atticuswastaken]

How it feels telling people I use tumblr in the big 26

[vktrsmonster]

Proud of it too 🗣️

[vktrsmonster]

Cooking up a longer Adam Frankenstein fanfic 🙇 do NOT worry my franken-nation

[vktrsmonster]

Jacob Elordi has won an award for his absolutely outstanding performance as The Creature in Frankenstein. I am so beyond proud of him, he deserves it !!

[vktrsmonster]

I don't know if you're familiar with this anime, as it's not in your requests link, but I'd like to know if you would write a Mitsuri!Ftm Reader x Jayce Talis fic?

Basically, the reader is a very sweet and cheerful person, but has been feeling sad and insecure about his chubby body.

I can relate, so I end up thinking about scenarios like that, lol... It could be hurt to comfort + nsfw (I just want to see your wonderful narrative and writing:))

(Sorry about my english, I use google translate! :/)

“How Could I Ever…?”

TW: ftm!reader, NSFW

A/N: Thank you for requesting, and sorry for the long wait! I’m afraid to say I didn’t necessarily went into the whole “Mitsuri” personality for this…forgive me 😵‍💫 my dramatic self couldn’t hold back. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it.

…

Upon the whitened ground, footsteps led the way into the warmth of a home. On those rare occasions when there seemed to be nothing else to pay mind to, the laboratory drowned in its own quietude. And, whenever the mind was left to rest, the only other place to find you both was deep within such fortress of comfort, thought impenetrable by any presence of pain—that was, at the very least, until now.

No longer did the walls become engraved with the melody of your laughter, nor the dazzling sight of an echoing smile. As the minutes slipped away from you, you appeared to be bedridden. Unutterably consumed by its tangled messiness, a stifling envelope to your desperate flesh. In it, although bitter, there was relief. For mornings on end, you allowed the sun to coat your heated face, depriving all else of any beam of light. Entirely terrified of prying eyes, even those with a reflection of love. You remained hidden, petrified. A boiling disgust crept up your spine, tainting every fiber with undying repulsion. What once felt as yours, was now but a curse.

He noticed, of course he did. The crippling silence, the sudden absence of light almost as if the sun had ceased to rise. Untouched plates, food gone cold. Despite his lighthearted attempts at cheering you, delivering outside your bedroom door a cup of sweetened milk and a handful of gingerbread men, Jayce received no response. He had taken by granted your joy, the almost routinary moments of loudness, and your entrancing presence. Finding himself alone, wishing to respect your desires of solitude, he felt as though he was sinking. A brisk held on to his bones by teeth and nail, cutting through thick skin and hardened muscle. With an aching body, his feet found no moment of stillness. In a desperate endeavor to dispose of his icy misery, Jayce busied himself with errands, devoid of all importance or meaning whatsoever. Coming home, without exception, with a blithe trinket. Then, he would come forward and knock thrice, hoping for an answer—yours. However mighty the desire was to be held, your aversion had grown to overpower it. You laid unmoving, daring exclusively to listen to his dragging feet, to his deep sighs. Shame consumed your every waking instance, deafened by an insatiable rumbling, that of hunger. Whether it was of nurturing or affection, you did not know too well.

Fleeting memories of long gone sensations washed over your veiled form, burdensome carcass, weighing heavy upon the mattress of the bed once shared. In all truthfulness, you missed him. You missed Jayce dearly, there was no viable way of casting aside your stinging heart. And, although he surely did too, you found no strength to return to his arms—open wide, awaiting in a tormenting loneliness that seemed neverending, wearing him down to nothingness. Embracing defeat, a pair of pillows and a wrinkled sheet were arranged on the couch.

Once more, he had left the house, at least a couple of hours ago. Nobody but you and all thought, intensified and squeamish, stayed behind. The sun crept in, as it always did, dimmed behind clouds and their lazy maneuver. A stinging urge settled inside your legs, body begging for motion. Before you could begin to comprehend, the dazzling reflection of the light conquered your vision, a gleaming mirror stood in front. Golden edges holding an echo of reality, photos held by an unnoticeable, sticky force embellished its essence. Inside, a darkened image. Twisted, deceitful to its very core. You knew better than to trust your sight in moments where alienation casted shadows far greater than the refulgent positiveness of yours. Though flesh remained the same, your mind refused to let you believe. What was left behind were not only thoughts, but a frantic chaos of a man. One that now stared at his shape in horror: thighs marked with pale strikes, puffy cheeks, a tummy with one too many bits of meat to pick off of. A rushing feeling took hold of you, of the impoverished sanity that had held your world together this far down. Hands going cold, fingers going numb. Your gaze lingered, tracing your silhouette in a terror-stricken manner. And, with a closed fist, it shattered. Falling in shambles, havoc broke free. A burst of glass shards pierced through skin, others found idleness around the floor. Oozing blood poured down from raw knuckles, the first apprehension of touch in many restless nights. Knees buckled under the pressure of the sky, knowingly unworthy of the task of Atlas himself, unhesitant palms strangers to hatred’s purest venom.

A whine slept from in between your lips, the adrenaline wearing off finally allowing the damage to sink in. Bloody streams pooled inside the crevices of your closed hands, seeping into every nook and cranny that remained unblemished. Deep within, you had hoped crimson would wash over entirely, purifying what was wicked. You let the drops run, endlessly, endorsing the stupefaction of your senses. Slow, steady, darkness lurked around your peripheral vision. So much so, you had missed the door cracking open. Eclipsed, only through touch did you realize.

“Oh, love…” A kind voice broke through your trance. His voice.

Jayce’s hands reached out, laying softly upon your trembling back. Slightly jerking, your body rejected his presence involuntarily. Yet he refused to let go. He refused to shy away from you—not now.

“My darling,” he cooed, fingers curling around yours with a distressed wobble. His expression disturbed you, his deathless smile had morphed into a twisted frown. In the blink of an eye, Jayce let his thick coat slide off his shoulders. Frozen, he felt as if any rational thought was far too complex for a moment like this. Acting purely on instinct, his movements were swift and irrational. Perhaps stripping from his shirt was not the smartest of moves, but it was, nonetheless, a move. Utilizing his blouse as a gauze, it was wrapped around your imbrued flesh seconds later. Your eyes followed his every step, admiring the utter panic that flooded his insides.

“I— I’m sorry,” you managed to drag out. His head jolted upwards, his vision shifting away from the clothed wound. Eyes softened, eyebrows relaxed, and his pout was forgotten. With a bittersweet sensation to it, he pulled you closer. Once and for all, you came back to him.

“I thought you would be disgusted by this point,” you spoke faintly, “I thought this body of mine would be a beacon of hatred—your own fiery hatred.” A breathy laugh escaped you, nothing would be left unheard. He held you tighter, desperately so.

“How, mi amor, could hate ever fester in my soul when love is purely what blooms when I dare to lay my eyes on you?”

His whispers felt heavy, liberating. His devotion had exceeded all else. Putting yourself on display before him, he showed maiden care, caressing you as though a divine being. His forehead rested in the nook of your neck, pressing your chest to his. Brushing his lips against your pulsing vein, rejoicing in its beat before pulsing down. Embracing you, he spread his tender kisses across your jugular. Your arms rested around his shape, taking in the entirety of his presence. He murmured words of praise against your hot skin, allowing accumulated desire to pour effortlessly. Smoothly, your body was tipped towards the ground. Unclothing you, calloused palms handled each fiber of you. Muted whines of eagerness escaped his occupied mouth, impatient. Capturing in his grasp your wrists, he lowered them over your head. Pressing you against the woodboards, he kept you in place. His weight made you unable to break free, squirming clumsily at his actions.

His opposite hand glided up your thigh, guiding them apart. Easing his plan, you lifted your pelvis for him to tug off your trousers. Left only in your boxers, he stopped himself. Straightening his back, he gazed down at you. There was no disgust, nothing but an uncontrollable lust. An imperishable wish to cherish you wholly. Going down once more, his head slipped between your legs, lips feeling you underneath the garment. Moans filled the room as his strength kept your hips in place, steady for him. As knees threatened to close, Jayce would force them open. The muscles on his back shifted soundly with his frenzied panting, with every motion.

“I’ll show you how much I love you,” his words stirred something within you, an unshakable feeling on your lower abdomen.

Dragging your last piece of clothing down, sliding from your feet to the floor, his tongue lapped against you. Focusing his attention to his mouth, his hand retrieved to your ribs, setting your wrists free. Quickly, your fingers found their way to his untidy hair, combing and leading to your own will.

He persevered, his movements getting more precise. Jayce grew frantic despite your nails clawing into him. He behaved wildly, a starved animal before its feast. The vibrations of his grunts worsened the tight knot you began feeling. Hastily, his lips reached for yours, and his thumb began rubbing circles around your clitoris. Your sobs died down his throat, his tongue memorizing every tooth and tissue inside your mouth.

As you felt yourself lose the last bit of coherence in a blissful climax, his own aroused body surrounded you with obscene warmth. Pushing you through the orgasmic feelings, pleasuring you to the very end. Bringing his fingers away, he searched for your eyes before licking them clean with a lewd delightfulness.

“You are the most delectable meal, served on a silver platter,” he uttered, “I adore you like a god, my precious boy.”

[rainrot4me]

helli, I don't know if you take requests or not, but I saw your eyeless jack hc's and was wondering what if s/o actually was up to jack cutting into their abdoment? I thought that was a interesting hc but I liked it.

Have a good day/night/evening!

Please, please, please, please, please be cautious reading this. Remember it's fiction.

SMUT WARNING, MDNI

✦ . Characters: Eyeless Jack x Genderneutral Reader

✦ . Warning: THAT DOVE IS DEAD, scalpels, organ pleasure, paraphilia, internal organs, blood, I don't know how else to tag this besides Jack literally fucks your intestines through a cut in your stomach, pain and pleasure, mentions of needles and medical equipment, reader is a proxy/not entirely human

✦ . Words: 2.7k

✦ . Note: I'm not responsible for your personal enjoyment/disgust of this work so do not come complaining to me!!! ALSO, I’m in no way a medical expert, so take everything I write here at face value and not as what would actually happen (I hope none of you actually partake in this LMAO).

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“I’m not suggesting. If we’re going to do this, you’re going to listen to me.”

Jack counted, then recounted every inch of medical tubing that ran up your arms, checking once again that he had all of them flowing correctly. The medical table underneath your back wasn’t comfortable, but the giddiness you felt overran the complaint of stale leather and stiff wood.

It was your idea, after all, to follow through with this whole fantasy. The demon never brought it up again after he had let it slip once—the idea of fucking something other than just your holes—but you never let it slip your stingy mind. It came as teasing afterwards, breathless remarks about ‘sticking his dick in’ while Jack sewed up yet another bullet wound or knife attack. As a proxy, the sting of pain became secondary to the sting of disappointment you would get from messing up a mission.

“Love, I’m fine.”

You reassured him yet again, reaching a hand out to grip on his wrist, the tubing that stuck into your veins following with the movement.

“I’ll be the judge.” A stern remark. You were beginning to think this would make him more stressed than anything.

He adjusted the mask over his face, not the porcelain one, not today. Just a medical-grade surgical mask, as if that could sanitize what was about to happen. His gloved hands paused at your hips. Not out of hesitation, but deliberation. Measuring, calculating, and then recalculating again.

The scalpel gleamed beneath the low amber light overhead. He had used it a thousand times before, but right now, it looked like he wasn’t even sure how to hold it.

“You have to tell me,” he said quietly, not looking at you, “if anything changes. If your heart rate spikes. If your breathing changes. If you feel cold, nauseous, faint—”

“I know the list, Jack,” you murmured, voice warm despite the chill in the air. “You’ve made me memorize it every time I get so much as a scratch.”

He glanced at you then, the sockets where eyes should be were black and bottomless, unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his gaze settle over you like a second set of hands.

“This isn’t a scratch.”

You tilted your head, smirking just a little. “Then make it count.”

That shut him up.

Silence bloomed between you for a moment, taut and thrumming. Your pulse was steady, he was monitoring it on a tiny screen just out of your line of sight, but his? Jack’s breath was shallow, stiff, like his lungs refused to sync with the calm professionalism he wore like a second skin. His energy was thrumming against you, even as he leaned closer, even as his hands steadied over the exposed area of your gut.

Then the scalpel kissed your abdomen.

Just a line, not yet breaking skin. He dragged it slowly from sternum to navel, a cold whisper over warm flesh, and you shivered, goosebumps shot up like a warning.

“Last chance,” he said, voice a ragged whisper. “If you say stop, I stop. I don’t care what you promised or what you think you can take. My pleasure is not worth you life, love.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

You could see it: the twitch in his jaw. That flicker of restraint cracking.

“I want you, Jack,” you said, breathless now. “All of you. Even this.”

He exhaled through his nose, something feral and broken. Not quite relief, not quite fear, but things deep and old that stirred in him when you said that like you meant it.

The scalpel cut.

Not deep, just enough, just barely. A hot line of pain seared across your skin, sharp and bright and real. You gasped from the sheer thrill of it. Jack’s gloved hand pressed gently against your side, steadying you.

His breath caught.

“You shouldn’t look so happy,” he said, voice hoarse. “It’s fucked.”

You grinned up at him, eyes glittering with heat. “Then we’re both fucked.”

He leaned in, hovering over you, the warm wetness of your blood slicking his gloves as he spread you open, not cruelly, not recklessly, but with reverence. With trembling hands and barely-contained hunger.

The scalpel’s edge dipped beneath the top layer of skin. A clean incision. Shallow enough to avoid danger, but enough to make your breath catch and your limbs tense against the restraints. Jack felt it, the flutter of your pulse against the inside of your wrist, and watched, silently, as a thin rivulet of blood bloomed from the cut and curved down your side.

“Breathe through it,” he said lowly, almost beneath his breath, not a command, more like a reminder to himself. To both of you.

He set the scalpel down with reverent care, replacing it with gloved fingers that were soaked almost immediately in the warm slickness pooling from the wound. Your blood coated his hands, dripping between his knuckles, sliding down his wrists in long, slow trails. It made his mask cling tighter to his face from the heat radiating off both of you.

Jack’s hands spread you open gently, the pads of his fingers pulling the skin apart to expose the layer of fat beneath. Yellowish and subcutaneous, still undisturbed by damage, glistening under the low light.

Your body arched involuntary. A hiss of pain curled off your lips, and he watched it. Every twitch of your body fed into that overworked brain of his: breathing, color, responsiveness. You were straining, but you were there. You were with him.

“You’re handling this better than I expected,” he said, voice low and shaking with something that wasn’t fear. Not anymore.

Desire, tightly caged, pushed against the back of his throat. He hadn’t felt this much pressure in years, not since the last time he’d truly wanted. His cock pressed against the front of his jeans, hard and straining, but he didn’t move toward release. Not yet, not until he finished what he started.

He reached for the clamps.

One by one, he peeled you open. Just slightly, just enough to let the blood roll down your sides in thick, slow arcs, not pouring, but oozing, dark and rich and slick. He placed the clamps with exact care: one on each side of the cut, holding the skin parted so he could see deeper. The pale fascia layer shone beneath, the muscles flexed. Jack sucked in a sharp breath.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, but his hands didn’t stop. “You’re insane.”

Yet, he leaned in closer.

His fingers brushed the muscle wall, feeling the heat pouring out of you like a furnace. Blood coated the table. It soaked your lower back and ran toward the leather padding beneath your spine. Your poor clothes were beyond salvageable now. You were smiling through the pain, through the heavy ache blooming inside you.

Jack was trembling now. He leaned over you, lips inches from your temple, and whispered, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

His voice cracked at the edge. You offered yourself like a specimen and a sacrifice, and he was fighting the line between worship and defilement.

One hand, just one, dropped to his belt. He paused, checking your vitals again, glancing at the monitors. Still stable, still strong. Your breath came out in uneven, heated bursts, but you weren’t crying. You weren’t begging him to stop. Tears were welled in your eyes, but nothing to be overly concerned about, yet.

You were thriving in it.

He pushed his hips against the table edge and groaned, muffled behind his mask, his other hand tracing the opened wound again, not pressing too deep, not enough to damage, just to feel, to memorize the heat and slickness of your insides under his fingertips. He could see everything, all the bits and pieces that worked together to keep you going, to keep the one he loved moving and talking and his.

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, head bowed, voice nearly broken. “Perfect and fucking ruined.”

The blood had soaked through to his thighs. He didn’t care. It dripped off the table in steady splashes, pooling on the floor beneath him. There was a feral gleam in his posture now, tempered only by the strict rigidity he had grown to master. No flinching, no frenzy, just precision, a steady hand with a throbbing ache behind his zipper and an unbearable tightness in his chest.

This was desire in its rawest, ugliest, truest form. And Jack had never loved someone more than he did when you moaned softly and whispered, “More.”

“Fuck.”

Jack adjusted the clamps again, delicately teasing the incision wider. The abdominal wall pulled apart under the gentle pressure, revealing a glistening tapestry of tissue, layers of pink and red, quivering slightly with every breath you took. The room smelled like copper and antiseptic, thick and sharp. Jack leaned over the cut, mesmerized.

He could see the coils of your intestines, slick and glistening with fluid, nestled like an offering inside you. Your liver, dark and velvet-smooth, sat tucked to one side, pulsing faintly. Your stomach curved beneath it, twitching slightly. You were a cathedral of blood and muscle, and Jack bowed before the altar of your anatomy.

“Fuck,” he rasped again, voice hoarse. “You’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”

The mask over his face was stifling. It kept him from you, from your scent, your breath, the warmth of your skin. He tore it off with one hand, flinging it to the side with shaking fingers, and exhaled shakily as cool air hit his skin. A bit of your blood streaked across his cheek. He didn’t wipe it off.

You were watching him, dazed, drunk on the adrenaline and pain, but your eyes stayed locked on his. There was no fear in them, just longing.

Jack climbed up onto the table with slow, deliberate care, straddling your hips so his knees bracketed your thighs. You could feel the weight of him now, the tremble in his legs, the tension in his gut. The bulge in his pants pressed against your stomach, just below the wound.

Even now, he didn’t move too fast.

One gloved hand reached for the drawer beside the table. The other tore at the buttons and zipper containing him, tugging his cock sharply with his latex palm. He fished out a packet, and tore it open. His fingers moved automatically, rolling the condom down with expert care. He held himself over you, head bowed, one hand braced beside your head, the other finishing the motion.

“I need to know,” he murmured, dipping closer, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone, then your temple. “You’re still okay? Nothing’s changed? Heart rate’s steady, no dizziness, no numbness?”

You nodded, breath hitching as he kissed the corner of your mouth. His lips were hot and slick with sweat, blood, and something unbearably tender.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, a quiet confession breathed directly into your ear. “Not to this. Not to me.”

Your hand, trembling, reached up and touched the back of his neck, encouraging, grounding. Jack let out a shaky sigh and leaned into it. His body trembled above yours, barely holding himself together.

“This isn’t about fucking,” he whispered. “It’s worship. I want to be inside you. With your blood on my hands and your body open to me like this. It’s not just pleasure. It’s—” He broke off, his voice almost cracking.

His forehead pressed against yours.

“—it’s communion.”

He rocked his hips gently, pressing himself flush to you, not yet entering but close, so achingly close. One hand ghosted down, stroking the edge of the incision, marveling at the way your body welcomed him even now. His other hand found yours and squeezed.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “And I swear to God, I’ll bring you back from this. I’ll sew you back up perfectly. You’ll feel nothing but safe and loved.”

You gave a weak laugh, trying not to move around your open abdomen too much, but still communicating.

He kissed your mouth then, deep and slow, tasting of blood and desperation, while his trembling hips pressed against you, sliding his cock between the folds of opened skin without entering, just feeling, just savoring.

He could lose himself in this. But he wouldn’t. Because he had you.

Jack hovered, every inch of him taut and trembling like a cord about to snap. His cock, sheathed and slick, pressed flush to the line of your opened flesh, not thrusting, not breaching, but feeling. Just the heat, the proximity, the tension of muscle and blood and living warmth beneath him. Your body pulsed against his, and his breath stuttered in response.

The sensation of your split-open belly against him wasn’t grotesque to him. It was divine, sacred. The friction of skin slicked with blood, the twitch of exposed fascia under his thighs, the trembling strength still thrumming through your body despite the pain. You weren’t fragile, you were transcendent, and Jack was trembling like a devout man at the gates of heaven.

He kissed your mouth again, slower this time, mouth open, breath hissing through his teeth. When he pulled back, his lips were tinged crimson. Your blood was on him, in him now. He licked it without thinking.

“I need to go slow,” he whispered, voice cracked and guttural. “If I do this too fast, I’ll break. I’ll fucking lose it.” He was starving.

You tilted your face into his, mouth brushing his jaw. “Then lose it.”

His hips practically moved on their own.

He pressed forward — not into the organs, not through the surgical field, but just above. Carefully, Jack guided himself between the gap of your skin and insides, slick with your own excitement and the blood running from the incision. The mix of fluids made him groan deep in his chest. His hips rolled forward in a slow, measured motion, sheathing himself inside you with one shuddering breath.

Your walls gripped him, and for a second, Jack’s entire body seized up. He clenched the table’s edge, head bowed so low it nearly touched your collarbone. He contorted himself, trying to not let his size crush you.

“God—” he gasped, “You’re—so warm, so fucking tight—alive.”

He stayed still, buried in you, trembling with the strain of holding back. Around him, your body twitched with the dull burn of the incision, the clamps holding you open, the ache of fullness and restraint. Every breath you took stretched your skin and made the gap that much smaller for him to fit inside. But your hand found his jaw, and when you whispered his name— “Jack” —something tore through him all over again.

He moved.

Slowly, with measured control. His hips rocked into yours, shallow at first, grinding rather than thrusting, careful not to jostle the table or disturb the surgical site. But every stroke pushed him deeper, not just inside your body, but into something untouched by him or anyone else.

Your groans and gasps were like music, every jostle of your body making you react in ways much different than normal sex. This was more severe, more intense than anything the two of you had experienced, this was new territory. Scary or not, you were enjoying it.

His gloved fingers slid down to your lower abdomen, ghosting just beside the open wound. He didn’t touch the organs—he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not during. But he let his palm rest just above, feeling the movement inside you, the tension, the way your body pulsed beneath him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he whispered, voice rough with adoration. “You’re incredible. So strong. So beautiful.” He kissed you again, your lips, your cheek, your throat, leaving smears of blood and sweat in his wake.

With every careful thrust, his body pressed more tightly against yours. The heat of your blood, your scent, the friction of his thighs against your hips, and the taste of your mouth sent him spiraling. He began to whisper again, soft mantras, barely audible between ragged breaths:

“I love you— You’re mine— I’ll put you back together— I swear— You’ll be whole— I’ll clean you— stitch you— worship you…”

His words were unraveling. His rhythm faltered, losing its precision as his desperation built. His mouth found your pulse, sucking gently at the skin, his hips moving faster now, grinding into you harder, needier.

And still, still, he never lost track of your vitals. One eye on the screen. One hand still resting near your surgical clamps. He was fucking you with every fiber of his being, but part of him remained the surgeon, the caretaker, the one who would never let you slip too far.

It only took his hips angling down just a bit for the head of his cock to slip from the valley of your wound into the folds of your intestines. The coils of organs housed his cock like they were meant for him, the warmth and deepness sucking him in hypnotically. Jack nearly snarled, your gasp loud as you both watched his cock slip in and out of your guts, each pass leaving the condom a deeper shade of red than the last.

He didn’t last another couple thrusts, the sensation absolutely breathtaking.

When he came, sudden, raw, tearing a broken sound from his throat, he locked his body over you like a man dying and being born in the same breath.

His mask was long gone. His blood-slicked face buried against your neck, he panted harshly, whispering, “I’ve got you— I’ve got you— Stay with me, sweetheart, stay awake— You’re okay— you’re okay…”

You felt the shift instantly from predator to protector. From desire to devotion.

He eased out of you with a groan, both of pleasure and urgency, already reaching for gauze, clamps, surgical thread. His hands moved fast now, gloved and shaking but trained, slipping back into medical command. He would sew you shut with the same reverence with which he split you open.

And all the while, he kept talking to you, even when your eyes grew heavy and your heart-monitor beeped just a little slower.

“You did so good… I’m gonna make it perfect, okay? I’ll clean every inch… You’re safe… I’ve never—never trusted anyone like this.”

And you knew, beneath the sweat, the blood, the trembling afterglow, he meant every word. That’s why, when your eyes finally shut, you didn’t fight it. Even when you heard muffled calls of your name.

── .✦

“A week??”

Jack nodded, stern.

“Love, come on, you can’t do this to me.”

“I can, will, and already have.”

Jack had turned your post-orgasm crash into a fucking hospital wing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, watching him move around the room like a storm in latex gloves, reorganizing tools, labeling vials of your blood, adjusting dosage meters with that signature furrow between his brows.

The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, barely masking the copper tang that still lingered under Jack’s nails no matter how many times he scrubbed.

You lay flat on the medical cot, body bound by more tubes and machines than you could keep track of. A bag of saline hung above you, feeding steadily into your arm through a neatly taped IV. Two blood bags dripped slowly into the second line, another pump released a slow stream of antibiotics. The pressure monitor beeped softly with each stable beat of your heart.

“You lost two liters,” he replied sharply, not even looking up. “You’re on bed rest until your red cell count stabilizes. You were open, and you let me— We—” He paused, visibly tensing. “You’re lucky I was aware enough to stitch you before you passed out.”

“I didn’t pass out.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I moaned, Jack.”

He stopped, slowly turned to face you, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable beyond the never-ending scowl.

“You are the most medically irresponsible human being I have ever met.”

You smiled sweetly. “And yet, I’m still your favorite patient. And you’re the one who agreed.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then sighed, finally stepping closer to the bed.

“You’re incorrigible,” he muttered, brushing your hair back gently. His hands, for all their violence and precision, were so soft now, fingertips moving across your temple, trailing along your jaw, checking your temperature like he always had.

“You stitched me up like a fucking Renaissance painter,” you teased. “Could at least let me walk around to show it off.”

“Out of the question. You’re not moving until your body starts producing again. Your hemoglobin is down, your BP is shaky, and if I catch you trying to stand—”

“You’ll what?” you smirked. “Strap me to the bed?”

Jack’s hand paused mid-adjustment on the IV regulator. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. There was that pause, the look he always gave you when he was trying to decide between scolding you or absolutely wrecking your shit.

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered.

You grinned wider, triumphant, but your body betrayed you with a groan as you shifted. Pain flared down your abdomen, a dull, bruising ache around the tight seam of fresh stitches.

Jack was on you in an instant, hand on your shoulder, pressing you back down.

“Easy,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’ll tear something. The internal stitches need time to settle. You’re not indestructible, even if you proxies like to act it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you push it,” he snapped. “You’re mine. That means you heal right.”

You blinked, momentarily silenced by the possessiveness in his voice. Jack didn’t say things like that often, but when he did, he meant them.

“…Okay, Doc,” you murmured, reaching up weakly to curl your fingers around his. “You win.”

“I always do,” he said softly, entwining his fingers with yours and kissing your knuckles. “Now shut up and let the IV do its job.”

You smirked as he leaned in to check the dressing on your incision, humming thoughtfully under his breath. For all his fussing, his touch lingered more than necessary, fingertips trailing your ribs, his mouth brushing your stomach just above the bandages.

“You know,” you said lazily, “if this is the treatment I get for letting you cut me open, I might volunteer more often.”

Jack gave you a flat look. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You laughed, drowsy now, drifting in and out beneath the buzz of medication. Jack pulled the blanket up over your hips and leaned onto the cot, careful not to jar the tubing. His arm traced across your chest, palm resting onto your heart to feel the steady beat underneath.

“You’re infuriating,” he murmured, already sounding more relaxed.

“And you’re obsessed.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, grinning. “I am.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[vktrsmonster]

I never thought I’d find a fanfic that matched my freak so well. I love you, random person in tumblr, I LOVE YOU

[vktrsmonster]

Jayce fanfic request on the way !! Please do not forget about me ☹️

[vktrsmonster]

I am but a vagabond, with his bleeding heart in his hands; drenched wrists and tainted skin. I am so terribly alone, and there is no nameless ditch deep enough to welcome my love. No soul quite as lost, I’m afraid none as mine. I do not wish to drag weary flesh up and down my endless, pitiful path.

But I shall wait, wait. And I shall not despair. For into the cracks of this rotten bosom, life will bloom.

Life must—must it not?

A/N: Wrote this and thought it sounded a little like something Adam would think, too. 🙇

[vktrsmonster]

these two won’t leave my thoughts alone 😵‍💫

[vktrsmonster]

…I’ve been so absent on here lately, I am so sorry 😵‍💫 I’m supposed to get my own computer by Christmas, so I’ll come back after it (hopefully??)

Anyways, SORRY again 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[untitledfanfictionsideblog]

God . . Your Flambae x Trans reader was everything to me !!

If you are comfortable, may I request Flambae x trans male reader with wound dressing? Either Flambae tending to reader’s wounds or vise versa!!

Recover With Me (Flambae x trans male!reader)

Warnings: Cursing, reader had top surgery and is referred to masculinely, surgery recovery, mentions of post-surgery drains and other medical stuff, tons of fluff regardless (Words: 1k)

(Author’s note: Hiii, tysm for requesting!!! I got your other ask talking about top surgery being an option for this request, and I had some ideas and couldn’t resist :] Flambae is such a fun character to write with a romantic pairing, I love exploring that soft side while also making sure he acts like a dick!! as always, please do not repurpose, steal, or otherwise misuse my work in any way, including anything involving Al.)

MY MASTERLIST

“C’mon, wake up.”

Chad hovered over the body of his sleeping boyfriend, your face lolled to the side.

“Damn, you really are out cold.” He muttered, “Come on, dickbag, I need to change your bandages.”

Your eyelashes fluttered with a drowsy groan, furrowing your brow at the lamp he’d switched on for better view of you.

It had been more or less like this for a week now, since you’d gotten out of your top surgery appointment. You honestly didn’t recall much happening in the past seven days, other than Chad being a strange blend of concerned and his usual amount of pissy, and you crying in the car about something stupid as the anaesthesia wore off.

You felt the bed shift as Chad leaned down to place a light kiss on the tip of your nose, as you slowly roused from your slumber.

“Fuck off…” You grumbled, “It hasn’t been that long, you don’t have to do the stuff.”

He huffed, retrieving a bottle of water and a wet washcloth from the bedside table.

“It has, you’ve just been asleep on and off for days.” He snorted, looking at you through the corner of his eye, “Time’s a bitch.”

“Time’s a bitch.” You agreed, giving him a weak thumbs-up as he approached, holding the cloth.

You didn’t love it, and neither did Chad (and trust that he made it clear that he wasn’t pleased), but it needed to be done nonetheless.

Gritting your teeth and swallowing your pride, you watched as he began the process of cleaning the area. He was uncharacteristically careful with it, trying not to put too much pressure anywhere around your healing incisions.

You wondered sometimes if, during the surgery, they’d swapped out your version of Flambae for a caring, sweet version.

That was until he spoke.

“So, you gonna be walking around with the fuckin’ T-Rex armspan for a month?” He quirked an eyebrow, “At least I can keep things out of your reach now.”

“You wouldn’t.” You mumbled, “You’re soft on me.”

“Drink your fucking water.” He rolled his eyes, grabbing the plastic bottle and making sure the straw was right before angling it towards your lips.

You took a few sips, giving him another thumbs-up as he pulled it away again.

His eyes shone with something as you did, and you tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

“What’s on your mind?” You questioned, patting the space beside you on the bed.

Without hesitation, he slid onto the mattress beside you, turning to face you on his side as he shifted to get comfortable.

“Feels weird when you’re like this.” He admitted, “Not in a bad way, but you’re usually… y’know.”

“Not bedridden?” You added, with a quirked eyebrow.

“Not what I was gonna say.” He scoffed, “But, I mean, yeah.”

“Hmm. What were you gonna say?”

He let out a quiet chuckle, turning to lie on his back now as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You’re independent, and you’re smart, and strong. You’re always up doing something.” He explained, “You’re still all that shit, but now you’re kinda stuck doing anything but that.”

You let a deep lungful of air make your chest rise, before pushing it all out in a sigh.

“It’s weird for me too. I wanna go back to work, not… sit here incapacitated for six weeks.”

“What, you don’t like me here?” He teased, “I make a damn good nurse and you know it, bitch.”

A laugh bubbled up your throat, and a grin spread across your face, probably the first real one since you’d gotten the surgery.

“I appreciate you taking care of me, Chad. Especially since your bedside manner is so sweet and gentle.” You joked, “You missed your true calling.”

“Okay, shut up.” He moved to lean over you, propping himself up with one arm as he lowered himself slowly to be nose-to-nose with you, “Goin’ a bit too far, gorgeous.”

“Cutting the flattery.” You pouted, before he caught your lips in a gentle kiss.

His hand found its way to your cheek, thumb tracing your cheekbone as he pulled away from your mouth by maybe an inch, before scattering soft pecks over the rest of your face. He moved to your forehead, placing a gentle one between your brows and at your temples.

You let out a cozy hum, wishing you could raise your arms enough to cup the sides of his head in your hands and squish his face like you always did to piss him off a little. Despite the drains attached to you, and the painkillers that left a surreal fuzzy feeling in your body, this was the best you’d ever felt.

He got back up, sitting on his knees as he looked down at you. Carefully, his fingertips grazed the surface of the compression binder you’d been instructed to keep on.

“Something wrong?” You murmured, blinking up at him, “You’re looking pensive.”

“I’m… I’m fine.” He confirmed, “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” You replied, “Not, like… perfect. The feeling of okay, but three points higher. Fuck, I’m not making any sense.”

“No, you’re not.” He gave your hand a little squeeze, “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mm. Fine.”

You let out a final huff of laughter, rolling your head back up to face the ceiling once again. Drawing a deep breath, you let your eyes close. You’d been warned about how exhausted you’d be, but shit, did you have no idea.

The mattress shifted, as if Chad was about to stand, but it halted suddenly, and after a moment you felt his warmth radiate over from the spot beside, and a gentle tug on the comforter that told you he’d opted to join you in your hazy slumber.

And with him, it felt like the time passed by even slower, every second a soft chorus of the wind outside, his light snores, and the ambiance of a room full of the kind of love that stayed throughout the quiet moments.

[vktrsmonster]

> transmasc!reader — top surgery scars mentioned

Velvety fingers caressing every scar, wishing to know more, to see more. He had refused before, oh so many times, but tonight something had changed.

The look in Adam’s eyes was unafraid, still wary but with an unfamiliar bravery to it. Setting himself before you, his thick, black coat began to slide its way to the ground. A threadbare cloth held on to his trunk, inharmonious to his size—kept in its place as though a chain around the neck, a decaying facade. Trembling hands reached towards yours, delicate flesh of holy creation. In himself he saw damnation, but in you he found hope. Salvation for a wicked corpse, forgotten by all stars except one. You were his sun, his taste of blissful death. Through you, your suffocating absence and enveloping existence, rebirth.

Guiding hands begged for absolution, aged wounds palpitating with foreign pain. As his chest was left bare, blouse now resting alongside his coat, soft tips explored unnamed land. Your digits traced over his marks, enough delicacy to care for a porcelain doll. There was no mistake made, no stitch left bloody and undone, no rushed motion. Merely precise endeavors, a drowning cold where there was once tender warmth. You ached for him. His agony was yours, his itching incisions mirrored yours.

Retrieving your arms to yourself, your blouse soon joined the rapidly growing pile of clothes scattered on the floor. And, as petrifying as vulnerability was, he held you closely. Entirely spellbound, Adam’s hands trailed down your exposed back. Fearfully making their way to your chest, he searched for your eyes. Gaze shifting back and forth, wishing to admire your body and every expression, his fingers touched you slowly. Tracing, too, over marks, now yours.

He had thought of himself a monster, an abomination, before his sight found you.

In your scars, he saw creation instead of destruction. In your sealed cuts, he felt relief and not distress. He, for once, comprehended the beauty of invention—but most importantly, of reinvention.

On that ill-lighted night, Adam slept with peace. Scars to scars, skin to skin. Encompassing warmth emanating from you, his dear companion of genesis.

[vktrsmonster]

It’s my fault for watching the new Superman movie until now. I’m completely obsessed ☹️

[vktrsmonster]

Hey!! This is an official message to let you all know that I’ll be posting more than just Frankenstein related content!

It seems I trapped myself in a very small box by declaring I was only posting about Adam and I’m not happy about it 😵‍💫 Although I love him still, I’ve got many other interests!

[vktrsmonster]

hiiiii !!! do you write transmasc!reader stuff at all??? and, if so, could you do an Adam x transmasc reader fic ??? :3

Hey!!

Yes, I do write transmasc!readers. If you want, you can send more details about your request! If not, I’ll simply write something a little more general, so don’t worry. Hopefully I’ll be posting it soon ;)