#It's sinday somewhere mates

[independentzaun]

The air smelled of river water, of smoke, billowing up the lungs, and of something akin to wolf and dog at the same time. Sharp teeth held onto Silco's neck as a heavy body kept him pinned. A fur-covered paw with black claws trailed across his side. The other paw, heavier and augmented with bronze claws, dug itself deep into the ground to ensure that neither of them would sleep.

Something large, heavy and pulsating was burrowing itself into Silco's anus. Sliding deeper and deeper, it would eventually come to rest against a muscular wall, deep inside the lithe man's body, bulging him out from the inside. Then under the shuffling of wolf paws, the large cock would pull itself back out again, inch by inch, burning Silco's anus from the inside, before it was almost out and start its journey all over again.

It was a slow and steady rhythm. In and out, in and out. However, eventually, it would become faster and faster. There were grunts near Silco's head, heavy pants and the wet moisture of drool as Warwick got increasingly excited while he had his way with him in this dream. Finally, those spine-tingling teeth relented in their hold upon him and were replaced by a large, flat, blood-red tongue, going across the left side of Silco's face as the wolf came so long and heavy, his cum dripped down between Silco's legs.

(Again, I know it is no longer Sinday, but I don't care. XD)

((Have some Silco x warwick smut! Content warnings uhhh... there's no blood or anything so I guess just, smut? Oh right. And Monster Fucking. Cut cause length. Also quick note I'm 110% fine getting smut/sexual/nsfw stuff at any time! Doesn't have to be Sunday.))

Sometimes dreams moved fast. Flickers of thoughts, and emotions, and images all rushing past each other until slamming together to form a precise scenario. For one reason or another Silco’s mind had been on Warwick, or Vander, or both and so this evening had lent itself to a rather particular dream. How exactly he’d gotten into the current situation was impossible to say. There was less a memory or a set of images, and more a feeling as though he and Warwick had met somewhere, and that they hadn’t so much argued as more teasingly taunted each other. That Silco had said one thing too much, and found his challenge taken up and his body slammed against a wall as the huge wolf man had ripped his clothes off and then tossed him onto the ground.

In dreams sizes, preparation, and pain didn’t really matter of course. Whatever was needed to make the moment at hand possible was glossed over, or faded away into quick flashes of a large tongue sliding into Silco’s rear and huge hands keeping him from moving. What mattered was in both the dream, and in the physical world Silco was rock hard. Those dangerous claws that had ended so many lives made him shiver as he growled out one word. “Warwick…” His hands pushing at the ground under him there was a weird kind of lust, and desire even as his head turned and Silco let out a little taunting Tt.

“You aren’t going to do it, hah. Big bad wolf, and here we all out here all alone and you stilllll….ahhh fuck.” He’d been a brat years ago with Vander, and deep down inside Silco was still a brat. His hips had been moving from side to side making it harder from Warwick, and his shoulders moving just enough to ensure the wolf had to actually keep that bite so he wouldn’t get away. All the same Silco didn’t say no, or try to fight, or run. He wanted it, and the moment that thick cock stretching him open sunk inside him his nails dug into the ground under him.

There was a moment in which Silco almost kept it up. Another softly groaned comment. “Is that...all you… fucking….” He wanted it though. Warwick wasn’t Vander, wasn’t his mate, but he was the next best thing. Huge paws held Silco down where once hands almost as large had done the same, and fangs bit where once lips had kissed while something about that slow steady rhythm opening him up until the one fucking him could speed up reminded him of how Vander had once made love to fucked him.

The bratty comments, and behavior slid away and lowering his head almost submissively letting Warwick get a better bite at his neck Silco groaned. “Don’t stop, don’t...fuck Warwick, you are so damn… fuck I’m full. Don’t fucking…” Feeling Warwick start to slow almost as though about to stop Silco growled. “Okay, okay, okay. Please, Warwick… I want you.” Voice dropping to a near whisper at the end Silco gasped as the wolfman moved faster. Quick eager thrusts, and fast movement giving both of them what they wanted as they both descended into grunts and moans and growls with Silco almost as animalistic as Warwick in his sounds. At the end Silco felt his own orgasm hit spilling his cum across the ground in front of him as that tongue slid along his face and he turned biting playfully at it before suckling at it as his much smaller tongue ran around the tip of it. He didn’t care what Warwick was in that moment. They were each others.

Darkness. His room in his house dark, and empty as his eyes flashed open while Silco took a long shuddering breath shaking with a groan that spoke of pure need and desire before a sigh came from him as his head hit his pillow. “Fuuuuuck me I haven’t had dreams like that for… Warwick, really? Fuck, what are you thinking Silco?… That’s going to get you killed.” Eyes half closing he tried going back to sleep, but a minute later shoved his blankets away and with the assumption he was alone reached down running a hand under his underwear to grab his still hard cock and started that age old motion with a little half whispered groan as he attended to his own needs.

He was going to need a cigarette before going back to sleep.

#silcoanswers #sexualmuses

[zhe-family]

I now you didnt anounce it or anything but can i do a sinday request?

Okay there is this alphabet thing im gonna give you letters! ;)

R O S E- A M A R E L

( a. e. l. m. o. r. s.)

((Seen that letter thing before you nasty, also this would be after the darklands))

„stop calling me out like this“

A= Aftercare

He likes snuggling with his mate and touching them a bit, with rose specifically with Rose when she transforms into a manticore and he can sleep in her floofy. Also big spoon

E= Experience

He got more experience that he would like

((I have the headcanon that he got abused in the darklands))

L= Location

Nest room or Garden, somewhere private.

M=Motivation (what gets them going)

Kisses, Heat touching, normal things other than that, Rose doing stuff with her wings wrapping him in them, or sometimes if they bathe together

O= Oral (giving or receiving)

Receiving, he gave enough, same headcanon as E

R= Risk

He took a lot of Risks back in the day when he didn’t have a real relationship, nowadays rose keeps him in check

S=Stamina

2-3 Rounds he gets exhausted very fast

:) hope you got what you where looking for

„Greylings are the worst“

#lemon #asks #caal

[tsurugixbuster]

#[JUKEBOX] #;Music #[/~i love thee with a love that will not die~\] #[23 wishes] #;aerith #;aesthetic #Spotify #It's sinday somewhere mates #god rest our souls #-makes a cross of his chest-

[thiefkingyall]

What are the requirements for your muse to sleep with someone?

In-Depth Sinday Meme

What are the requirements for your muse to sleep with someone?

It depends on what he’s looking for. If he’s just looking for something quick with minimal effort and no follow-up responsibility, then not much. If he’s looking for something with more commitment attached to it then usually he’ll start off at the bar or somewhere similar-- if they frequent the places he does, he’s more convinced they’ll be a better match. He’s more likely to look at men, though if a female approaches him he’ll give her the same fighting chance. If they were shorter than him, that’s a plus but as history shows, he’s not against taller mates. He honestly won’t really turn down someone unless he can’t handle their personality. Egotists tend to clash with him because he, himself is such. It depends, sometimes he can stand to share the stage in that sense, but it has to be someone he respects at that point.

#𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝓂𝑒 𝓎𝑜~ ((asks)) #𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝓈𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓎: 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈~ ((anonymous asks)) #𝒽𝑒'𝓈 𝒶 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓃~ ((headcanons))

[9th-in-a-line]

Mating Season

Sinday Prompt:

No one could say Caleb was irritable or agitated, but he was definitely anxious and distracted, that how he ended up bumping into the stranger. Usually, he was hyper-aware of his setting, but they had flown under his radar. His distraction caused him to drop the file he was reading and he was left scrambling to pick it up. 

“I’m sorry, my head, is somewhere else today.” With someone else too for that matter.

#[prompt answers] #fearlessandchaotic #[Inquiries]

[hellsholygroundarchived]

⬛ ⬛ ⬛

ultimate sinday meme. || accepting. 

           the restaurant is packed and dom wishes they’d picked somewhere else to celebrate. but this band-mates had insisted and dom figured an hour out couldn’t kill him. of course tris had tagged along, keeping at dom’s side as they sit at the bar. the end of tour called for a celebration but the singer is tired and spending time with tris topped his list at the moment. of course his friends didn’t get that. but not long after seating tris has his hand at dom’s thigh, squeezing gently. 

           lips press to dom’s ear and tris seems eager to rile him up, feeling the heat spread up his neck and into his cheeks. his boyfriend seemed to have other plans in mind. the singer fidgets at the bar, nudging tris playfully but there is no relenting. it’s torture. another squeeze of the thigh does him in, quickly going to stand and leaving a bill on the bar. tris places his arm tightly around dom’s waist and his band-mates don’t bother protesting, just offering dom a wink. 

#dcgausscr #( dying in LA vs. ) #( queue. )

[exiled-knight]

For the NSFW Sinday meme. W.O.L.F (awolfslsment)

Well then.. xD

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Grayson upholds a hard time getting back into the state of things.   Being a Knight, he often followed principles by the book majority of his immortal years. There would be a few pages among history that he strayed from the path, indulging in what others would describe as being only human.  Out of the many centuries he did endure , he had only been with two individuals. Even so, only one out of the two he had gone to bed with. Nor did it last long, their courting.  It ended almost abruptly as it had begun.

Such a gap between, it levels the exiled knight easily awkward were the act to occur. Not stating he is inexperienced, no, he is far from it. He can be an sensationally intense lover, were his barrier lifted.  More wild than he has ever been.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

With this being a repeat , I’ll add one more to the box.

He doesn’t really hold a preference.  He enjoys being touched, whether it be hand or by mouth .  Though he also savors tasting his lover in all features, so he would not be opposed to giving and exploring those forbidden fruits from time to time.

He isn’t the type to spit out what his lover may offer him, either.  Consuming such fluid would just mean he would have a better grasp  upon his mate. Covering two senses, smell and taste. A developing ferine state of things that he may or may not still misunderstand.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do) 

Somewhere indefinitely isolated.  He had always been private with his affairs.  Would be even more favorable and discreet were he with another man, if not due to society’s view upon the matter. I can see him favoring nature, if not more appeasing to him now than it ever was. Or amid the privacy of his own or their, quarters.  Though he has been favoring the idea of imagining someone pinned against the wall . Perhaps it is the thirst for dominance dwelling in him.  He’d be lying if the idea hadn’t come to him once or twice, to pin someone down to the wall/tree or the floor/soil beneath them.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

I think this would go easier and a lot more understanding with pictures. Majority of positions that cross his mind are quite feral. Can become very rough and tight quartered rather than long pacing thrusts - I’d see him more of a piston and rolling hip type of guy.  

Just a few.

@awolfslament

#awolfslsment #Late Sinday meme #He often fights with his wolf like nature when he comes to understand the influence #\||/ Alternate Universe \||/ #NSFW;

[thatredsaiyan]

Dream, Remember, Sex (since it's Sinday and all, but you don't to!)

Send me a word and I’ll write a headcanon about it!

(ohhhh boy my first major sinday post!! not particularly risque, but readmore just in case)

Dream/Remember.

C-C-COMBO UNLOCKED!!!

Serrana’s memory of her time in Gero’s lab was fuzzy at best. This is the result of her awakening prematurely and alone, before her programming and growth was considered complete. The trauma and near death experience she went through not long after waking certainly didn’t help matters.

Serrana had a vague sense of the world around her and was aware of many basic concepts, with rough fragments of her origins hidden within the fringe of her conscious memory. But Serrana’s subconscious knowledge was another story completely. Memories of her unorthodox “childhood” and Dr. Gero came to her in her dreams, in the form of highly intense nightmares. Anxiety dreams are no stranger to Serrana, especially early in life. Thankfully, this improves over the years, as she begins to feel secure in her living situation.

So, information that she repressed became available to her gradually. This inability to recall her origins would get her into some trouble with the Z-Fighters, making her appear even more suspicious to the group. Serrana remembered first waking up and not much else. You can imagine the frustration she felt.

Sex.

Serrana may seem naive, but she’s a lot more perverted than she lets on. Despite being a virgin, she has done more than her fair share of…research…into the subject, and eagerly awaits the day she’ll find the right person to sleep with. Serrana does take intimacy seriously, and is not the type for one-night stands or impulsive trysts. She has specific standards in mind for her partner, and she has to be SERIOUS about you if she’s willing to take that big step.

Her standards are heavily influenced by what Vegeta has told her about saiyan culture, especially for those of royal blood (which she technically is). Serrana doesn’t want a fuck; she wants a MATE.

Also? She totally stole some of Master Roshi’s lewd VHS tapes. And probably still has them sitting somewhere, collecting dust now that she’s discovered the wonders of the INTERNET and INCOGNITO MODE.

What a rascal.

#bioxdroid #!memes:re! #!ref! #!sinday! #!musings! #!asks!

[sparkystarsmore]

I said I’d write up this headcanon, so here it is. It’s also the saddest sinday post ever. You’re...welcome?

Under the cut for some potentially triggering discussion of depression, suicidal thoughts, drug and alcohol use, and mental (and sometimes physical) abuse.

I told you it was a doozy.

Jono has poor coping skills. 

Oh, sure, he’s picked up a few over the years, but he’s still pitiful when it comes to self-care. Part of that is his ongoing struggles with depression. He likes to think that didn’t start until his powers surfaced, and to be sure, they certainly didn’t help matters at all. But even though he’s never been formally diagnosed, it’s obvious to anyone with any sort of training/experience after speaking with him for a few minutes that he’s been a textbook MDD case since at least his teenage years, and possibly since earlier in his childhood. 

He doesn’t know at this point whether his dangerously self-destructive tendencies stem from mental illness or if they’re just due to his personality in general, but they’re there regardless. Combined also with an addictive personality, those tendencies are exactly why he went a little overboard with the normal teenage rebellion shtick. Where underage friends might sneak a couple beers into a social gathering, he began hiding bottles of hard liquor in his bedroom and nearly flunked out of school for being too hungover to function some days. Where other friends shared a cigarette now and then to earn “cool” points or whatever their goal was, he developed a chronic smoking habit that even now rears up every time he’s got a mouth and lungs again. Where friends began smoking pot because that’s just what teenagers and musicians alike do, Jono began dabbling in a little of everything -- whatever he could smoke or snort or taste, though he points out that at least he wasn’t dumb enough to resort to needles.

Sex was no different. He went overboard, and he especially seemed drawn to risky encounters with exactly the wrong kinds of people. He didn’t deserve something soft and sweet and innocent, he thought, and that wasn’t the true “rock star” way besides. And shortly after finally letting himself have that gentleness and affection with someone, his powers manifested, and the girl who’d been dumb enough to trust him nearly died for her foolishness. Or at least that’s how Jono sees it. 

Although his actions had clearly been rooted in devaluing himself, he’d never been actively suicidal until his powers showed up and took away the only coping mechanisms he’d ever had, however unhealthy and unhelpful they might have been. He tried to kill himself twice within the first few weeks of his new life as a mutant; he gave up after the second attempt, when it was clear Nature or God or something wanted to keep him around just to torture him some more.

Flash-forward to when he was transformed into Decibel, a terrifying reminder of the monster’s blood that had always been in him, even long before his outward appearance had matched. He was furious, horrified, and most of all, relieved--this body had bones to break and blood to shed. It could die, not like that terrible dead shell he’d been trapped in the last several years. 

With his body fully intact again, even if it didn’t truly feel like his body anymore, he reverted to all his old habits and kicked everything up a notch or five. He doesn’t remember much about the first few weeks now, lost as he was in a drunken, drugged-up haze. Now, all he remembers are broken fragments of days that blur together. He remembers waking up in a bathtub, still clutching a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. He remembers waking up again sometime later (or was it before?), face-down on the floor next to a pool of his own stinking vomit, which was a surprise to him because he wasn’t eating much so there shouldn’t have even been anything in there. He remembers picking utterly needless fights with everyone and goading them until fists began to fly, and he remembers the searing pain (and his joy at actually being able to feel that pain) as he was punched in the jaw or the nose or the cheek or wherever. He remembers hunched over on the ground in an alley somewhere in . . . he thinks it might have been Hackney . . . spitting blood onto the ground, cradling a broken hand, and cackling like a madman as the thugs he’d gotten into an entirely avoidable scrap with hurried off, clearly unnerved by having picked the wrong mark to try to mug.

And then, after he got his giggles in that way, he headed off to the first tall bridge he spotted that looked like it might do the trick. He’d learned from the last time he’d tried, and more importantly, he now had bones to break from the impact and lungs to fill with water, not like that useless, lifeless shell that had kept him trapped and somewhat alive before. He knew what to do better this time, but he was stopped before he could take that leap again. He was recruited into the New Warriors, and for a time, he felt somewhat human again. Useful. Worth something.

Then Age of X happened and everything in his life went to shit all over again. 

He was one of the unlucky ones who came through the other side . . . different. Or in his case, hauntingly familiar, once again missing pieces of himself -- and the glimpses of sanity he’d scraped together as Decibel. The blue-gray skin and red eyes were gone, and he was thankful for that--but he never would have exchanged them for the gaping chasm replacing the upper half of his body and the wild psi-flames pouring out of his chest and face. 

Dr. Rao put him on suicide watch from basically the moment he arrived and she did her intake, and he might have laughed at her if he’d had any inclination to speak or even look at anyone. It was so absurd; he’d been hauled into a hospital the last time he’d woken up as a walking show of horrors, and he’d tried to end it then, too. The doctors there, baffled by his physiology and how he was even still alive, nevertheless put him on suicide watch as well. 

He’d tried again since then. God, he’d tried, three times overtly, countless times in myriad other ways, and it never took. Dr. Rao was fooling herself if she thought by stopping him from trying to fully kill off his body that she could stop the poison in his head that tainted every thought he’d had since he was eighteen.

But just as before, he knew what to say and do to get released. He knew how to pretend all this was acceptable, or at least something he could live with. And the day he was allowed to leave the lab unattended, his first thoughts, just as they had years before, turned instantly to wanting to seek out some way to finally break this body and the prison it had formed for him. 

But he wasn’t eighteen anymore. He wasn’t a scared kid anymore. He was a jaded adult, aged far beyond his years by what he had seen and experienced, by what he had done not just to himself but to others, and he was just tired. There were no easy way outs, he knew. Not for him. He was cursed to live this life as a glorified zombie, trapped in a body that was nothing but a sick joke of a reminder about who he used to be. 

Once again stripped of his old (if unhealthy) coping mechanisms, he resorted to the only one he had left. Once he made it off Utopia, once he made his way to the mainland, he found there was no shortage of people willing to use him and break him down in a way he couldn’t do to himself anymore. He went home with anyone who’d have him--or went to their car, or a nearby alley, or a motel, or on more than one occasion, the public toilets of whatever rundown bar he’d decided to haunt for the night. The college girls were easy, desperate as they were to score with a mutant to make themselves feel like grownups. The fact he also apparently hit on a number of their “bad boy” kinks didn’t hurt, of course. 

But more than that, Jono deliberately sought out the worst sorts, the ones who sneered at him and made bigoted remarks about him being a mutant, never knowing that he was reading their thoughts the entire time and knew exactly what filth clouded their minds. They told him he was a genetic freak who didn’t deserve to live, even while Jono could feel bile he couldn’t produce rising in a throat he didn’t have as their thoughts bled into his and flooded his mind with vivid depictions of himself bound and gagged (oh, if only they knew) and serving as some kind of closeted mutant fetishist’s fantasy made (mostly) flesh.

Those sorts . . . those sorts he pulled into the toilets with him or followed them after they left, eventually winding up in their shitty apartment that even without working lungs he just knew smelled like stale cigarette smoke and unwashed laundry. Those sorts were the ones Jono targeted most, the ones who would smack him around (and get a punch or two for their troubles as well, depending on his mood), the ones who would pull at his hair until his eyes burned (they couldn’t water anymore, after all), the ones whose hands were rough and calloused and cared nothing about his pleasure, whatever he could still derive from this wretched corpse and all its ruined nerve endings, the ones who bent him over a table or the back of a couch and grunted the whole time about what a pathetic, ugly, worthless mutie freak he was -- one they were using to sate their darkest lusts, and sometimes he’d point that out just for laughs, even knowing it often only earned him another slap, maybe a punch depending on how close to home the remark hit.

After, if he could move -- and that was never a given with some of them -- he simply got dressed again and left without a word or even a glance back. Usually. There was one time, when one of the bigots had surprised him by breaking down into tears halfway through, Jono had poked about in his head and gotten glimpses of the man’s own mutation, and a family that looked happy and normal by any objective metrics. Jono had wanted to puke.

<<You need to be honest with yourself, mate,>> he’d lectured, hypocritical as always when he knew he would never be honest with himself. The man had looked up from the pitiful, sobbing ball he’d formed on the bed. <<And your wife. Not really being fair to anyone, you know?>>

Jono pulled his jacket on and left with the man’s bitter swearing and scorn ringing in his head. He still wonders now and then if the advice meant anything in the end

He went home every time -- wherever “home” happened to be at any given time -- covered in scratches and, if he’d been lucky enough to be hit in a place with something like circulating blood, enough of a bruise to satisfy him. He’d go back to Utopia, stubbornly refusing to look away when he noticed Wolverine sniffing around him and then shooting questioning looks at him. The one time Wolverine had attempted to broach the subject, Jono shut it down inside of four words and walked away. He didn’t return to the island for two weeks after that.

Wolverine eventually offered him a job -- as a teacher. Jono had laughed in his face, or he’d at least approximated what he had of a laugh, now that he was back to just his telepathy. It was all so bloody absurd. He was supposed to teach students, children, about anything? And not just that, but he was supposed to teach a class about how they could learn to accept themselves, powers and all? 

He still doesn’t know exactly why he accepted. He’s known for a while that he’d rather work behind the scenes than on the front lines; his powers, put quite bluntly, terrify him, and the less he has to use them, the better. But even now he wonders what he was thinking. Why the hell did he accept?

The move across the country was nice, at least. He was used to the Northeast. It felt familiar, even if it still wasn’t quite home. But he couldn’t go home, so this would have to do. 

So he became a teacher. Biggest joke the universe has played on him yet, he thinks, and he distinctly remembers going out at night, fucking some undergrad whose name he doesn’t even care to get and who’s just going to go brag to her girlfriends later about getting the hardest bingo square on the board, or letting himself get fucked up by some bigot who either hates him for his genes and wants to punish him or who hates himself for being attracted to him in the first place. It was always the same, regardless. He still trudged home in the early hours of the morning, showered, made sure to wear long sleeves to hide the marks on his skin, and then he dutifully marched off to a class full of scared teenagers looking to him to tell them all about how they could learn to love themselves. 

He’d never hated himself more than those days, when he’d have to talk about self-love and self-kindness and all that other bullshit with teenagers who were somehow under the impression his opinion was worth a damn, all while his wrists itched from the cuffs that had just been scraping them hours earlier, or while his legs still ached from having been put into such an awkward position for so long, or while he could feel his shirt catching on the deep scratches on his back that had been left by some local uni girl’s nails. 

Teaching, finding a sense of purpose, was supposed to have helped. Wolverine had told him it would. He’d reassured Jono that “whatever shit he was going through” would work out when he had someone besides himself and his own misery to focus on. But it didn’t--not at first. In fact, it was the exact opposite, and Jono found himself sinking even deeper into self-loathing with each passing day, and he began seeking out worse and worse outlets. 

He still has the scars from those last days. Dead flesh doesn’t heal, after all. 

And then one morning, everything snapped into focus like a camera adjusting its lens and finally pulling out a scene’s crisp details. He woke up, sore and sick as usual, but in a bed that wasn’t his own. A few panicked seconds later confirmed it was a motel room, and fractured memories of the previous night began fitting back together in his mind. Didn’t much help the sickness, but at least they helped him calm down.

Until he noticed the wadded-up bills on the nightstand. 

If he could still cry, he would have broken down at that exact moment. It wasn’t being mistaken for a sex worker that bothered him; it was the tangible, physical reminder of what he was doing to himself, of what he was going out of his way to do to himself, of what he was all but begging people to do to him, just so he could feel something, anything. 

He spent the next several minutes dry heaving -- not that that accomplished anything, but body memory is a hell of a thing, even for one whose body has been in ruins for years. And then, slipping the mask firmly back into place, he simply took a shower, got dressed, and pocketed the money. It went to a homeless woman he saw panhandling about a block from the motel. She tried to thank him, and he blew her off, wished her well, and began the long walk back to the school. 

It took him the better part of two days to reach it, but he’d done his penance. 

He taught his class the next day, then the next, then the day after that, and he stopped trying to destroy his mind in place of destroying his body. A student thanked him a few days after, something about him having given her the courage to ask someone out on a date and that other person saying yes. She’d been so giddy about it, shy and uncertain but excited by the prospect someone actually liked her -- and Jono still doesn’t know why, but he’d hugged her and thanked her for letting him know how it worked out. 

Things didn’t work out; she reported back later that the boy just wasn’t right for her. But as far as Jono knows, she’s found someone else and has been dating for almost a year now, and he hopes they make it. Even if he can’t, he hopes she does.

#about jono #headcanons #ficlet #[might retool this as a straight-up fic and post it over on ao3. might delete later idk] #[did i meme right?]