#He's such an ugly little thing I love him so much

[ethe-realfantasy]

"I don't need time, I need you."

(Angst, established relationship, Simon is going through it, but he is still so gentle and vulnerable with you???, I sobbed writing this… should this be a new series? Idk guys you tell me)

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

It starts in small ways.

You notice the change first, not with anger, but with worry. Simon comes home quieter than usual. The shadows in his eyes sit heavier. He doesn’t sleep through the night anymore, sometimes you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face like the weight of the world has finally settled in his palms.

You try to talk to him. Gently, you're always gentle.

“Did something happen?”

He shrugs. “Just work.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’m fine.”

But he’s clearly not.

And after a while, you stop asking, because being met with silence feels worse than hearing the weight of his truth.

He starts pulling away in other ways, too. Fewer touches. Less eye contact. The warmth in your shared spaces fades like breath on glass. He still shows you love, quietly, in his own ways, but you can feel the wall going up and it hurts.

One day, after a particularly long stretch of silence between the two of you, you finally break.

“You can’t keep shutting me out, Simon. I’m not your enemy.”

He looks at you like you just told him the sky isn’t blue anymore. And then he looks down and avoids you completely.

“I’m trying to protect you", he simply says.

“From what?” Your voice is thin, breaking despite your best effort. “From you?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you step closer. “I don’t need you to be okay all the time, Simon. I just need you to let me in.”

“I can’t,” he says after a long pause. It’s not angry or cruel. It's just tired. “You wouldn’t want what’s in here."

There’s nothing left to say after that. Just silence. A long one.

“I can’t be in a relationship with someone who won’t let me love all of him", you whisper.

He stiffens like he’s just been shot in a place he didn’t expect.

You turn toward the door, already halfway out. Your coat’s in your hand and your voice is shaking from the effort it took to say what you just did.

“Wait,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t reach for you or grab you. He just... stands there.

You pause for a second.

“You think I want to be like this?” he asks, and there’s frustration there now. Not aimed at you, it's never really aimed at you, but it's thick in the air like smoke. “You think I like being the man who can’t talk about what’s going on inside his bloody head?”

Your grip tightens around the coat.

“I don’t know what you want anymore", you say, not turning to face him.

“I want to come home and not see the things I’ve seen stuck behind my eyes.” His voice drops. “I want to lie beside you and feel like I deserve to. I want to protect you from the ugliness I carry every damn day.”

You finally turn, slowly, with glossy eyes “But I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“I know,” he says, almost to himself.

You step forward, just one small pace, like you're still waiting for something he can’t quite say.

“I wasn’t made for this kind of talking,” he adds, a little helpless. “Wasn’t raised for it. Wasn’t trained for it. But I’m trying.”

You watch him quietly and your heart cracks under the weight of what’s not being said, of how hard it clearly is for him, even now, to let you in.

“You don’t have to say everything,” you say, voice softer now. “Just… don’t push me out. Don’t treat me like I’m a door you can close whenever it gets heavy.”

His gaze lifts to yours. And you see that he’s tired and also scared. Scared of being known too much, maybe. Of loving you too hard and not knowing how to keep it.

And still, he doesn’t ask you to stay.

He wants to. It’s there, all over his face. But it’s like something inside him just won’t let the words form.

So instead, as you open the door, he says it, almost under his breath.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes as soon as you hear the words and your shoulders tense. It’s not the first time he’s said it, he says it often. Sometimes too quietly. Sometimes when he’s angry. But this time it lands like an anchor.

And still you do not turn to face him. Instead you keep your hand resting on the doorknob. You're waiting.

You love him too. God, you do. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like you're standing in a room, begging through a closed door.

A breath leaves your lips slowly and only then, you turn. Just enough to meet his eyes across the small space between you.

“Then say it. Say it like you don’t want me to walk out,” you say, barely above a whisper.

God, why won't he say it?

Simon doesn’t move right away. He looks like someone still caught between instinct and truth. That part of him that retreats when things get real… and the other part that won’t let you go.

He takes a step forward. Not close enough to crowd you, but enough to reach your eyes fully. Enough that his voice drops to something raw, and low, and unmistakably real.

“I don’t want you to walk out", is all he says.

No excuses. No promises he’s not sure how to make. Just that truth, stripped bare.

Your lips part like you're going to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat works around the feeling pressing there and you exhale shakily through your nose instead. Your fingers finally release the doorknob.

It's not a step forward, but you're not leaving, either.

And Simon… he watches that tiny gesture like it’s the biggest thing in the world. Still, he doesn’t rush to close the distance.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits. “But I’m better when you’re here.”

The air between you feels electric. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that trembles. Your pulse is still racing, your chest rising and falling like you just stepped out of a fight... or into one.

You watch him and see the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the softness trying to push through his guarded stance. He’s not easy, he never was, but this? This took something out of you.

Still, your fingers twitch slightly at your sides.

Simon doesn’t move yet. He stands like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal, only this time, he knows he’s the one who caused the wound. And he’s terrified he might make it worse.

Your voice comes quiet and tight in your throat.

“I don’t need perfect,” you murmur, “but I can’t… I can’t keep being shut out like that.”

Simon’s eyes don’t leave yours. “I know.”

You step forward again, closer this time, although still cautious, like you're bracing for another sting.

But Simon finally moves.

He lifts his hand slowly, his palm rests open in the space between you. He's only offering.

You glance at it. After a long pause, you place your hand over his, tentative and trembling. It’s like the moment finally exhales.

Simon’s fingers curl gently around yours. There is no pull or force. Just that grounding warmth in his touch, steady and solid.

"If I want anyone inside this mess of a head… it’s you.”

A shiver rolls through you and your heart flutters.

“I hate that you say things like that when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, and for the first time all night you see a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Then you take the final step, just close enough that your forehead nearly touches his chest. You haven’t leaned into him, not yet. But you're right there.

And that’s when Simon rests his chin just over the crown of your head. And you, exhausted and full of everything that still aches in you, finally let your head fall against him and close your eyes.

You're ready to try again.

-------

Until a few weeks later, it starts again with nothing.

A short comment from you, something about how he seems off. How he barely touched his dinner or how he hasn't looked you in the eyes since coming through the door.

Simon brushes it off. “Just tired,” he said, flat.

You try again gently. “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

And that's it.

His jaw clenches. He doesn't snap or raise his voice, instead he just goes quiet. A different kind of silence. Not soft or thoughtful. Not the kind that gives space. This one is cold, rigid. A wall going up brick by careful brick.

You watch it happen, because you know it by heart now. That slow closing of the drawbridge and the subtle retreat behind armor.

But this time you don't knock on the gate and plead for him to open up. You don't follow him with worried eyes or curl your hands in your lap like you did a million times before. You just… go still.

Quiet.

You push your chair back, slowly and clear the plates without a word. Your movements are precise and gentle. No slamming cupboards or angry sighs, just that unbearable calm that says this is how it breaks.

Simon sits at the table, staring at the space where you just sat.

It takes him a minute to realise what he has done.

He hears the faint sound of the sink and the clink of dishes. So he stands up, unsure. His voice doesn't come easily, it never did with this.

“y/n.”

You don't move when you hear your name. You don't flinch or turn to look at him. You stand there at the sink, back straight, shoulders set like you're trying not to feel anything at all.

He approaches slowly, his boots soft against the floor. He doesn't want to startle you, hell, he doesn't even know what he wants to say. But something in him needs to be close.

Then he hears it.

It's neither a gasp nor a sob, not really. It's just a little break in your breath, the kind of sound that only comes when someone’s trying too hard not to make a sound at all.

You reach for another dish, knuckles white, and your head dips a little.

He stops in the doorway, like it physically hurts to take another step.

"Are you crying?”, he asks softly, softer than he spoke all night.

The question hangs between you, a little helpless. And God, he didn’t mean it to sound like that, like it broke him a little to ask.

You don't answer or turn around. But he sees you pause, hands faltering, the plate still under the running water.

And that's enough for him to know.

He exhales through his nose and a hand comes to rest at his side, curling into a fist like he doesn't trust himself to reach for you yet.

He has faced gunfire and blood, stared down the darkest parts of the world, but this quiet ache in your silence, this is what cracked him open.

“y/n” he tries again, voice low, with a thread of apology woven right through it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just..” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t always know how to bring you into the mess in my head.”

Still, no answer. But your shoulders shake, barely, and that sound comes again, it's stifled, quiet and full of all the things you never wanted to say like this.

Simon takes a cautious step forward.

“If I made you feel like you were alone in this…” He pauses and wallows hard, unsure of which words to use. “I really didn't want to make you feel like this.”

You set the plate down gently, still not looking at him. But he sees your hand press to your chest, like something inside there just hurt too much to keep in.

He steps beside you, not touching yet. Just enough for you to feel him there without him needing to say anything else.

“I hate that I made you cry”, he says with his voice cracking.

There is a tiny hitch in your breath, like his nearness itself is too much right now.

He notices and freezes immediately.

“I really didn’t mean to..” he starts, but you shake your head, still not facing him.

“I can’t right now, Simon,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I can't talk to you right now.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and it guts him, because he sees every trembling inch of you. The strong, steady woman now holding herself together by a thread. And knowing he’s the one who pulled it taut… it hollows something in his chest.

“I’m just” you try again, sucking in a sharp breath as your hands press into the edge of the counter. “I’m so tired, Simon. Tired of trying to pull things out of you. Tired of always being the one asking. Guessing. Waiting.”

“You shouldn’t have to guess,” he finally says, voice low and full of regret. “That’s on me.”

You still won’t turn to face him, but your shoulders are trembling harder now, small, shaking sobs you can’t hold back anymore. His chest aches with the sound of it.

He reaches out and lets his hand brush lightly along your upper arm. A touch you can refuse, if you want to.

You don't flinch away, but you don't lean in, either. It’s all too much and not enough, all at once.

“I’m trying,” he says, and it comes out raw, broken. “I’m trying to do better.”

You turn your head slightly, not fully toward him, but just enough to show him the wet shimmer of tears on your cheek.

“Then tell me that, before you shut me out,” you whisper. “Tell me when you’re struggling instead of making me feel like I’m not allowed in.”

Simon breathes in hard through his nose and nods, once. “Come here", he says, and pulls you in a tight embrace, more tender than he has ever been.

It isn’t a command. It’s a request. Something he needs, but only if you need it too.

At first you hesitate, but then you turn, just enough to lean your forehead against his chest. It's just a small surrender. He wraps his arms around you without saying another word, holding you like you are fragile and unbreakable all at once.

“I’m sorry. God, 'm sorry", he murmurs.

Your forehead rests against his chest, but you don't stop crying. It‘s the kind of crying that’s silent at first, just trembling shoulders and breath caught in your throat. Then it hits in waves: Sharp little sobs that break free one after the other, muffled against his shirt. The sound rips through him.

Simon holds you tighter. One hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. The other hand is anchored at your back, steady and protective.

“y/n”, he says gently, barely more than a whisper, his lips near your temple.

You don't respond or lift your head, you simply sob harder and it shatters him.

He presses his face into your hair and closes his eyes, holding you like he could somehow shield you from himself. Like if he were strong enough, careful enough, you wouldn’t have to feel this pain at all.

But you do. And it’s because of him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, softer this time, “I hate that I did this. That I made you feel like this.”

You shudder in his arms and your hands are clutching his shirt now, wrinkling the fabric.

He rocks you slightly, almost unconsciously. Not to calm you, but rather just to do something. Anything. His own throat tightens and it burns him alive, knowing you're crying this hard in his arms, because of him. Because he was too afraid to show you the ugliest parts of himself. Too closed off.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over now, the words catching in his throat, raw and fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry."

You sob into his chest until your legs give slightly, and he feels it, the collapse under everything you've been holding together.

Without a word, Simon gently steadies you and guides you back into the bedroom. His hand never leaves your back as he sits you down on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of you like you might slip away if he turns his back for even a second.

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. His voice is low, warm and rough with emotion, but it's steady. Just steady enough not to make you feel more fragile than you already do.

You nod numbly, eyes glassy and cheeks blotched, and fold your hands in your lap while he disappears down the hall. He returns with a glass of water and a few tissues, kneeling beside you again, like you are sacred.

“Here,” he murmurs, pressing the cool glass gently into your hand, his other hand brushing your hair out of your face, soft and careful. You take a sip, but your fingers are trembling too much to hold it long, so he takes it from you and sets it aside.

Then he stays there, kneeling before you, eyes searching yours with something raw behind them.

He smooths your hair back again, letting his thumb graze your cheek. Your lashes are wet and your lower lip trembles.

“I know,” he finally says, voice hushed. “I know I keep shutting you out.”

You don’t respond and that silence alone breaks him more than shouting ever could. His hand lingers against your knee. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me?” He searches for your eyes.

“I know I’m hard to love sometimes,” he adds, eyes dropping to the floor for just a moment. “I don’t talk when I should. I shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He looks up again, his voice tightening. “I think I broke this.”

Your eyes well up again, more quiet tears slipping down. He reaches up and brushes them away gently with the edge of the tissue, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re the last person I want to lose", he whispers.

You lean slightly into his hand and that tiny gesture nearly undoes him. He feels it behind his ribs, a weight that presses hard. Still kneeling, he presses his forehead to your thigh, his arms loosely circling your waist. It's a wordless please. "I love you."

And he just stays like that, kneeling at your feet, arms around you, like maybe, there’s still time to put the pieces back together.

You stay still, with his forehead resting gently against your leg and his arms wound around you like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.

You swallow hard with your throat tight and aching, the aftershocks of your sobs still quivering in your chest. When you speak, it's barely above a whisper.

“Simon.”

His name comes out broken, like it costs you something to say it. He lifts his head slowly and your heart stutters at the look in his eyes, red-rimmed, heavy, wrecked with guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

It lands between you with the weight of truth. Your voice cracks on the last word and you have to look away as fresh tears gather.

“I’m so tired,” you say, brushing angrily at your cheeks, your tone raw and vulnerable. “I feel like I’m trying to love you with both hands tied behind my back. Like you’re only giving me the parts of you that are easiest to carry.”

His breath catches like he wants to interrupt, to explain, to apologize again, but something in your expression holds him still.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you say, softer now, gentler. “I know you’re not used to talking. I’ve seen you hold the weight of everything without saying a word. And I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried, to be patient." Your lips start trembling again. “But it hurts me too, Simon.” You finally look at him again and your eyes are full. Not just with pain, but with love too. Still. Even now. “Can’t you see that?”

He does. The sight of you sitting there, holding yourself together with fraying edges, still beautiful, still his... it guts him.

He reaches for your hand, slowly and carefully, like you might pull away.

“I see it,” he says. His voice is low and unsteady.

For a moment all you can concentrate on is trying not to cry again.

“I just don’t know if loving you should feel this lonely,” you admit and the way you say it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Simon presses your hand to his lips and doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“I don’t want to lose you“, he manages.

You close your eyes when you hear him say it. Like your body doesn’t quite know how to hold the weight of those words. Like they mean too much. Like they’ve come too late.

Simon watches you with something hollow and tight in his chest. Your fingers are still in his hand, but limp. Your shoulders curve forward as if you're trying to keep from collapsing in on yourself.

He’s kneeling beside the bed still, one arm draped across your leg, the other hand still cradling yours gently, like it might break if he grips it too tightly. Like you might break.

“I just”, your voice comes soft, but cracked at the edges, “I think I need some time.”

Simon’s breath catches.

His eyes search your face not with judgment, not even resistance. Just with that sharp, wounded stillness, like someone took the floor out from under him. His hand stiffens where it rests on your thigh, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying I want this to end,” you add quickly, your voice thick with the tears still lingering in your throat. “God, Simon, you know I don’t want that.”

He swallows hard, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I love you,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “You know that, right?”

He nods stiffly, like anything more than that would shatter him.

“But I’m drowning,” you continue. “And I keep waiting for you to reach for me and you don’t. You shut down. And I know you don’t mean to. But it leaves me alone with all this… And I just.. I think we need some time.”

Simon’s jaw flexes, something deep in his chest twisting.

He wants to say something. He wants to throw himself at your feet and promise you he’ll do better, that he’ll rip himself open if that’s what it takes for you to see inside him, to believe him. But the words sit in his throat like stone.

So instead, he leans forward and kisses your hand. “I don’t need time,” he murmurs. “I need you.”

You shake your head and bite your lip hard, your breath hitching. The pain on his face, that quiet ache in his voice, it all hits you too hard.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I… I have to figure out if I can live like this.”

He drops his forehead against your knee and rests there. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “But I love you.”

The words break against you like a wave, but you don't move. You just sit on the edge of the bed with you hands in your lap... the same hands he’d held, kissed, clung to. Now they’re locked together like a barrier. Simon stays kneeling beside you, not quite breathing. He searches your eyes and they are glossy, tender, raw in a way that strips everything bare. There’s no heat or anger in them, only truth.

And he knows:

You mean it. You really mean it.

´You need space... from him.

Simon swallows and it tastes like metal in his throat.

He stands slowly, but doesn’t move far. He just paces. It's not fast or frantic. More like he’s trying to walk the ache out of his chest. Like if he keeps his body busy enough, he won’t fall apart. His fingers twitch restlessly as he crosses the room and he even pretends to tidy something on the counter. Then he picks up a book and sets it down again. He glances toward you again and you're still there, still quiet. And it's all because of him.

He runs a hand down his face, with his jaw clenched and his breath uneven. For a moment it looks like he might say something, but it dies before it reaches his lips. Instead, he drifts toward the door and picks up his keys from the small dish by the entrance.

He stands there for a moment, hesitating.

“I’ll give you the space you asked for,” he says quietly, voice low and heavy, like it costs him everything. “But I’m not lettin’ go.”

You don't reply. You don't feel the need to.

Then he opens the door and steps outside, leaving behind a silence thick with all the words you didn’t say.

[notsodelirious]

PLEASE give me t4t ftm jason todd x reader!! i need to rub my pussy against his post patrol 😭😭‼️‼️

pleasantly surprised by how many people wanted this, but in any case, here you go <3

synopsis: Jason comes back and you help him unwind

notes: NFSW MDNI, both male and female terms are used to describe genitalia

tags: oral sex, fingering, brief penetration, banter, established relationship, wc: 2.7k words

this one fought me in the editing process, but i hope you enjoy anyway

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

The chatter from the TV became a soft blur in the sounds of the city below—it was well past 3AM but you could still hear the cars and life, crawling below your open window.

You’d stopped paying attention to the plot and the characters ages ago, content in just watching the pretty colours and actors flash across the screen, with no real sense of direction. They didn’t matter anymore, not as Jason trudged into the apartment with a massive sigh.

“Tough patrol?”

You craned your neck over the side of the sofa, giving him a soft smile as he loomed by your window, helmet in hand. He looked up at you, frustration and exhaustion coiled tight in his frame, shoulders tensed like he was still ready for a fight.

“Fucking dumbasses can’t follow simple fucking directions.”

“Tell me about it,” you said, with an understanding nod as you watched him dump his gear onto your kitchen table.

“One simple fucking direction,” he growled, slammed his gun down, undoubtedly denting the already beaten wood. “How fucking hard is it to understand ‘don’t go in alone’?”

You hummed as you moved to kneel on the sofa, watching him move around your apartment; it was always fascinating watching him exist in your space, like he was always meant to be there, a hole you hadn’t even known had been there filled by his presence.

It was comforting—maybe a little bit terrifying if you thought about it too much, but still comforting.

“Did everybody get out okay?” you asked as you watched him pull off his gloves.

“Everybody’s fine,” he said, shucked his jacket off, draped it across one of your chairs. You watched him shed layer after layer, an undeniable and everlasting warmth enveloping your heart as you sat and admired.

A couple of months ago, you’d never have imagined you’d watch him strip his armour meticulously—you’d have never imagined being trusted enough to be shown the cracks and soft spots in his armour, the latches and weak points.

But Jason undressed in front of you like it was the most comfortable thing in the world.

You couldn’t love him more for it.

“Timbit’s a little scuffed up but he’ll live,” he continued.

“And you?”

“Fine.”

His claim seemed to have some validity to it—in the low light and stripped down to his undershirt, you could see bruises that were blooming an ugly purple and old scrapes; but nothing from tonight.

He kicked off his boots, dropping his socks into them.

“So nothing went horribly wrong?”

He shook his head, white wisps of hair falling in front of his face, curling the slightest bit. His footsteps were heavy as he walked over to you, and slumped onto the sofa with all the grace and care of a walrus.

“So what’s the matter?” you asked softly as you left the sofa to stand between his spread legs, gently cupping his face. You brushed your thumb under his eye, watched as some of the tension slowly bled out of his frame and he leaned into your touch.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, tilting his head just enough to kiss your palm then your wrist. “Just… missed you.”

You huffed softly as you sank onto his lap, straddling his thigh, letting your hand fall from his face, smiling a little when he followed your touch.

“You missed me?”

“Are you gonna be a little shit about it?”

“No clue what you mean,” you smiled, trailing your fingers along his thighs before they caught on the buckle of his holster. You were quick to loosen the straps and pull them off—you were almost sad to see them go; they accentuated his thighs so nicely.

But you wanted access.

“Babe,” he whispered—his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“That’s me,” you smiled teasingly, leaning in just a little closer. His belt fell open with a click.

“Shit- wait-“

“I’m waiting.”

He bit his lip as he looked up at you, opening and closing his mouth as he struggled to find the words to say. You waited patiently, playing with the hem of his shirt, occasionally dipping under, brushing your fingers along his happy trail.

“Yes?”

“I-“ You pulled his fly down.

“Speak up.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, “I’ll get over myself.”

“And if I really want to?”

You pressed your lips to his, a poor distraction to finish undoing his trousers.

“Talk to me,” you said, scratching blunt nails just above the elastic waistband of his boxers.

“Keep going,” he answered as he sank into the sofa.

He bit his lip to stifle a moan and watched as your hand disappeared down the front of his trousers to cup his bare mound.

“Oh fuck.” His voice was soft, breathy—he was already falling apart at the seems in your hand and you’d barely even begun.

“No jockstrap today, huh?”

“Couldn’t be asked,” he grunted as he bucked slightly into your hand, rubbing his t-dick against the heel of your palm.

“Adventurous.”

“It would literally just get in the way.”

You snorted as you pulled your hand back and slipped off his lap and down onto the floor between his knees.

“You sure that was the only reason?”

“Yeah- mmph…”

You nuzzled his crotch, flicking your gaze up to his flustered face then back at your work.

“Yeah?” you smirked as you leaned your weight a little more against him. He cupped your face, petting the apple of your cheek.

“Taking your fucking time there.”

Your face fell immediately as you rolled your eyes, “Shut the fuck up-“

“Make me.” You glared up at him as soon as he said it, his smug ass grinning in return.

“Take off your shirt,” you said, waiting for him to take it off before you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his trousers, “Lift your hips.”

You pulled his trousers and boxers down as he complied, finally divesting him fully, and spread his legs further apart so you could see your prize.

His cunt sat there as a prized possession, and his clit, grown and swollen, throbbed softly in anticipation.

“Why are you so big?” you said softly as you stroked his dick, thumbing it softly as you watched it swell further under your touch. “I didn’t grow that big.”

“Choke on it,” he answered teasingly to which you only chuckled.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait, I’m kidding- Oh fuck,” his hands held you down instinctively and pushing you closer when you wrapped your lips around his fat clit and sucked.

You licked it softly, teasingly before delving back in to suck his soul from his dick, burying your nose in his curls.

You hummed and watched in delight as a shiver racked up his spine, leaving him panting and whining.

He pushed his hips closer, chasing your mouth, as he tried his best not to suffocate you.

“Please,” he gasped, looking down with wide, pleading eyes. “That’s- dude!”

You gave him a shit eating grin as you pulled away, stopping dead in your tracks before he could reach the slightest bit of satisfaction.

You used the collar of your t-shirt to wipe your face clean of Jason’s excitement before shrugging it over your head.

“You’re such a fucking dick.”

“You love me for it,” you said gleefully as you drop the shirt in favour of pressing your fingers to his cunt, pushing his folds apart as you trailed fingertips around his opening, teasing, watching his hole flutter.

It was mesmerising, watching him struggle and quiver, hole dampening by the second as you parted lips and explored him but never stretched him open.

You pressed soft kisses to the inside of his thighs, biting and suckling occasionally, letting your gaze flicker up to him every time he moaned or whimpered.

Eventually, you took pity.

“Ah, f- uck, baby,” Jason groaned lowly as you sunk your finger past his folds and into his pussy. You grinned when you heard the soft squelch as you pulled out and pushed back in.

You sat up on your knees, passing your clean hand behind his neck to tug him down, closer to you.

“Good?” you asked, tilting your head just enough so your lips could brush against his—you caught his top lip between yours, kissing him softly before you finally pulled away, just enough to hear his response.

“More,” he pleaded softly, rolling his hips in time with your movements—a second finger slipped in easily, his body stretching and accommodating to your intrusion.

“Better?”

“No, I want to feel you, damn it,” he grunted, exasperated, already urging you back up onto the sofa. “Need your fucking cunt on mine, yesterday.”

You chuckled, standing so you could take your sweatpants off and soon you were being pulled back down into his lap. He shifted so you were both sideways on the couch, warm hands splayed across your back, holding you close to him.

“Eager?” you teased—Jason crashed his lips against yours before you could even think to continue. You felt his hand on your chin, felt him cup your jaw softly before he was opening your mouth and pushing his tongue past pliant lips, licking the remnants of his essence from you.

Your cunt dampened under his attention, and you were left subconsciously grinding against his thigh. He pulled away a little and reached forward, fingers that were once holding your face slipping between damp folds.

“I love that pussy so fucking much,” he whispered as you moaned, rolling your hips against his hand. “You’re so fucking wet for me, aren’t you?”

“Look who’s fucking talking,” you gasped. He leaned in again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, and tugged softly—leaving you moaning and embarrassingly desperate, as you wrapped your arms around his neck to drag yourself closer.

He released you to kiss you properly, smiling softly against your lips—his hand left your pussy to slot one of his leg above yours.

When you finally parted, he leaned back enough to rest against the armrest and let your bodies fit together.

You slipped down before you could steady yourself, accidentally brushing your cunt against his.

You muffled a sound behind your hand but leaned back all the same, rocking your hips against his.

“Shit,” you gasped as you dragged your dick against his, gaze flicking up to his face, just in time to see his eyes roll back a little—Jason groaned, fingers digging into your ass, bring you back down, bucking his hips up so his cunt could meet yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and he looked down between your two bodies, watched your swollen clits bump against each other, teasing each other. “Fuck, so good.”

You held onto his thigh as he brought you back down repeated, grinding into your hips—you brushed your fingers against the scars on his skin, admiring his form in front of you, how his chest rose and fell from his laboured breathing, the faint surgery scars silver in the dim light.

“You’re so fucking handsome,” you panted as you began to grind down harder. You whined a little louder, something almost sounding like his name or a prayer.

Wet lips rubbed against each other, glistening in the dim lighting, soft, lewd sounds punctuating your breathing.

“You’re so warm,” he said softly, hands slipping and shifting just enough to start bringing you down at a steadier, more eager pace. “Just like that, just like fuck-“

You slipped up, shifting his leg off you, just enough to slip his dick past your soft folds, leaving you both moaning and panting hard.

It was an amazing fucking day when you figured out Jason had grown long enough to push his cock into you and you’d be damned if you didn’t take advantage of that.

You moved again, pressing your hands against his chest.

“You’re so big,” you groaned as you felt him just barely restraining himself front rutting against you. “You feel that? Feel so good stretching me open.”

“Babe,” he groaned, voice strained as his grip on you tightened, “So good. So fucking good, I-“

You felt his whole body twitch and tremble before he was coming, dick throbbing and cunt drenched.

You pulled away enough for him to slip out of you but still rubbing your pussies together.

“Good?” you smiled cheekily, panted and worked up. You were so entranced by the sight of his orgasm you’d almost forgotten your own.

But as Jason’s eyes found you, you knew he hadn’t.

“It’s okay,” you said softly as he sat up to place a hand behind your neck, the other already finding your clit between your bodies.

“I want to,” he promised in a low voice, lips brushing ever so slightly against yours. “Let me. Please? Let me make you cum all over my face.”

You moaned, just the thought of his face between your legs enough to reignite the spark.

“Yeah,” you swallowed, looking up to meet gorgeous glass green eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

Jason immediately guided you down onto your back—you let him move you however he wished, more focused on the way his biceps shifted as he gripped your thighs and pushed them out.

He moved down to your throbbing cunt, soft, open kisses down your ribs and tummy on the way.

“So fucking hot,” you heard him mumble under your breath. You couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling a little flustered but unable to stop smiling as his gaze flicked up to you. “Something funny, handsome?”

“No,” you smiled as you shook your head.

He just hummed, laying a last kiss at the end of your happy trail before nosing your dick softly.

“Jay-“

He slipped your cock into his mouth, moaning around it softly, holding your hips firm against his face.

He looked up ready to come again from the taste of you alone, eagerly devouring everything you had to offer.

Your hands flew to his hair, gasping softly as you rocked against his face, looking down at him so comfortably buried between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his only purpose in life.

As if he’d found true passion in your body.

You groaned loudly, tugging on inky strands, unsure if you were pushing into or pulling away from his touch.

“Shit,” you gasped, “Good boy. Just like that. Keep doing that.”

He whimpered at the sound of your voice, the gentleness and honesty of your praise. He pushed closed to your cunt, licking up your slit, suckling on your dick.

It coiled in your belly, and you cried out behind muffled lips, eyes rolling as you practically smothered him, thighs clamping around his head.

He whined loudly, happily, growing just a tad bit more eager as he drew you closer and closer to the edge.

Until you finally came, moaning his name.

He lapped at your cunt as you came all over his face, drenching his mouth and jaw in your ecstasy.

Your legs were shivering as you finally came down—Jason slowed a little when he felt your legs release him but didn’t stop until you began to nudge him away.

He pulled away a little, enough that his mouth was no longer on but still lying between your legs.

“Feel better?” you smiled as you wiped your thumb across his cheek, collecting some of yourself from his skin. You felt his full attention on you as you brought your thumb up to your lips, tasting yourself.

“Yeah,” he swallowed as he panted, smiling up at you softly. “So much better.”

He reached down, pulling your shirt off the floor to wipe his face.

“Seriously?”

“First thing I found,” he said with a shit eating grin before tossing it back onto the floor. “Besides, you also wiped your face on it.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his head against your stomach. You huffed softly, running your fingers through his soft hair, almost as an apology for nearly pulling his hair out.

“It’s my t-shirt,” you said, scratching his scalp, in a way that made him curl into your touch.

“No it’s not,” he snorted “It’s mine.”

You glanced down and lo and behold, he was right.

“So it is.”

“Thief.”

“Shut up. You love it when I wear your shit.”

“You’re still a thief,” he smiled up at you, before leaning down to kiss your hip. “Love you.”

“Yeah, I guess I love you too.”

“That’s gross.”

“Shut the actual fuck up.”

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

I have nothing to say for myself :3

requests are closed but my current projects list and masterlist are up on my blog <3

[itzpookiepooh]

Okay I have a funny request, how about the guys with an MC who dresses silly? I'm talking like, shrek tshirt and hello kitty shorts kind of thing, or just clothing with dumb phrases and lame jokes on. A completely unserious style XD

Jammies

It is important to click these links y’all 😭

You and Xavier were getting ready for bed when you both stepped into the room you were both wearing a crazy combo of pajamas. He had on hello kitty pajamas and a white T-shirt while you had Batman pajama pants on and a black shirt. You guys matched in a way.

“Freak mode…on?” You squint your eyes. The icing? Bunny socks.

“Well yours is basically an invitation to evil women.” He counters pointing to your shirt. You cross your arms looking away.

“Call it even and go to sleep?” You compromise as he firmly nods. If anyone were to walk in they’d see you laid over Xavier, both you guys pants legs ridden up and Xavier’s belly out from his bunched up shirt.

You and Caleb stand there, hands on hips, eye contact unbreakable. He was wearing the pajamas wrong. They were backwards and he thinks you’re wearing them wrong. The trunk was in the front!

“Caleb.” You called your body unmoving. “Yes?” He answers also unmoving.

“Those are backwards, my love.” You inform him. He crosses his arms chuckling, “No they’re not. You see that’s the whole reason I bought them—“

“Tag.” You interrupted. “Huh?” He questioned lifting his head up.

“The tag? It’s on the back…the elephant goes on the front.” You inform him as you twirl your finger in a circular motion.

He pulls the pants back to see the tag staring him in the face. You nod your head slowly. A moment of realization falls over him.

“I thought it would be funny.” He spoke lowly his head hanging low. “I know you did.”

You wanted to show Sylus the movie Cars because he had never seen it. He is already obsessed with it since he’s into different automobiles. You explained how Mater is your favorite character because he’s funny and sweet. Sylus thinks he’ll like Lightning McQueen because he’s a race car and he seems pretty likable. You don’t think he’ll like him.

“Sylus is this necessary?” You ask him genuinely as you step out in the pajamas he bought you both.

“I would’ve gotten you a Mater set but there weren’t any that weren’t for little boys.” He chuckles as you glare at him. It wasn’t ugly however, it was crazy how far he went for a movie he hasn’t seen yet.

“This is crazy.” You mumble pinching the bridge of your nose. “I let you choose our last set and someone had too much creative freedom.” He raises an eyebrow and shifts his weight to his hip.

“To be fair it was funny.” You shrugged. He loved the movie but hated how McQueen was acting in the beginning. You didn’t have the heart to tell him he doesn’t learn his lesson in the other movies.

“What are you wearing?” You ask Rafayel as he spins to look at you. Your boyfriend was dramatic but this was something completely unexpected.

“Me? What about you?” He points to your top and bottom combo. You give him the hand as his jaw drops.

“Is there a robe to match?” You raise your eyebrow sassily. He clears his throat shaking his head.

“I saw you playing in it when you bought it.” You expose him as he gasps.

“You were showering!” He points at you in an accusatory manner. “I got to get out eventually.” You tease sticking your tongue out.

“Ready for…bed?” Zayne asks trailing off at your outfit. He knew you had an…arrangement but this was kind of funny.

“I’m so ready that my eyes are gonna fall off.” You exaggerated as you starfish on the bed. Zayne just watches you.

“The shorts are very interesting.” He comments sitting on the edge of the bed. You beam at his compliment.

“And my shirt?” Your interest piqued since his is also piqued.

“I think it suits you a lot. I like it.” He compliments you as he kisses your forehead. He tucks you both in as you hold each other.

I tried my best!

[passionfruitchris]

OMG PLEASEPLEASE WRITE SOMETHING WHERE CHRIS OR MATT (your choiceeee) FIGURED OUT AN INSECURITY OF OURS WITHOUT US TELLING THEM DURING SEX?? 🙏🏻🙏🏻🧎🏻‍♀️

(like we tense up when he touches it or kisses it or somethingg!!)

“It’s just skin”

matt had been nothing but gentle with you — hands slow, voice low, his body warm and steady over yours. he kissed every inch like he had nowhere else to be, like tasting you was the only thing on the calendar tonight. his fingers danced up your thigh, knuckles grazing higher, and when he shifted down to mouth at your skin, you went still.

not obvious. just a quiet stiffening. barely a second long. but he felt it.

he pulled back just a little, still hovering, lips brushing soft against your leg. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching, “hey,” he murmured, voice softer than breath. “did I hurt you?”

you shook your head. too fast. your hand gripped the sheet. “no, i just—” you swallowed. “its nothing.”

he didn’t believe that. you could see it in the way his brow furrowed. but he didn’t press. didn’t challenge. he just kissed a little lower, and then paused again when he saw it.

the birthmark.

a dark, uneven splash of pigment high on your inner thigh. for as long as you could remember, you’d hated it — tucked it away behind angles, pulled shorts down farther, turned the lights off faster. you knew he’d see it eventually. you just didn’t know how you’d feel when he finally did.

but matt only blinked. then smiled.

“is this what you got all shy about?” he asked gently, brushing his thumb over the unmarked skin just beside it.

you couldn’t look at him. “i know it’s dumb. its just—ugly. i don’t like it.”

matt made a soft sound in his throat — almost like a laugh, but not mocking. more like disbelief. he leaned in and kissed the edge of it. then again. then right in the center.

“it’s just skin,” he whispered, lips warm against you. “and it’s yours. that’s what makes it beautiful.”

the way he looked up at you after - with nothing but love in his eyes — made you realize that maybe this didn’t have to be something ugly anymore. not if he could kiss it like that and still look at you like you were made of light.

thank you so much for the request!!

[vmlnrzmp4]

hii, i hope you're doing well, really love your writing,, can i request bonten + hanma as papa whose daughters get mad at them then asking other men to be her papa instead,, i think its so funny lol

a/n: hi darling! im so so soooo happy you liked the scenarios i make when im supposed to be productive T_T like again, i changed the request a bit. sry🙏🏼.

sanzu haruchiyo

the room goes dead silent after she utters those deadly words. "what did you just say...?" haru asks, his voice stern. and himari repeats. "you wish he was your papa?" "mhm!" himari nods, tears already falling down her chubby cheeks as she sniffles. a prominent 💢 appears on haru's forehead. as much as he wanted to take her in his arms and wipe away her tears, he knew she needed to be scolded in a way. you had to intervene cause haru already started packing all of himari's belonging—her plushies, crayons, princess dresses—in her pink barbie backpack, "you want him to be your papa? here. go live with him."

haitani ran

ran blinked. once. twice. when yua cried: "i wish uncle rin was my papa!" he couldn't believe his ears, "you want who—" "uncle rin! i wish he was my papa! not you!" everything froze when she cut him off like that. and it was time you try to settle them down, "ran—" "no no no. it's ok," he said, grabbing his phone, "i'll just call uncle rin now. i'll tell him to bring adoption papers." "nooooooooo papa!!" yua cried as she rushed and hugged her papa, wrapping her arms around his shoulders but he didn't hug her back, smirking to himself but his tone stayed stern, "nah, go to rindou. you're his daughter now."

haitani rindou

writes a diss track for a four year old........im joking. when rina mumbled saying she wished uncle ran was her papa—it was like a knife into rindou's heart, twisting slowly. you saw the hurt in rindou's eyes, "rin—" "im fine," he sighs, running his hand over his face. he plops down on the couch, looking at rina. he lets out another sigh. the saddest sigh known to mankind. rina just hugged the plushie tighter. "go on." he says. "...mhm?" "go to uncle ran. i wont stop you," you wanted to step in but he beat you to it, his insecurity showing through his words. the plushie rina was holding was long forgotten as she rushes to her papa, crying. unlike ran, rindou hugs his daughter back, "don't say stuff like that."

kokonoi hajime

as those words left miyu's lips, she slapped her palm over her mouth, her eyes widen as she regrets saying that already, hiding her face into your shoulder. and then, he makes her feel guilty by saying stuff like how much he did for her. buy her everything her little finger pointed at and played tea party with her, how he wore that ugly(yes UGLY) tiara cause she wanted him to look prettier, how he helped her with math homework and how much she troubled him, starting with the glitter in his hair to— "papaaaaa" she cried, cutting him off as she rushes out of your hold, hugging him. he smirks scooping her into his arms, kissing her temple, warning her to never say things like that again.

kakucho

it was all serious. no joke. hana was a good kid who could say no wrong, do no wrong. but when she said that she wished someone else was her papa, kakucho countered by saying—"you're not my daughter anymore."...yeah. he went overboard. hana cried and cried in your embrace. kakucho cursed himself so many times in his head. she refused to talk to him even after he attempts to soothe her. but that night, she stands by the bedroom door, saying that she didn't mean it. and that her papa is the best papa. he opened his arms and she rushed towards him. "im sorry," he whispers, "you'll always be my daughter."

hanma shuji

his eye twitched, "say that again—," oh boy, that sounded real dangerous already but he kept the monotone, "—and im officially done being your papa." and rui being the menace she is, repeats, sticking her tongue out at him mockingly. rui yelps as he picks her up suddenly without warning, grabbing his keys. "shuji— where are you—?" "dropping her off at her new papa's place." "what!!? no!!" rui yells as she tries to struggle out of his grip(failing horribly), as her tiny hands try to reach out for you, "mamaaaa! help!" you simply cross your arms, giving him a 'really shuji?' look. he lets her try to wiggle out of his hold and only halts before walking out the door when she apologizes, "papa! 'm sorry!" she even kisses his cheek! T_T and he smirks, making her promise that she wont complain like that again and made her say that her papa is the coolest. "that's right. you're stuck with me forever, gremlin."

[paintedonmyteeth]

Sukuna w/ an Insecure!reader

Another Sukuna x reader post >:))) I don’t have a lot to say abt this but here you go anyways. Asks are open for requests and rbs are heavily appreciated!

Art by @11101AM on twt

⭑.ᐟ — Sukuna loves you sooooooooo much, he doesn’t show it much but he really does. The man would do literally anything for you — and that goes to a concerning length like killing somebody if you asked him to (he knows you’d never would, you’d rather avoid him doing that), or maybe setting the whole world on fire just to see you smile.

⭑.ᐟ — He’s not having problems in expressing that through physical affection or words, he just doesn’t want to come off as "pathetic" or be seen as a "lovesick fool" as he says.

⭑.ᐟ — But the bottom line is he really does truly love you.

⭑.ᐟ — What he doesn’t understand is why this can’t be said the same for you, how do you not see how perfect you are???? Who the hell put these negative thoughts in your head? (You did ofc, and maybe some assholes from childhood. He’ll find them and kill them/hj). Another thing he finds baffling and confusing is why you’re always berating yourself with self-deprecating jokes.

⭑.ᐟ — It's unacceptable, the audacity even, to think of yourself as ugly or worthless like the rest of these weaklings. You're everything perfect in his eyes and not a single flaw exists.

⭑.ᐟ — With Sukuna’s close attentiveness with your behaviour he decided this obviously needed a change and he has his ways of doing so— even if they come off a little weird or threatening. (💀💀) He doesn’t know how to cheer somebody up, but he’s trying and that’s all that matters to him. He hates seeing you with that pathetic half-hearted look in your eyes and he’d much rather see you genuinely smiling or laughing.

⭑.ᐟ — Now whenever you’re feeling insecure again, Sukuna’s actively trying to flip that mind set; giving you praise (in his weird little way), physical affection, and what-not.

⭑.ᐟ — Compliments that sorta sound threatening, 'ominous positivity' type shit, “if you don’t learn to love yourself I will smother you with my affection”. It’s both confusing and kind of funny at times, (even though Sukuna’s taking this seriously), it does the job in making you feel less shitty about yourself and cracks a smile on your face.

⭑.ᐟ — As long as you’re his, Sukuna’s NEVER letting your insecurities get the best of you. And that mindset has to be non-existent completely when you’re with him. Otherwise he’s throwing hands/j.

[alicelillianshaw]

'Alice…'

Jack's brows knit together, and there's a strange swooping sensation in Alice's stomach. Not fear. Not apprehension. Nothing like that, but Alice still found herself searching his face intently, attempting to read whatever letters and words might be woven within his expression.

Obviously— she'd just shared a lot. They'd known each other for less than a week, and here Alice was, wanting to publish a piece in the fucking New Yorker about her feelings for him! That was a massive step even for a one year relationship. And for someone who had met four days ago? It almost sounded like lunacy.

But Jack.

Well.

What was convention? What were standards and rules and customary steps between two people flung at each other

Jack was Jack! Jack didn't hesitate. Jack matched her, and then set the pace. He was bold, and he was affectionate, and he was beautiful, and he didn't make Alice feel silly or delusional for anything that she said. The connection was there— they both were happy to acknowledge it. When Alice had spilled the ugly parts of herself, cried across from him, Jack had caught each tear. He'd assured Alice that every version of her— even that twisted, ugly part of her in college— was someone he wanted to be around.

But the way he was looking at Alice— she couldn't quite parse it. Curiosity burned within her, and she found herself pressing against him more, a gentle lean seeking the heat and solidity of him.

And then–

'Can you get out?'

Hu— oh. Oh. That wasn't even directed at her. Alice, confused, watches as the driver's eyes flick back up in Jack's direction.

'Sorry. Can we have some space?'

Oh. Space? Space! Alice blinks, hard, smiling a little in what she hopes is encouragement, because, well. What could Jack have to say to her after all that? After that proverbial gush of words, pledge of affections, voicing her desire to let the whole fucking world what she felt for him.

Maybe— that was too much? Maybe he wanted to reel it back a bit, except, well, no. No. No, Alice had seen the look on Jack's face, and she knew Jack and his personality and she didn't think this would startle him. He was an all-in sort of man. Whatever Jack had to say ... Alice would be alright with. They were alright. Her and Jack's hearts had brushed, melded, in a singular way, and she knew what flickered between them was intense. His eyes— cast into an exquisite Prussian shade of blue in the dark light of the car— finally raise to meet hers.

Oh. Oh. And there was something there that made her want to sink into him.

'Alice... I love you very much.'

An explosion of thunder— a summer cell that shook windows. A wave slapping against black sheets of rock in Oahu. Snow whispering through the trees where Alice had camped near Alberta. The trill of a Canyon Wren at her old house; the gentle whistle that woke her every summer. A million, billion different sensations and sounds flood through her brain, the glories of life and nature, big and small, and yet somehow none of these things sound even remotely as remarkable as the words that spill from Jack's mouth.

Not even close.

She even blinks, to process it, to make sure she's heard right.

He loves her.

Jack— the man across from her— loves Alice very much.

What a big miracle, in such a very short amount of time.

Alice grabs his other free hand.

"I love you."

"I think I love you more than I ever loved anything."

A breath, because Alice may pass out with how wonderful and mystified she feels, that Jack, remarkable Jack who can get thousands of people to adore him— sees Alice, and after four days decides he loves her.

Her smile is wobbly and wild.

"—Fucking thank you, by the way, because I was trying to work out when to get that in there, I know I just dropped a lot on you at once so I didn't want to overwhelm you, but—"

Alice squeezes his hands.

"Do you know how happy I am you love me?"

Relief washed over Jack like the first drop of rain after a six month long drought. Hearing Alice admit that she didn't want to go either. Couldn't she just stay? Forever? Yes, Jack was saying forever after four days. It didn't matter. Nothing did. Because it occurred to Jack that rules didn't exist for these types of things.

His relationship to Sophia had lasted nearly two years, including the one year of marriage, and that hadn't worked out for him. Jack had never been so happy to get divorced now. Because here was Alice, a stranger (but not really, not at all), telling Jack that she just couldn't stop writing about him. A dozen paragraphs about the waterfall.

Alice assured Jack that she didn't want to make anything worse — his public image, and she leaned in to kiss him in between her words, before continuing: she was excited about the way she felt for him, and she wanted the world to know.

Jack exhaled, and a strange wave of emotion passed over his eyes. He swallowed, stared down at her knuckles. She wanted the world to know how she felt about Jack. It was a public declaration of love, and Jack couldn't wrap his head around that. Jack had criminal charges pending. She'd walked in on him snorting an obscene amount of cocaine earlier that evening. She didn't know about the pills in his luggage, or the other skeletons in his closet.

Did he deserve it? It felt like he didn't, but he was working very hard to earn it.

"I think it's easy because of the person you are." 

The person that he was. Is.

Jack would've walked over a thousand miles of broken glass if it meant that Alice was waiting for him at the end.

Jack would've walked over a thousand miles of broken glass if it meant he got to read just a single line of poetry from Alice.

Despite what she'd seen earlier that day, Alice wanted to share her feelings for Jack to the world.

"Alice…"

His brows were furrowed, and he realized that maybe he was gripping her fingers a little too hard. He relaxed, soothing whatever discomfort he'd caused with a brush of his thumb, again and again.

They weren't far from the airport now. Just a few turns away. And he felt the faint vibration of his phone. Notifications, maybe, that the plane was ready to go, or that there was a delay. He didn't care. He didn't care whenever Alice was telling him all of these things that he didn't deserve. Things that made him feel dizzy.

Words that charmed him. Words that made Jack feel like the most important man in the world. Words that made Jack feel so loved.

Purpose. Alice gave Jack purpose, and he felt like it was to love her for the rest of his days. Little by little, Alice was picking up all of the broken, damaged bits of Jack. She was smoothing them out, gluing them back together until he felt brand new again. She was doing the impossible. Alice and her hands — did she know she performed miracles with them?

The car came to an abrupt stop. He looked up, and there was the plane. He wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at her hands for. Maybe a few seconds. Minutes. He wasn't sure. Jack swallowed, before finally looking at Craig. His driver of many, many years.

Craig who kept a secret better than anyone else on his staff. Craig, who'd heard some pretty cruel and damaging arguments with his ex-wife, and there were never any leaks. Jack trusted the man, but it didn't stop Jack from blurting something out.

"Can you get out?"

It took Craig an awkward silence to register that Jack was talking to him. Jack realized the bluntness of his request, and added:

"Sorry. Can we have some space?"

Craig dismissed himself pretty quickly. The driver's side door shut, and Jack remained silent because he didn't know what to say to Alice. Well, he knew what to say, but it had only been four days. But Jack reminded himself: there were no rules for this. He went back to staring at her hands, and more time passed, but Jack wasn't sure how long.

It was the good kind of silence. Comfortable and soothing. He hoped that he hadn't worried Alice with his rash behavior, and the quiet that followed. He was just … cherishing the moment because everything was about to change.

There weren't any rules. Jack wanted to tell Alice that he was grateful to have met her, that she'd changed his life. He wanted to tell Alice that he wouldn't have changed anything that happened in the last six months. It led them to this very moment. But the words fell short. He wasn't a poet.

Jack was always a fan of keeping things simple — in the moment. No thought, just action. He finally looked into Alice's eyes.

"Alice... I love you very much."

[thepinkpanther83]

Person A is Eddie and Person B is Reader

Eddie has been struggling with his mental health and thinks he is going to loose reader so reader reassure him.

Please and thank you!

(❤️🦇we love Eddie Munson here 🦇❤️)

All The Things That Break Me

One-Shot Request: “All The Things That Break Me”

Eddie Munson x Reader

💌 Author’s Note: This story was born from a prompt by the ever-wonderful @meankenna. Thank you, babe, for trusting me with your idea and for always delivering the kind of inspiration that sticks to the ribs. You asked for something a little soft, a little messy, and heavy with feeling... and I couldn’t resist diving deep into Eddie’s heart for this one. I hope it gave you everything (hurt/comfort) you were craving and then some. 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

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Summary: Eddie Munson isn’t used to being someone worth keeping. But when a bad night leaves him teetering on the edge, you’re there to steady him, offering quiet comfort, a fierce kind of patience, and a reason to stay grounded.

A moment of unraveling. A promise made in the dark. This is what it means to hold someone and help them heal.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“All The Things That Break Me”

The rain had been going for hours.

Not the kind that thunders and screams, just a steady whisper, like the world outside was trying to apologize for something it couldn't take back.

The trailer was dark, save for the faint blue pulse of the old clock across the room. You’d kicked off the covers hours ago, too warm from the tension in the air. Eddie hadn’t spoken in a while. Not really. Not more than mumbles and nods. And when he had, it had that edge to it- sharp and misplaced, like he was trying to cut something loose from inside himself.

You watched his silhouette shift again in the bed beside you. Still not sleeping. Just lying there, tense and wired beneath the weight of whatever storm was brewing in his chest.

He hadn't cried out this time- not like the last nightmare, when he'd woken with a gasp and a wet choke of a scream, clutching your arm like you’d vanish if he let go. No, tonight he just... unraveled quietly. Slow and silent. The kind of pain that settled deep in the bones.

You rolled toward him, voice gentle in the hush.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You’ve been… somewhere else lately.”

Eddie didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling like it had answers he couldn’t find.

“You wanna let me in, baby?”

His jaw ticked. He blinked slowly.

You waited. You always waited, didn’t push too hard. Because loving someone like Eddie meant knowing when to lean in and when to just be there- patient, grounded, open. The rain filled the space between breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice was sandpaper-soft and cracking at the edges.

“I think I broke something in me. And I don’t know how to fix it this time.”

The silence stretched, taut and awful. You could feel it coming, like the moment before a string snaps under too much pressure. Eddie hadn't moved in minutes, but something was happening beneath the surface. His breath stuttered. His fingers curled into the sheets like he needed to anchor himself to something- anything.

You sat up slowly, reaching over, brushing your hand against his arm. He flinched.

Not from you.

From himself.

From the storm rising inside him.

And then-

He sat up too quickly, chest heaving, eyes wide. Pacing. One pass around the room. Then another. Barefoot on cold linoleum, one hand in his hair, tugging at the roots.

And he snapped.

“I can’t- I can’t do this again,” he rasped, voice too loud in the quiet trailer. “Not with you. Not you.”

You didn’t move. Just watched. Heartbreaking but steady, like a lighthouse in the dark.

“They always leave,” Eddie spat, whirling to face you. His eyes were wild. Haunted. “Or they die. Or I fuck it up so bad they can’t stand to be around me anymore.”

He laughed then. A bitter, ugly thing.

“You know how many people I’ve lost, sweetheart? You even know what the math looks like in my head some nights? Because it’s not ‘if’ with me… it’s ‘when.’”

Then the memories began…

The garage is empty now. Dust-covered amps. Gareth’s old drumsticks still sitting on the snare like he might come back tomorrow. But he won’t. Jeff’s at Purdue. Grant got a girl pregnant in Kentucky. No one texts back anymore.

"You’ll figure it out, Ed," Gareth had said, right before he left. “You always do.”

He hasn’t picked up his guitar since.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Eddie moved like something was crawling under his skin, back turned to you, voice low now.

“They left. They all fucking left. And I get it- I get it. Who wants to stick around for the guy who never grows up, right? The freak. The curse. That’s what I am.”

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

The air outside the trailer smelled like ash and gasoline.

Sirens in the distance, a cruiser down, a good man bleeding out. Eddie’s still kneeling on the ground, hands coated in the cop’s blood, trying to keep pressure on the wound. His brain is reeling from too much… too much fire, too much betrayal, too much truth.

His father stands a few feet away, fidgeting, glancing over his shoulder like the woods might lunge for him next.

“Come on, kid,” Alan mutters, hoarse. “We can still go. I’ve got the van- hell, your girl is probably already waitin’.”

Eddie looks up from the officer, face hollowed out and smeared with soot. “You wouldn't leave me again,” he says, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. “Not after everything we planned. Not after everything you said.”

Alan flinches. Just for a second. That old flash of guilt flickers in his eyes- then dies.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he says, voice thinner now. “I didn’t sign up for... for all this.”

He turns. Just walks. Like it’s not the dozenth time he’s done it. Like the trailer behind them isn’t still burning to the ground, devouring what little of Eddie’s life hadn’t already gone up in smoke.

No goodbye. No look back.

Just the taillights of Eddie’s own van disappearing into the dark.

Wayne was the one who showed up- again, quiet and steady like he always was, picking up the pieces his brother left behind without asking for thanks, without making Eddie feel like one more thing broken.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Eddie clutched the edge of the counter now, white-knuckled.

“I know what I am,” he muttered, teeth gritted. “Broken. Rotten. Cursed. Just waiting for the next goodbye.”

You stood then. Slowly. Didn’t speak. Just closed the space between you and laid a hand on his back.

He froze under your touch.

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

Hospice room. Overhead lights that buzz too loudly. He was six years old, sitting beside his mother’s bed, fingers curled around her cooling hand. She used to sing to him when he had nightmares. No one sings to him anymore.

Eddie whispered now, the storm inside reaching a breaking point.

“My mom. My dad. The band. Chrissy. The upside-down… fuck, sweetheart, I should’ve died down there. I almost did.”

. ━━━━⊱~⊰━━━━ .

His body is broken. Blood pooling beneath him. The demobats gone, but their damage done. It’s cold. He thinks he hears Dustin screaming. He thinks he sees stars. Maybe it's just the blood loss. Maybe this is it…

And then, your voice. Your voice calling him back.

Back in the dim, rain-hushed present, Eddie turned. He looked wrecked. Wet eyes, red-rimmed. Shoulders trembling.

You waited.

And then, broken and blazing with fear, he said to you, like it was torn straight from his soul:

“Because I can’t lose you. For God’s sake, not you. I lost so many people. But you? No. I don’t care what I have to do… I will keep you safe.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t reach for him just yet. Not because you didn’t want to- but because you knew how delicate the space between you had become. Taut like a fraying string. One wrong move and he might snap shut again, curl back into that unreachable part of himself where the light couldn’t touch.

So you gave him one moment. Then another. Let the storm echo out in the quiet.

And only then- only then… did you lean in, slow and sure. Your hand found his cheek, thumb brushing over the damp skin there, and your forehead tipped to rest gently against his.

“Eddie?”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you at first. Like the name didn’t quite belong to him anymore. But then- soft, hoarse:

“…Yeah?”

You swallowed, voice smaller than you meant it to be. Honest. Frayed at the edges.

“Promise me I won’t lose you in the process.”

His face twisted- eyebrows knitting, jaw tightening like it physically hurt to be seen this clearly. His fingers ghosted toward your knee, where they trembled mid-air before resting there, unsure.

“I…” He trailed off, eyes flicking away, then back again- moisture clinging to his lashes. “I’ll do my best.”

It landed like truth. Fragile and imperfect. And so, so real.

Not I promise.

Not You won’t.

Just: I’ll do my best.

And in that moment, you loved him all the more for it.

You cupped his face, both hands now, gently guiding his eyes back to yours when they tried to dart away again. “That’s enough, baby,” you whispered. “That’s more than enough.”

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt to hear. Then his breath caught, and when it came back out, it shuddered through him.

Your knees bumped together on the edge of the bed, and you took his shaking hands in yours. Guided them to your chest. Let him feel your heartbeat, steady and strong beneath his fingers.

“Right here, okay? Can you feel that?”

A nod.

“That means I’m still with you. Still breathing. Still choosing you.”

His lip wobbled. One of his hands clenched into your shirt like he was terrified you might float away anyway.

“I’m scared too,” you admitted, voice shaking. “Watching you shut down… pull away… it makes me feel like I’m losing you inch by inch. And I don’t want to pretend that’s not happening. I just-” Your throat went tight. “I just want to be let in. Let me carry some of it, Eds. Please.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

And then- he folded. Right there into you, like gravity had given up holding him alone. His arms wrapped around your waist like a lifeline, and he buried his face into your shoulder, clutching you like he could press himself into your bones and live there.

His breath came ragged, but he tried. He mirrored yours when you slowed it down. Matched the rise and fall. Let your quiet words anchor him:

“You’re not alone. You’re not broken. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You stayed like that, the two of you curled in the half-light, rain whispering against the windows, and the storm- finally… began to pass.

He didn’t speak for a while- not with words, anyway.

But you could feel the shift. The way his weight slumped into yours, the last of his resistance bleeding out with every breath he took against your skin. He wasn’t trying to outrun the ache anymore. He wasn’t gripping the fear with white knuckles. He was here… letting you hold the parts he didn’t know how to carry alone.

“C’mon,” you murmured after a while, your lips brushing against his hair. “Let’s get you into bed, rockstar.”

A quiet huff against your collarbone- halfhearted protest, half surrender. He let you lead him, limbs heavy with exhaustion, back to the sheets still rumpled from the rough night. You crawled in first and opened your arms, and he followed without hesitation. Like muscle memory. Like he was always meant to end up here.

He tucked in against you, face pressed to the crook of your neck, the curve of his spine melting. You held him, arm folded around his middle, chin resting in his curls, and just breathed with him. Slow. Steady. Real.

Your fingers of one hand threaded through his hair, gentle and slow. His breath puffed warm against your clavicle. One of his hands found yours beneath the covers and held it tight.

“I love you,” you whispered into the hush.

“Love you too,” he slurred back, voice thick with the kind of exhaustion that only comes after a storm. He pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, a little crooked and half-asleep. “Even if you’re too good for me.”

You smiled into the dark, tightening your hold on his head just a little.

“You’re stuck with me, Eddie Munson. Even on your worst days.”

A low groan, muffled into your skin. “God help you.”

You kissed the top of his head. “Yeah, well. I’m scrappy.”

He didn’t answer- not really. Just let out a tired, grateful sigh, his body curled around the comfort he never thought he’d get to keep.

You stayed like that, the two of you cocooned in warmth and quiet, the hallway light still glowing softly through the open door. Not perfect. Not fixed.

But safe. Together.

And when sleep finally came, it came with his heartbeat against yours, your fingers laced with his, and the soft hum of a promise held gently in the dark.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000

Masterlist

[thesoftboiledegg]

"The Rick, the Mort and the Ugly" is getting a lot of rave reviews, but for me, this episode was a mixed bag. We got decent pacing, funny gags, great character designs (and, in true Rick and Morty fashion, all those cool-looking Ricks die a second later) and a shred of character development for C-137 Rick, even though he was barely in it.

The writers managed to get me to care about Homesteader Rick by showing his quiet, reserved life. As a character, he's not anything mindblowing, but he was strong enough to carry the episode. Boss Hogg Rick was a hilarious villain who was also convincingly evil.

Still, my main issue is that this episode just...doesn't have much of a reason to exist. Like other episodes from season six onward, the story rehashes an earlier plot with a new setting and cast of characters.

Like its previous installment, "The Ricklantis Mixup," this episode gives us a break from the C-137s and focuses on zany antics at the citadel. However, the former is one of Rick and Morty's most famous episodes because it balances several genres, explores one of the show's most fascinating concepts and throws in some surprisingly sharp social commentary.

"The Rick, the Mort and the Ugly" tries but doesn't quite get there. We're already rehashing an earlier concept, which isn't necessarily bad if the writers have something new to say, but this episode isn't as creative as the previous installment. Instead, it's just a straight Western with no subtext.

The leads are a rehash of previous Ricks and Mortys, too. Arcade Morty is a tamer Evil Morty, and Homesteader Rick is a meaner Cop Rick. Sidelining Arcade Morty halfway through was probably a smart decision on the writers' part because he wasn't revealing anything new about Mortys as a whole.

And after this episode reveals that Ricks are rebuilding the citadel, Homesteader Rick destroys the whole thing again. Maybe it's best for the writers to move on instead of going back to earlier ideas, but it's still a bit of a letdown. I wish the writers would stop tossing great concepts in the trash just to give their plots an "epic" conclusion.

I will say that the female/trans Ricks in the parlor were a delightful surprise. Combined with Rick and Mr. Nimbus getting intimate in the title sequence, the crew is finally going further than I ever thought they would. I hope we get more explicit queer moments in the future, especially when so many other companies are bending the knee to Trump and his goons.

Ian Cardoni was clearly having a blast, too. Voicing Rick is difficult enough, but he gave Rick a variety of accents and mannerisms without losing his essence. Boss Hogg Rick's voice is bursting with personality, yet still undeniably "Rick."

The Mortys' resolution also somewhat salvaged this episode for me. If the story ended with the citadel's destruction, it would've been pointless, but seeing Mortys take control of their lives gave this episode a little poignancy.

Also, I had no idea that Ricks were cloning themselves. That adds another layer to the citadel's endless horrors.

But overall, does this episode live up to the hype? Not quite. When I saw the previews, I thought the bandits would end up kidnapping C-137 Morty, leading to more character development for Rick. I won't say that going in a different direction was a mistake--it's just a personal preference--but I also can't bring myself to care THAT much about a bunch of new characters who basically reheat earlier storylines with a few tweaks.

At least C-137 Rick had a couple of decent moments. When he admits to his Morty that he's changing, I wonder if Arcade Morty felt jealous. He never had a Rick who loved him enough to bring him back to a planet to look for his lost fidget spinner. All he has is an empty farm--and the memories of a Rick who cared briefly before he died and brought the citadel down with him.

[mysterylover123]

Watching G1 Transformers "Dinobot Island"

It's real sweet how much more accomodating OP has become of the bots. From proclaiming them a liability to searching for a place they can train. Best Dad.

This episode has the casetticons and Soundwave a lot which automatically makes me excited.

OMG There's time travel in this universe!? Quick, to the tf:One Fix it fics! There's a canon way to un-doom them from the narrative!

Megs just never misses an opportunity to be a dick to Screamer, does he? He can't even compliment Soundwave without making it about insulting him.

And take a shot for Starscream once again pointing out the obvious flaw in Megsy's plan and Megsy yelling at and ignoring him. I'm sure this won't fuck Megs over.

Megs drowns them in a tarpit? Damn that's brutal.

Megs why do you never listen to Screamer? He keeps pointing things out and Megs just says "Shut up and obey me"

LOL Screamer does take a moment to be like "Well this fuck up probably means I'll be closer to being in charge" I love him so much.

We get the autobots fighting various beings from other time periods which is kind of cool I guess.

I love watching the progress of the Dinobots from being basically infants to actually developing some strategy and teamwork. It's really awesome.

Grimlock: "You wrong and you ugly too" (to megs) Uh well the fandom respectfully disagrees GL but you do you.

Anyway fun little two parter with whacky time travel shenanigans. And once again I am questioning why the hell the Cons follow Megs instead of Screamer. They're one loyal bunch of mechs.

[morningfawns]

Kinito my beloved little freak

Bonus NUH UH gif:

[egophiliac]

GET LOVED, IDIOT

GET LOVED SO HARD YOUR KIDS HOLD HANDS AND POWER-OF-LOVE YOU BACK TO LIFE

sorry guys, this is just my brain now. this is going to be the only thing I think about for the next week at least.

oh and also this

FIVE YEARS IN AND IT'S FINALLY CANON 🎉🎉🎉

WE DID IT

[keferon]

May I ask what were the best transformers media you ever saw/read?

Well Transformers Prime, Transformers 1986 and IDW comics are having the first place that’s for sure

And then the second place is kind of shared by Fall of Cybertron, Exodus, Prime wars trilogy, Robots in disguise(2001) and Transformers One.

The third place goes to G1, Animated, Earthspark, Armada, War for Cybertron Netflix series, Aligned Robots in disguise, Bumblebee, Rise of the Beasts and Cyberverse because I only liked some little parts of them.

And then I also saw some of the Bay movies, Victory and Headmasters and didn’t like them at all.

Separate first place for J-Decker. It is not exactly Transformers but it is a show about giant robots and I loved it

[mossterunderthebed]

[buwheal]

BEACH OUTFIT 💥💥💥💥

He used to surf the web back in 98'.

[evilbitchartist]

i fucking hate him