#new fic idea?

[loveanddeepspice]

Love and Deepspace will end with MC exploding to save deepspace (or something) and the rest of the game is a full cinematic retelling of Sleepless in Seattle with Zayne receiving a text that says "meet me on top of the tallest building in the N109 zone on Valentine's Day"

[littlebosslady7]

Rewatching when BH first stayed at Ligament manor with Fearne. Ashton was into Fearne's "at home" elongated look. They would be (in Taliesin's words) the gremlin partnerwho drank Nana's liquor without asking. But also they and Fearne would come to the Fey Realm more often with dead, creepy cool trinkets as gifts.

[clockwayswrites]

Sometimes.... Sometimes friends are

✨️the worst ✨️

[redwolfstabs]

[Everyone Blame Cleav3rrr for this idea guys. It’s totally his fault-]

Imagine Doug Van Housen meeting Billy Loomis..

This will be something like- Billy being in the Animal Room timeline suddenly, and he’s meeting Doug and it’s hhhh

Anyways

——

Title: The Vexation

Word count: 2648 Rating: Mature? CW: knives, blood, fighting

____

Billy's awakening was accompanied by a relentless pounding in his head, one of the most excruciating pains he had ever experienced. The throbbing beat against his skull, rendering even the slightest movement a daunting task.

His entire body seemed to be in agony, and the awareness of this discomfort hit him almost immediately. Everything hurt, and the pain in his head took center stage, amplifying his irritation. Slowly, he rolled over onto his side, his eyes barely opening. Something felt amiss. Something was undeniably wrong.

With a sudden jolt, he sat up, a hand instinctively clutching his head as a surge of pain swept through him. The room he found himself in was alien, a stark contrast to the familiarity of his own space. Taking in his surroundings, he noted every detail that distinguished this room from his own. It was different—disconcertingly so.

As he rose from the bed, a distinct thud resonated on the floor. Glancing down, he discovered his knife, the trusty switchblade that Stu had gifted him. Stu. The mere thought of his friend intensified the disorientation. Where was Stu? Did he exist in this unfamiliar realm?

Picking up the knife, Billy set it on what appeared to be his dresser, contemplating the mysterious circumstances of his surroundings and the conspicuous absence of Stu. The room held a strange atmosphere, and Billy couldn't shake the feeling that something profound had shifted.

Billy felt a wave of nausea threatening to overcome him as he sluggishly moved around the unfamiliar room. He needed to find some sense of normalcy, something grounding. Spotting a plain t-shirt and jeans, he hastily threw them on, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling that lingered in his gut. Where the hell was he?

Once dressed, he instinctively pocketed his trusty knife in the front pocket, a small yet familiar comfort in this disorienting situation. Memories leading up to this point were a blur, leaving him with a disconcerting sense of amnesia. All he knew for certain was that this place was a far cry from his usual surroundings.

Descending the stairs, he noted the eerie emptiness of the house. A heavy quietness hung in the air, casting a somber mood. His eyes fell on a note resting on the kitchen counter, and he carefully picked it up. The message, 'don't forget to go to the animal room today,' stared back at him, devoid of any signature. A vague recognition flickered in his mind, suggesting that the handwriting resembled his father's. Yet, the idea of his parents being present in this strange place seemed implausible.

His thoughts raced, and the nagging question kept piercing through the confusion: Where the fuck was Stu?

Frustration boiled within him, and he crumpled the note before tossing it aside. What the hell was happening? The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him with more questions than answers.

A curse escaped Billy's lips as he stepped outside, a strange compulsion tugging at his stomach, urging him forward. It felt like an instinct, a force guiding him through the unfamiliar surroundings. Succumbing to this unseen pull, he followed it, his senses heightened by an odd sense of purpose.

Upon arriving at the school, two distinct observations struck him. First, this place was vastly different from Woodsboro. The architecture, the atmosphere—all of it bore no resemblance to the familiar surroundings he knew. The second observation concerned a tall figure surrounded by several guys and one other individual.

Dressed in dark clothes with equally dark hair, the tall figure's face caught Billy's attention. It was an uncanny resemblance to Stu, yet something was amiss. This person exuded a deranged aura, a darkness that Billy couldn't associate with the Stu he knew. The observation unsettled him, but rather than approaching closer, Billy chose to keep a distance, at least for the time being. There was an air of caution, a hesitation to delve into the unknown.

Billy surveyed the unfamiliar surroundings before deciding to enter the building. Although he couldn't recall ever being here, an inexplicable knowledge guided him, directing his steps. A subtle internal voice suggested that he didn't have to be here yet, but an insatiable curiosity compelled him forward. He wanted to see, to understand, and to meticulously note every detail.

Navigating through the hallways, he encountered an anarchy symbol on the wall, triggering a vague sense of déjà vu. It was as if he belonged here, and that feeling only intensified when he noticed a guy dozing off in a chair. Rolling his eyes, Billy descended into what seemed to be a basement, a place that, on the surface, appeared to be a hellhole designed to isolate certain individuals.

To his surprise, the atmosphere down there exuded an eerie sense of normalcy. It was a paradoxical thought—how could a place that seemed like a hellhole feel so commonplace?

As he explored further, another striking realization dawned on him: Stu didn't exist in this strange realm. Instead, the mysterious guy from earlier was present. Intrigued, Billy felt an urge to learn more about him, to unravel the enigma surrounding this unfamiliar counterpart. It was a necessity, a gut feeling urging him to comprehend the dynamics of this peculiar place.

Billy's fingers traced over the surface of one of the desks, and he decided to claim a seat. His legs stretched out, ankles crossing, and a semblance of relaxation settled over him. Several minutes passed, and more people filtered into the room, none of them paying any attention to him. That sense of anonymity pleased him.

He observed the dark-haired figure, one of his companions addressing him as 'Van Housen' while another simply called him Doug. Doug Van Housen. The absurdity of the name almost tempted Billy to snort, but he restrained himself, biting his tongue.

The room buzzed with the flickering light of a TV as someone switched it on, broadcasting something that failed to pique Billy's interest. Instead, his focus honed in on Housen, and he meticulously noted every detail—the shoes chosen for added height, the clothing, and the palpable irritation emanating from him.

Though Housen appeared to radiate a dangerous aura, Billy's instincts were driven by a desire to prod, poke, and unravel the enigma before him. He wanted to see what made Housen tick, to uncover the reasons behind his seemingly menacing presence. It wasn't about fear; it was about understanding, peeling back the layers to reveal the truth about this mysterious figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to his boy- his.. friend.

Billy contemplated the idea that he could easily kick the leg of Housen's chair to gain attention, but for the moment, it felt unnecessary. As conversations unfolded around him, Billy remained observant, catching shadows moving behind the door labeled as the exit. He recalled the guy asleep in the chair and speculated that there might be more of them, silently watching.

An uneasy feeling settled in Billy's stomach as the alarm bells rang in his head. The notion of being watched by unseen observers didn't sit well with him.

Amidst the ongoing chatter, Housen's voice carried irritation and impatience. Everyone continued talking, seemingly oblivious to the potential danger lurking behind the door. Billy's attention shifted back to the shadows moving again.

When he saw Housen's hands inch toward the desk, Billy was quick as he stood and reached over and grabbed his shoulder, his voice low and meant for Housen alone. "Not yet. They're waiting, just for you. Wouldn't want them to actually have a reason to mess with you today, would you?" A sly smile played on Billy's lips as he touched a mark on Housen's jaw. "Especially not after this."

Tension gripped Housen under Billy's grip, but as he met Billy's gaze, a fiery determination burned behind his eyes. Billy reveled in the intensity, wanting to stoke that flame.

"What?" Housen retorted in a hushed tone.

Billy motioned toward the door. "The shadows under the door. They move whenever you speak even remotely too loud. They're waiting for you to do something."

Housen blinked, swatting away Billy's hand, but the fire in his eyes seemed to dwindle. He glanced at Billy, then at the guy beside him, commanding, "Beat it." The way he spoke had an immediate and powerful effect, causing everyone to stop. It made Billy twitch, craving more. Housen patted the chair after the guy left, and Billy sat down, anticipating the unfolding dynamics of this peculiar place.

Billy wasn't in the business of making friends, especially not with someone who wasn't Stu. Nevertheless, this guy intrigued him in a peculiar way.

Housen directed a question at him, his tone probing. "What are you here for?"

Billy casually lolled his head to the side, feigning disinterest as his gaze rested on the TV. "Secrets, secrets," he replied nonchalantly.

Housen emitted a noise of acknowledgment, turning his attention back to the TV. The room resumed its chatter, eyes off the two of them. "Why does everyone look at you like you're a threat?" Billy inquired, seeking answers.

Housen shot him a scowl this time. "What was it you said just now? Secrets, secrets?"

Housen sighed after that, seemingly only a willing to share. "Most people don't live; they exist. Yet, I've shown people what living is."

Billy snorted at the analogy. "What a dumb fucking analogy."

A sizzle of irritation began to form in Housen's gaze. "What?"

Billy grinned mischievously. "'Oh, people exist, they don't live!' Come on, man. Be more creative than that." The exchange was laced with a peculiar blend of tension and amusement, as Billy continued to toy with the mysterious Doug Van Housen.

Housen blinked at Billy, a subtle acknowledgment of the inevitable irritation that lay ahead. "Well, you're obviously going to get on my nerves."

Billy rolled his eyes. "Could say the same about you. What's with the fucking clothes, by the way?"

Housen looked at him again. "Style," he answered, the word delivered with an air of simplicity. The response tempted Billy to snort, but he managed to restrain himself this time.

Billy sensed that he wouldn't particularly like this character, yet there was an undeniable allure in the challenge of trying to unravel him. It promised a momentary diversion, a puzzle to solve in the peculiar environment they found themselves in. The dynamic between Billy and Housen, though laced with tension, held the promise of an intriguing dance of personalities.

__

As a day or so passed, Billy continued to navigate the intricate undercurrents of the peculiar environment surrounding him. One noteworthy observation concerned Housen's peculiar fixation on a particular individual—someone named 'Arnie Mosk.' Arnie seemed like an ordinary kid, grappling with everyday issues, perhaps even a drug problem. However, for reasons unknown, Housen harbored a distinct issue with him.

One day, Billy happened to be passing by the bathroom just as Housen and his entourage emerged, a few of them sharing hearty laughs as if they'd just witnessed something uproariously funny. What caught Billy's attention, though, was the unsettling look in Housen's eyes as they briefly scanned over his face. The glance was devoid of anything good.

Deciding to investigate further, Billy entered the bathroom and found Arnie on the floor, his face soaked with vomit. Sighing, Billy approached, offering assistance. He urged Arnie to report Housen's actions. When Arnie questioned him, Billy skillfully shut down the inquiry with an easygoing demeanor.

Now, the time had come for Billy to address Housen and the unsettling dynamic he seemed to harbor.

Billy positioned himself in the hallway, strategically near a classroom not currently in session. Hidden from view unless one approached closely, he readied himself for what he intended to do.

Taking out his switchblade, he deftly opened it, using the blade to clean dirt from under his nails. The minutes ticked by, and then the unmistakable sound of boots approached—Housen's boots. Billy heard the slam of a body against a locker, confirming that Arnie was the unfortunate target.

Billy shifted his grip on the knife handle and stepped out from his concealed position, moving carefully to avoid triggering Housen's awareness. Uninterested in the exchange of words, he acted swiftly, lunging forward. A firm hand clamped around Housen's head, covering his mouth, while the other pressed threateningly against his neck.

"Don't try anything. I'll make sure you bleed out right now," Billy hissed, low and menacing. He then directed a gaze toward Arnie. "Go, and don't say anything." Arnie blinked for a moment before swiftly making his exit.

Billy emitted a primal noise before issuing a directive. "Let's chat in a more private area." A forceful kick to Housen's foot set him in motion, and Billy guided him toward the bathroom, preparing for the private confrontation that lay ahead.

In the confined space of the bathroom, Billy wasted no time asserting dominance. He forcefully shoved Housen, relishing the satisfying thud as his face collided with the stall. A smirk played on Billy's lips as he scratched his head with the butt of the knife.

"You know," he began, the mockery evident in his tone, "I knew you were insane. What I didn't know was that you seem to move without reason."

Housen touched his nose, inspecting the blood on his fingers before locking eyes with Billy. "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

Billy tilted his head, his smile widening. "You sure?"

Housen took a deep breath and advanced toward Billy. However, Billy, anticipating the move, sidestepped and expertly tripped Housen with a swift kick. He taunted, "Not very good without your little boys, are ya?"

Billy, well-aware of the dynamics within Housen's group, knew that his followers did most, if not all, of the heavy lifting. Housen was more of a barker than a biter.

As Housen lay on the floor, Billy applied pressure with his boot on Housen's back. Bending down, he grabbed a handful of Housen's black hair and pulled, prompting a pained noise. The knife tapped mockingly against Housen's exposed neck.

"Are you living now, Doug Van Housen?" Billy asked, reveling in the role reversal.

Housen emitted a noise akin to a growl. "If you want my blood, then take it, it's yours," he gritted out. His words hung in the air, causing a momentary pause for Billy. It felt like a challenge, an invitation, but also a statement that echoed eerily in his mind. His?

Growling in response, Billy couldn't resist the temptation. He cut a long line into Housen's arm, feeling a surge of aggression. "Don't fucking say that."

"Why not?" Housen breathed out. "Doesn't it make it fun for you?"

"Not at all," Billy retorted, releasing Housen's hair and pushing him to the floor. The desire to inflict further harm waned, replaced by a strange feeling that he couldn't quite define.

As Housen touched his face, he posed a curious question. "How pissed would you get if I said you were like me?"

Billy rolled his eyes. "You'd be a liar if you said that."

"Wouldn't I?" Housen smiled, and the next sequence of events blurred for Billy. Suddenly, Housen was on him, and the knife slid away from both of them.

"You curse someone in your life. As do I. My question is, who is it you curse?" Housen looked down at Billy, and a memory stirred in his mind, prompting a laugh.

"You did not just fucking ask me that. What? Did you read the story of Job and how he never curses God?"

Housen grinned. "You're knowledgeable."

Billy shook his head. "That was an easy fucking guess. What about you? Who do you curse? Mommy or Daddy? Or! Better yet, is it-"

Before Billy could finish his sentence, Housen cut him off with a hard punch to the nose. He felt the warmth of his own blood, and a twisted smile spread across his face, relishing in the sensation.

The room seemed to spin, and Housen's words became distant echoes as Billy's head lolled to the side. His eyes scanned the floor, fixating on the glint of his knife. The instinct to retrieve it surged within him.

In a hazy, almost detached state, he focused on the weapon, his mind tuning out the words that continued to spill from Housen's mouth. The need to reclaim the knife became an urgent, singular thought, overshadowing everything else in the room.

-End for Now!-

[sugurusdiscordmoderator]

I think calling Kento Nanami ‘daddy’ would fix every single one of my problems

[peachesandhunii]

I didn't think it was possible but I fell in love with Andy again

As a crochet girly this makes me so happy. He can teach me and I can teach him. And we'll wear each other's sweaters. And we'll make blankets

I love him so much 🥹❤️

[tossawary]

I just know in my heart of hearts that in "Star Trek" at one point, there was some moral panic somewhere on Vulcan (among the uppity sorts) because Human culture was "infecting" the local youth with their overly emotional, destructive, unproductive, frivolous, and uneducational ways.

And what was actually happening was that a bunch of Vulcan kids got really into 23rd-century "Minecraft" or something.

Small Vulcan child @ another Vulcan child: (in a tone that sounds flat to Humans but angry as hell to Vulcans) "You have compromised the optimization of my fortress. I am having an emotional urge to blow up your house... in Minecraft."

[ghostbsuter]

He'd been flying above Metropolis.

Like a good ghost! Doing nothing but relax! Enjoying the weather, really.

It was so cool, Superman came up to him, they talked even! Superman was very, very, uncomfortable when Danny mentioned he was kinda dead.

It was really awesome.

Yeah, the keypoint being was.

Now? Now he is in Superman's arms, very much alive after being hit by a stray beam from Lex Luthors newest invention, quite literally hit from the sky when he didn't expect it and out of f reflex turned back human.

"I'm... alive?" He jokes weakly, smiling awkwardly at Superman's stare.

Danny considered this awkward.

Clark was processing the fact Lex Luthor somehow managed to bring back someone from death, his hands now full of said miracle and—

Shit, does the kid even have family left? What's he going to tell Lois!?

[twistedgardens]

What if I wrote a fic where MC was a werewolf?

Thoughts?

[transformativeworks]

Australian Social Media News

Australia has passed a law that bans anyone under age 16 from using social media starting late 2025, fining tech companies up to A$49.5M for non-compliance. While intending to address mental health concerns in kids and teenagers, the law raises significant risks for privacy, digital access, and the freedom of expression, raising questions about the boundaries of digital censorship.

With that being said, we don’t expect this decision to affect the OTW or any of its projects, including AO3. However, as the OTW, we are against all forms of censorship and will be releasing a detailed statement about the matter soon.

https://www.reuters.com/technology/australia-passes-social-media-ban-children-under-16-2024-11-28/

[frownyalfred]

I know the Bats drive around Gotham like they stole their ride and they’re getting chased by the GCPD, but imagine the absolute hilarity of stopping at a red light one night and there’s Red Hood idling on his bike with what looks like Nightwing on the back. And they’re just…waiting for the light to turn green? It looks like they might be chatting with each other too?

[gascreates]

when aang doesn't explain everything

[avayarising]

Batfam time travel fic idea: Dick is sent back in time to his younger body, around his early Nightwing era. But the younger body he’s sent back into at that particular moment happens to be concussed or sick or poisoned or something, so Dick (who wasn’t expecting the time travel in any case) is completely disoriented. Ten-year-old Stalker Tim sees him shivering/throwing up and goes to help out – and Dick just sees his little brother.

Tim has to deal with a confused, rambling Nightwing who is calling him by name and trusting him to help him and saying all sorts of concerning things.

(Maybe this is in New York, and Tim manages to call the rest of the New Teen Titans, who turn up and have to deal with this kid Nightwing has latched on to and won’t let go of, who apparently knows their identities. At least he seems as confused as they are about why this is happening.)

[puckinghischier]

Just sitting here thinking about how Jack would usually fuck you nice and slow, praising you the entire time and putting your pleasure before his, but one night after a really tough loss where nothing went right for him and the team, he just loses it and immediately comes home to let out his frustrations on you. Manhandling you like a rag doll, spitting on you, yanking on your hair as hard as he can, and choking you until you see stars and you'd be loving every second of this version of Jack and he'd pick up on that, calling you degrading names and mocking you for being such a dirty fucking slut that he never knew about you

WARNING!: degradation, name calling, choking

the change of pace was surprising to you, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t unleash a new preference of yours. the commanding, harsh, and derogatory nature of the entire night is something you never expected from him, but damn if there wasn’t a part of you eating it up.

from the second he got home you knew something was off. he slammed the door, threw his bag against the wall and stomped right over to you, wordlessly picking you up and carrying you to the shared bedroom. he threw you onto the bed, the large bounce you did causing your heart rate to spike.

“jack, honey, what’s going on? i don’t-“

“shut up. don’t fucking talk to me,” he interrupts you, your mouth instantly snapping shut. the look in his eyes was like nothing you had ever seen before — wild and dark.

he starts removing his clothes, standing naked in front of you before you could even blink. not knowing what to do, you start removing your sweatshirt, slowly bringing the thick material up and over your head. jack stood watching you, an expectant look on his face.

“god, can you go any fucking slower? hurry up. off. all of it, off,” he spits out as you start to grab your t-shirt, removing the fabric from your goose bump ridden body.

“for the love of god, are you fucking helpless or something? i said hurry up,” jack raises his voice, reaching down to grip your ankles, pulling you towards him harshly. once you’re sitting at the end of the bed, he grabs your shoulders, forcing you to sit up. he rips the shirt the rest of the way off of your body, throwing it across the room.

he doesn’t even attempt to unclasp the bra you hadn’t taken off from running errands earlier. instead, he tugs the material so harshly you can feel the piercing sting on your sensitive skin, feeling the plastic clasps snap apart, rendering the undergarment useless as it falls from your chest.

a gasp falls from your mouth, but it’s lost in the grunt he lets out as he shoves your shoulders back down onto the bed, gripping the waist band of your leggings as he tugs them down — along with your underwear — in a singular movement.

“now, was that so fucking hard?” he growls, pushing your ankles back up onto the bed, moving you away from the edge as he crawls onto the mattress with you.

you’re surprised at yourself, because not once during the entire interaction did you wish jack was his usual, soft and caring self. instead, you found every single harsh word and rough action traveling straight to your core. an unfamiliar warmth of arousal now stirring in your stomach as you watch him crawl towards you.

“up, on all fours, ass towards me,” he commands you, not waiting even a millisecond before grabbing your body and placing you into position himself. he starts caressing your ass, taking the soft flesh into his hands and kneading handfuls. “don’t even get it. don’t even know all the shit that happened tonight, do you?” he talks, pinching and squeezing your skin even tighter.

“tell me, maybe i can-“ you start to squeak out, but a harsh smack to your ass stops you. you involuntarily let out a sharp squeal, not expecting the action.

“when i say don’t fucking talk to me, it means don’t fucking talk to me,” jack rubs soothing circle around the red skin. “you don’t know what went on tonight. what coach said in the locker room after the game. what an embarrassment the whole team was tonight. the way the refs let us get our asses kicked all night long. so there’s nothing you can say that’ll make me feel better, you understand?”

you nod, looking back at him over your shoulder, surprising yourself when you jut your ass out further towards him, all but asking for another smack. he smirks, gladly granting your request.

he raises his hand, bringing it down even harder than he had the first time, your whole body jolting forward at the impact. your yelp sounded almost like pleasure this time, your brain going in a million different directions.

“now this? this makes me feel better. this makes me feel in control again. because i am, aren’t i? i’m in control right now. because you’re just my own personal slut, here to use as i see fit,” his voice dropped a few octaves, gravelly and thick.

before you can even fully register his words, a moan slips past your lips. you feel yourself clenching around nothing, your cunt slick with desire at whatever this new persona is coming from him.

he slides a hand down towards your entrance, interested at how turned on you seem to be by all of this. when his long, slender finger swirls around the still clenching hole, he chuckles, amused at your current state.

“you like this new side, huh? my sweet, innocent girl likes being called a slut and treated like some whore i picked up off the street, doesn’t she?” it’s more of a statement than a question. another clench of your pussy answers his question, his finger nearly getting sucked right into your sex.

“too bad this isn’t about you, isn’t it?” he clicks his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head at you, even though you can’t see him. “tonight is about me. making me feel better. in fact….” he trails off, bringing his cold fingers up to start attacking your clit, rubbing so ferociously your arms holding you up nearly give out from the friction. “…you can’t come at all tonight,” his fingers suddenly drop, your labored breaths stopping altogether as his words register.

your head whips around to glare at him, but the second you have him in your sights, you feel his cock slam into you without warning. your body lurches forward so much your nose nearly smacks into the head board.

jack pulls out almost immediately, slamming back into you with quick, full thrusts. he grabs your hips, pulling them back with each movement to meet his thrusts.

he can’t see your face, but your mouth is hung wide open in a silent scream, not being able to even think about anything but how you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

you finally let out a whimper at a particularly deep thrust, feeling one of his hands leave your hip to grab a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. he keeps easing your head back, neck fully extended, so much so you’re now able to see his face hovering above you.

“can’t believe you’re this cock drunk already. barely even started, baby. not been a peep out of you, has there?” you want to shake your head, say something, moan, anything. but the angle of your neck prevents any of that, only allowing you to look at him with your wide, rolling eyes.

he can feel the familiar flutter of your walls, signaling your impending release. he releases your hair, but so abruptly that your face flies forward like a rubber band has snapped, chin smacking against your chest.

he pulls out, leaving you a whining, pathetic mess. he takes his arms and flips you over so you’re now on your back. taking one of your legs, he extends it up and rests your ankle on his shoulder. he stands on his knees in front of you, looking at you with anger and annoyance.

“told you you’re not coming tonight. it’s about me, not you. it’s always about you, you greedy whore. you can’t just let me have this one night, huh?” he literally spits at you. the silky string of saliva leaves his mouth, its trajectory landing right on your stomach, mixing with the sweat there. he watches the rapid rise and fall of your chest, noting the stiff nature of your nipples.

as if he’s in a trance, he brings a hand up fully slapping one breast, watching it fly over and smack the other. then repeating the action with the opposite breast.

you jolt again, whining out a high pitched moan at the feeling of your heavy tits being smacked around. he smirks down at you, repeating the action a few times, each smack harder than the previous.

once he decides he’s had his fill of playing with your tits, he trails his hand down your stomach, swirling and smearing his spit around your skin. when his gaze falls back onto your glistening cunt, he snaps back into his previous task, smirking before once again, ramming into you without caution.

thrust after thrust, he can feel himself reaching the edge, moving in and out of you with ease, watching your eyes roll into the back of your head. there was one thing, however, he wanted to test before he let himself go.

he brings a hand up towards your face, running a finger from your temple to your chin, watching you. he brings his hand to rest on the side of your throat, thumb rubbing up and down the center. “d’ya trust me?” he whispers to you, typical, soft jack making an appearance.

you nod at him eagerly, assuring him you trust him, wholly and completely. you risk breaking the rules, a small “always” leaving your lips. he looks at you with love in his eyes, but you watch as they switch, once again showing the wildness you’ve grown to like tonight.

he moves his hand slightly so his whole hands covers your throat, and he squeezes. hard.

you sputter and wheeze, eyes wide at how much pressure he’s applying, not even easing into it. but you’re not scared. if anything, the pressure building in your head is dizzying, adding to every sensation coursing through your body.

he doesn’t stop, squeezing tighter by the second. just as he’s about to let up, worrying he’s gone too far, he feels that flutter from your core once again. his sign you’re enjoying this far more than he ever thought you would. he holds his grip for a few moments longer.

you’re starting to see stars in the edges of your vision, but you’re so turned on you never want it to end. with a final, small caress of the side of your neck with his thumb, he lets go. you suck in air, actually a little worried he might have left a mark once you gain your wits about you again.

the whole time, he never stopped rutting his hips into yours, thrusts growing sloppier by the second. he leans forward and lines his mouth up to hover above your breasts, collecting a mouth full of saliva and letting it fall from his lips onto your full, bouncing breasts. and again on your chest. and your stomach. and where his dick is sliding in and out of you. then he moves back up your body, taking a hand and parting your lips, watching his foamy spit land right into your open mouth. the fluid drips right into the back of your throat.

watching you early swallow his spit, then opening your mouth and begging for more, is what does him in. he feels the band about to snap, so he pulls out of you, drops your leg from his shoulder, and moves to straddle right over your stomach.

he strokes himself a few more times, then aims his release to fall in a sticky mess all over your spit covered tits, watching the milky substance roll and drip over the fleshy mounds. he strokes himself until the sensitivity takes over, slumping down, but careful not to put all of his body weight on you.

you wiggle and writhe beneath him, trying your hardest to reach a hand down to your pulsing center, needing now more than ever to reach your own release.

jack feels what you’re trying to do, and grabs your hands, trapping them both above your head.

“what did i tell you earlier, you dumb slut?” he’s clearly not done with being an ass just yet. “only i get to come tonight. and i did. so now you’re gonna go clean yourself up, come back to bed, naked, and if you can behave for the rest of the night, you might get to wake up to something nice,” he bends down to place a chaste kiss to your lips, releasing your hands and moving to sit beside of you.

you sit up and start to get off of the bed. once you’re stood fully, jack takes the opportunity to reach over and smack your bare ass again, smirking at you when your head whips around to look at him.

“hurry up, i may be pissed tonight, but now that i got all of that out of my system, i want to cuddle,” he tells you, his tone back to your normal jack, but eyes still wild as ever.

[capquinn]

Sunday | Q. Hughes

summary: A lazy Sunday morning... pairing: reader x quinn hughes content: nothing but tooth rotting fluff word count: 1k ↪masterlist

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“You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little raspy from sleep, but there’s a hint of amusement in it.

A smile tugs at your lips as your fingers brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “Just admiring."

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The morning light slips through the blinds, casting soft, golden stripes across the room. It dances on the walls, wrapping you both in a warm, quiet glow. It’s the kind of light that only comes in the last days of summer, when the air feels just a bit cooler in the mornings, but the days still stretch long into the evening. There’s something almost ethereal about the way it floods the space, filling every corner with a peaceful stillness.

You’re both wrapped in the tangled mess of white sheets, limbs entwined. Quinn's chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, the gentle warmth of his skin brushing against yours. The world beyond the window might as well not exist; here, in the cocoon of soft linens and golden light, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the last days of lazy summer, sheltered from the chaos of life outside.

You glance up at Quinn, his face half-buried in the pillow, hair slightly tousled and falling in soft strands across his forehead. The sunlight dances on his face, illuminating the faint freckles scattered across his nose. His expression is soft, radiating the kind of peacefulness that only comes when you know you don’t have to be anywhere else but here. His eyes are still heavy with sleep, lashes casting gentle shadows on his cheeks, but there’s a contentedness in the way he looks at you and a lazy, easy smile playing at the corners of his lips that makes your heart flutter.

You shift a little closer, pressing your cheek against the pillow and propping yourself up slightly on your elbow. Your hand moves instinctively, fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble that’s grown in over the weekend. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before opening again, meeting yours in that sleepy, comfortable silence.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, his voice low and a little raspy from sleep, but there’s a hint of amusement in it.

A smile tugs at your lips as your fingers brush a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “Just admiring."

His brows quirk, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches you with a curious gaze. The warmth of his eyes pulls you in like it always does, the mix of green and hazel almost impossible to decipher. They’re mesmerizing... The way the morning light catches in his irises, turning the hues of green and hazel into something almost magical. They shift with the light, as if the exact colour of them depends on where you’re standing, or how close you are.

Luckily, you’re the only one who gets to see them this closely.

That thought makes your heart swell. This quiet intimacy between the two of you, tucked away from the world in the soft glow of the morning. His eyes, those incredible, ever-changing eyes, are just for you in this moment. A warmth blooms in your chest, a sense of comfort and belonging that’s almost overwhelming in its simplicity.

“You have such pretty eyes,” you say softly, the words slipping out without much thought.

A faint blush creeps across Quinn’s cheeks, and he shifts slightly under the covers, glancing away for just a second. His reaction is almost bashful, as if no one’s ever said something like that to him before.

Quinn opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it again, a soft chuckle escaping him instead. His cheeks flush a deeper pink, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

“Stop,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, laced with that shy, nervous laughter. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until you’re pressed up against him.

You laugh lightly, brushing your fingers through his messy hair as you feel the heat of embarrassment radiating off him. “I’m serious,” you whisper, leaning in just a little, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’re like... impossible to figure out. Sometimes they look green, sometimes hazel... So pretty.”

He groans softly in protest, his face still buried against your neck. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m really not,” you insist, your voice playful, trying to keep the moment light. You feel the soft rumble of his laughter against your chest, his body vibrating with the sound. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

His breath hitches slightly at the words, and for a moment, he just stays there, his face hidden in the curve of your neck, as if he’s too shy to even look at you. But then he shifts, lifting his head just enough to press a soft kiss against your collarbone. His lips linger there for a second longer than usual, his lips warm and tender against your skin, as if he’s gathering the courage to speak.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, your heart swelling at the softness of his confession. “Well, then they’ve clearly never looked at you the way I do.”

He glances up at you finally, his eyes catching the light again, and for a second, neither of you say anything. There’s no need to. The moment is so simple, so mundane in the grand scheme of things, and yet it feels like the most intimate thing in the world. Just you, him, and the quiet of a lazy summer morning.

Quinn’s lips curve into a small, shy smile, his face still flushed as he leans down to press his forehead against yours. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you murmur back, your fingers brushing lightly over his arm. “But I’m right.”

He laughs again, this time a little more freely, and pulls you closer into him until your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets once more. There’s no rush to move, no urgency to do anything but just be. You have this one last weekend together before everything picks up again — work, hockey, life — and for now, that’s more than enough.

[wandixx]

I've seen a lot of different takes on Fear Toxin/other fear causing stuff (Yellow Lanterns Ring or something)(later just called Fear Toxin cause I'm lazy) but here is another one.

Danny seems like he isn't affected by Fear Toxin because his biggest fear is that his accident changed him so much he is no longer human, he can no longer truly experience human things.

So when he gets lungful of fear Toxin, he feels normal. He was antsy before, because c'mon, it's a rogue attack but it's not worse. Or so he thought. Because the anxiety lingers. Not enough to register as abnormal just this slight hypervigilance that makes you see things about yourself and your surroundings that you'd never realize otherwise. He'd realize he doesn't blink as often. He'd realize that if he doesn't consciously focus, he sometimes seems to not touch the ground. Forgets to breathe. He can't feel his own pulse at time. He'd realize people will miss him when he's walking down the street as if he was invisible (people just don't care about everyone they pass by). When he'd look straight into his reflection, he'd look slightly to the left. Not enough to actually name anything that was wrong but just stretched enough to fall on the wrong side of the uncanny valley. If he just caught his reflection in the peripheral vision, it'd be vaguely shadowy creature with glowing green eyes and white smoke instead of hair. Overall he'd be just wrong enough to be distinctly not human.

For everyone else, he'd be just a dude. Literally couldn't find more normal dude than this dude. Will pass as absolutely normal human unless someone is specifically looking for ecto-ghost stuff. Even most magic users wouldn't clock him at the glance

Tldr: Fear Toxin makes Danny perceive himself as some sort of eldritch horror but not enough to make him believe he'd actually be affected, while from outside perspective he's Just A Dude™