#so... no time was wasted. and I was doing what I like to do? so I guess it's ok...

[burningcheese-merchant]

Hey so if everyone that follows me or otherwise sees this reblog can you PLEASE reblog it as well? Because this news needs to be delivered to everyone. I am freaking out so fucking bad right now you have no idea

AO3 has been scraped, once again.

As of the time of this post, AO3 has been scraped by yet another shady individual looking to make a quick buck off the backs of hardworking hobby writers. This Reddit post here has all the details and the most current information. In short, if your fic URL ends in a number between 1 and 63,200,000 (inclusive), AND is not archive locked, your fic has been scraped and added to this database.

I have been trying to hold off on archive locking my fics for as long as possible, and I've managed to get by unscathed up to now. Unfortunately, my luck has run out and I am archive locking all of my current and future stories. I'm sorry to my lovelies who read and comment without an account; I love you all. But I have to do what is best for me and my work. Thank you for your understanding.

[cumironi]

TOOTH FAIRY jjk men

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. it’s just a one time thing. one bite. one bite. and now they refuse one thing that keeps you alive? and what is that? yeah, $uck them off! and what do you do? being unhinged and just throwing a goddamn tantrum. what can they do? ban you from $ex? yeah, as if!

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men, established relationship, 23 you & 31 them, tantrums, petname(2), dirtytalk(?), c$ck-drunk maybe?, name-calling(s), degrading just a bit, you are being a brat and insufferable, overstimulated, abuse mentioned,

since a lot of you amazing people send me the sweetest anon messages (which i appreciate so so much 🥹💕), i’d really love to know who’s behind them! if you’re comfortable, feel free to leave me a little signature — it can be anything! an emoji, your name, a nickname, literally whatever you like 💌✨ i’ll be adding them to my lil friends list like in this link, so i can keep track of all the lovely souls who’ve been showing me love 🫶💖 thank you for being here!!

GOJO SATORU

you’re on your knees. he’s on his back. and he’s not letting you suck him. again.

your palms are pressed to his lower belly, thighs tight around his legs, drooling over the absolute gift of a dick that’s twitching against his stomach—and yet, despite all the teasing, the eye contact, the hungry little whines spilling out of you like prayers, he just lays there. arms folded behind his head. like a fucking lounger chair with abs.

“satoru.”

“mm?”

“why aren’t you in my throat right now.”

he hums like you just asked about the weather. “hmm… probably ‘cause last time, someone went full piranha halfway through and tried to devour me.”

“i slipped!”

he laughs—loud, unapologetic, his stupid pretty smile on full display. “you clamped down, baby. i yanked you off, and you were still holding on like a gremlin. i thought i lost circulation.”

you glare down at him, completely naked, chest heaving, pussy soaked between your thighs and still grinding slightly on his leg like your body’s acting on survival instinct alone. “you know what? next time i’m just gonna choke on air, is that better?! just pretend-cock until i pass out?!”

he bites his lip to stop from laughing again.

you growl. “this is abuse. emotional. spiritual. oral neglect.”

“oral neglect?” he echoes, wiping fake tears. “my god.”

“YES. i haven’t sucked you off in days. DAYS, satoru! my lips are getting soft! my jaw forgot how to unhinge!”

“baby—”

you slam your fists on his thighs dramatically. “I’M WASTING AWAY. there are people in the world who would kill for this opportunity, and you’re out here being stingy!”

“you bit me.”

“WITH LOVE!”

he stretches, big and smug and insufferable. his cock twitches again, begging for your mouth like it misses you too. he knows. he’s evil. and you’re about to cry.

“i just wanna taste,” you mumble, lower lip trembling as you drag yourself up his body like a starving animal. “just a little lick. please. please satoru. i’ll be so good. i’ll moan and everything. i’ll gargle if you want me to.”

he blinks. “you’ll what?”

“satoru,” you say again, softer this time, almost too genuine for the chaos you were spewing just minutes ago. “i’ll be gentle. i’ll go slow, i promise.” your hands slide further up his thighs, and you bat your lashes at him with a look so sinful it could start a religion.

“you said that last time. and i nearly blacked out. i saw stars. you think that’s normal?”

“maybe i wanted to show you god. ever think of that?”

he snorts, gropping you by the boob with no warning. “you’re a freak. a dangerous, beautiful little freak.” his voice drops, eyes hooded now, and you can feel him twitch beneath you even as he tries to act tough.

“then let me be your little danger,” you purr, leaning forward to bite his earlobe just enough to make him shiver. “just one chance. i’ll be nice. i won’t leave a single tooth mark—unless you want me to.”

his head falls back with a low groan, hips jerking up slightly before he slaps a hand over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the sun. “you’re lucky you’re cute. and hot. and you smell really good. ugh.”

you place both hands on his hips, face hovering dangerously close. “satoru. i’m gonna start crying.”

“don’t you dare—”

a sob bubbles in your throat. “i need it.”

he sighs like a man who’s lived through five wars and still got defeated by your tears. “you’re insane.”

“and your problem! now give me my fucking lollipop!”

you lurch forward—and he catches you by the forehead with one hand, holding you back like a villain holding off an overexcited puppy. you squeal. your hands are slapping at his thighs. your mouth is open. and he’s still denying you.

“okAY, OKAY,” he says, eyes wide, panicked laughter spilling out as you start going full feral. “baby—baby, fine, you get ONE chance. one! i swear if i feel even a hint of teeth—”

“you won’t even remember your name, satoru,” you growl, lowering like a woman possessed. “now shut up and let me ruin your fucking life.”

“you’re unbelievable,” he laughs, finally lifting his hips in surrender. “get over here and do your worst. or your best. god, i don’t even know anymore.”

GETO SUGURU

you’re already underneath him, thighs twitching, body bare and needy, his cock dragging along your slick folds just enough to make your brain fizz. his hair’s loose, dark and wild, face annoyingly calm while you’re fighting for your damn life beneath him.

“suguru,” you hiss, hips bucking. “let me suck your dick or i swear to god i’ll set the apartment on fire.”

he raises an eyebrow, unbothered, not moving an inch closer. “interesting escalation. is that before or after you bite me again?”

you whimper—genuinely whimper, back arching as you clutch his arms like a woman who’s just heard she’s been banished from salvation. “it wasn’t a bite, it was a nibble! a love nibble! a little hello from my molars!”

“you broke the skin.”

“i’m in mourning, suguru. don’t you see me?” your voice cracks as you throw your arm across your forehead like a shakespearean tragedy. “i haven’t had cock in my mouth in two days. two. i’m dehydrated. my jaw’s cramping from emptiness. i’m dying.”

he blinks slowly. “you ate an entire box of cookies this morning and called it your ‘oral coping mechanism.’”

“because you won’t feed me properly!”

his dick twitches against you and your eyes lock on it instantly, like a predator. you try to sit up, but he pushes you back down with a hand to your chest like you’re a possessed little brat on the verge of attacking.

“uh uh. no. last time you gave head, you went feral. it wasn’t a blowjob, it was an assassination attempt.”

“you liked it!” you screech, trying to bite his arm just to prove a point.

he yanks it back before your teeth land and gives you a look that’s 50% exasperated dad and 50% amused boyfriend who absolutely lives for your bullshit. “and you keep proving my point.”

you lean closer, brushing your nose against his jaw, your voice dropping to that sweet, sultry tone that makes him tense up every damn time. “suguru,” you whisper, grabbing his hips and dragging your nails into them like a demon, you murmur, pressing soft kisses under his ear, trailing them down to his neck, “if you don’t let me suck your dick right now, i will walk outside, climb on the kitchen counter, and yell to the neighbors that you don’t fuck me anymore.”

he sighs deeply. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m in pain!” you wail, rocking your hips against his just to make your point clearer. “your cock was in my mouth one minute, and the next you’re yanking me off like i’m some horny stray! i’m starving!”

he leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice low and sinful. “you think starving is bad? keep whining. you’ll be begging for days.”

you make a noise—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and immediately start pounding your fists against his chest. “LET! ME! SUCK! YOUR! COCK!”

“no!” he says, wheezing from laughter as he holds your wrists. “not until you can promise to behave.”

“i won’t! i never will! i want to be ruined! i want to suck you until you’re twitching and sobbing and i black out like a fucking feral beast!”

he stares at you.

you pant.

he runs a hand over his face. “…jesus christ.”

you grab his cock.

he lets you.

“…fine,” he mutters. “but if you bite me again, i’m putting you in a muzzle.”

“deal,” you purr, already sliding down. “and maybe a leash next time too.”

NANAMI KENTO

“absolutely not.”

his tone is calm. firm. the kind of firm that makes people shut up and sit down. but not you. oh, never you. instead, you’re standing at the foot of the bed with both hands on your hips, hair wild, eyes blazing, looking like you’re about to go to war.

“you’re denying me?” you say, like he just said no to proposing. “me? your girlfriend? the woman who washes your shirts and steals your ties and lets you use her thighs as stress pillows?”

“you bit me,” he reminds you coolly, as if he hasn’t been shifting in his chair all day thinking about it. “very hard. and I’m not in the mood to gamble with my physical wellbeing tonight.”

“it was one time!” you cry, throwing yourself dramatically onto the mattress. “and you made that noise—you know, the one that sounds like you’re possessed by lust? it turned me on so bad i just lost control!”

“that noise,” he says dryly, “was the sound of pain.”

“okay, but, like... sexy pain!” you scoot closer, crawling toward him with the dedication of a woman on a mission. your hands are already creeping up his thighs as he sits there in his crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose, looking like the hottest finance god who ever lived. “you looked so hot. so flustered. so... biteable.”

nanami exhales slowly through his nose, as if he’s meditating. you can see his restraint cracking—see the way his hand twitches like he’s fighting the urge to grab you and punish you in the most delicious way.

“i’m not some chew toy for you to get riled up and gnaw on when you’re horny,” he mutters, but his voice is already lower, rougher, his legs spreading just a little as your lips graze his thigh.

“nooo, you’re my perfect, hardworking, ridiculously handsome man with the most glorious dick i’ve ever seen,” you moan dramatically. “i miss him. he misses me. we had a thing, nanami. we had a connection.”

he actually groans under his breath, tossing his head back for a moment. “you’re insufferable.”

“you love it.” your mouth is already pressed against his clothed length, nuzzling through the fabric like it’s the only source of oxygen in the room. “you love it when i get like this. desperate. needy. dramatic. all for you.”

“you make it... extremely difficult to be the responsible one in this relationship,” he mutters, finally threading a hand through your hair and gripping it just a bit too tight. “i’m trying to have boundaries.”

“boundaries are for cowards,” you say, voice muffled by his zipper. “i’m not leaving until i’ve got your dick in my throat or you drag me away kicking and screaming.”

he glares down at you, jaw clenched, but his eyes are blown wide and his breath’s hitching like he’s already giving in. “and if you bite me again?”

you blink up at him innocently. “then you’ll have to teach me a lesson. daddy.”

his hand tightens in your hair so fast, you whimper. his face drops into something darker. flushed, heated, unchained.

“that’s it,” he says, voice a low growl now. “you get one chance. no teeth. and if you so much as grazed me—i swear to god, i’ll tie you to the bed and leave you there aching for hours.”

you shiver. “promise?”

he groans again—this time pained for a different reason—and unbuckles his belt with a look that spells doom and bliss in equal measure.

“you’re lucky i love you,” he mutters, pushing your hair out of your face like he’s about to watch art unfold.

“i know,” you grin, already lowering your head with stars in your eyes. “and your dick’s lucky too.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“look at you.”

his voice is low. almost a purr. one arm thrown over the back of the couch, the other resting on his thick thigh, fingers absently tapping like he’s got all the time in the world. and there you are—on the damn floor, crawling toward him with a sheet half-draped around your bare body, your knees hitting the carpet with each desperate shuffle.

“you’re so dramatic,” he chuckles, watching you like a predator, boxer briefs soaked through with a very obvious dark patch from just how much he’s leaking. you two had barely finished wrestling on the bed—bodies tangled, lips bitten, hands everywhere—before he escaped, telling you to cool off and earn it if you really wanted him.

and you did. god, you did.

“toji, please,” you whisper, clutching his thighs like they’re your lifeline, forehead pressed just above his knee. your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, your whole body buzzing from the leftover high of grinding against him. the sheet slides a little lower, barely covering anything at all. “i need it. need you. want your cock so bad it hurts—”

he snorts. “you didn’t seem to have any problem using your teeth last time, sweetheart.”

“that was reflex!” you cry, kissing the muscle of his thigh, voice shaking with humiliation and need. “you were flexing. i blacked out. i was in heat or something.”

“you damn near bit me,” he mutters, but he’s already spreading his legs wider, letting you slip in closer between them. “ain’t lettin’ you suck me off until you beg like you mean it.”

you look up at him, face hot, eyes wild. “toji, i am. look at me, i’m naked and on my knees—i’m practically weeping for it.” your fingers curl into his thighs, massaging slowly. “i love your cock. i miss it in my mouth. i wanna taste you so bad i’m shaking. please let me make it up to you, i’ll be good, i swear. no teeth, just tongue. soft, warm, wet, messy—however you want it, please.”

he groans under his breath, cock twitching under the wet fabric, already starting to swell again.

“fuck. you’re pathetic,” he says, but there’s affection in it. a twisted sort of pride. “my poor little slut crawling for dick. what’d i do to you, huh?”

“ruined me,” you whimper. “you broke me. there’s no coming back. i need you in my throat or i’m gonna lose my mind.”

his hand drops to your head, gripping your hair tight. “you’re sick.”

“you made me sick,” you whisper, nose brushing the base of his length. “and now you gotta take responsibility.”

toji laughs—deep, dark, filthy. “that so?” he lets you tug his boxers down just enough to free him, his cock soaked, heavy, dripping against your cheek. “you better treat him right this time. if i feel teeth, you’re not gettin’ shit for a week.”

you nod frantically, lips parting as you kiss the head, licking up his length like it’s the answer to every prayer you’ve ever said.

“good girl,” he mutters, voice all grit and gravel, hand tightening in your hair like he’s anchoring himself to reality. “make it nice. messy. and if you make me cum like that again, maybe i’ll let you ride me like the rabid little bitch you are.”

you moan in response, mouth full, eyes fluttering, sheet slipping off your back completely as you settle in between his thighs like it’s your altar.

and toji?

he just grins.

“atta girl. daddy’s real proud.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“are you insane?” sukuna growls, yanking you off his cock with a wet pop, thick fingers gripping your jaw as he glares down at you like you just committed a federal crime. “i told you no fuckin’ teeth, brat.”

you blink up at him, dazed, spit trailing down your chin, his taste still hot on your tongue—and then you gasp, like you’ve just been stabbed in the heart.

“it was an accident!” you shriek, dramatically flopping back onto the bed with a loud wail, dragging the back of your hand across your forehead like a Victorian widow. “i didn’t mean to! you’re so big it’s hard to breathe, sukuna!”

he groans and rolls his eyes, turning away, his cock still hard and glistening, twitching with every heartbeat. “and now you’re being fuckin’ dramatic.”

you let out a gasping, exaggerated sob. “because you RUINED me! you ripped your cock out like i was some uncivilized beast! i was worshipping you! that was the best head you’ve ever gotten and you know it!”

“you bit me!”

“NOT ON PURPOSE!” you're full-on yelling now, wrapping yourself in the sheets like you’re mourning the death of your dignity. “i was in the zone! it slipped! i’m sorry, your majesty, please just let me suck you again before i combust!”

he doesn’t say anything. just leans against the wall with his arms crossed, cock still leaking, veins bulging from how hard he is—and that only makes you worse.

you crawl to the edge of the bed and point at it like it’s a crime scene. “look at it! it’s crying, sukuna. your dick misses me. it’s not even mad! we made up already! we’ve been through so much together, and you’re going to let one little bite ruin everything?!”

he barks out a laugh—real and sharp and rough—and wipes a hand down his face. “you’re fucking unhinged.”

you whimper, lower lip wobbling as you shuffle back onto your knees, reaching for him with trembling hands like a woman starved. “i just want to make you feel good,” you whine, hands clutching his thighs dramatically once he is close. “please let me try again. i’ll be slow, i’ll go so soft, i’ll baby it. i’ll kiss it better, i swear.” you lean in and whisper like it’s sacred: “i’ll sing lullabies to it.”

he nearly chokes on his breath, head thrown back in a bark of laughter, but when he looks down again, his expression twists. your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and wet from earlier—and you’re trembling with need, thighs pressed together like you’ll die if he doesn’t let you back on his cock.

he watches you for a second. his cock twitches again. hard. twitchy.

“…fuck me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “you’re so annoying it’s hot.”

you light up. “so does that mean—”

“no,” he growls, pushing you back onto the bed again before took another steps back. “you’re gonna lay there and think about what you did.”

you wail like a banshee. “I WAS THINKING ABOUT IT WHILE I WAS SUCKING YOU!”

“TOO BAD.”

you thrash under the sheets like you’re possessed, kicking the mattress, fists in your hair. “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH! I’M GONNA DIE WITHOUT YOUR DICK IN MY MOUTH, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? TO KILL ME? MURDER BY DENIAL?!”

sukuna’s lips twitch.

“drama queen,” he mutters, but he’s already walking back toward the bed.

and you?

you’re waiting, pretty little pout on your lips, one eye peeking open, whispering:

“…does that mean i can suck it now?”

he sighs.

“if you fuckin’ bite me again, i’m tying you up and making you watch me jerk off.”

“…deal.” his cock , thick and soaked and pulsing against your cheek. “mmm,” you moan, nuzzling him like you’ve been starving for this. “hi, baby. missed me?”

“you talk to my dick more than you talk to me,” sukuna mutters, watching you with a half-crazed grin. “but keep going, let’s see if you can make me cum without getting punished.”

you wink up at him, tongue out, already devouring him.

and sukuna just growls, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your head like he’s barely holding himself back.

“that’s it. make it messy, slut. show me how desperate you really are.”

SHIU KONG

“mmph—wait, ow—okay, nope, that’s it,” shiu grunts, suddenly yanking your head back by your hair. his cock slips free from your mouth, slick and flushed, and his eyes are sharp with irritation.

“you bit me again.”

you blink up at him, wide-eyed, lips shiny and red like sin, a little dazed. “...i didn’t mean to—”

“you bit my dick.”

“it was barely a nibble!”

one sharp, violent bite,” he snaps, brows raised, looking at you like you’re some wild animal that got inside his house. “you think that shit’s cute?”

you sit back on your heels, eyes wide, chest heaving like you've just survived a war. “it wasn’t on purpose!” you shout, voice cracking. “you grabbed my hair and moaned like a goddamn demon, i thought i was dying—it scared me! it was a survival response!”

shiu runs a hand over his face, cock still standing tall and twitchy like it doesn’t care what his brain is saying. “a survival response is ducking. not biting the head of my dick like it owes you money.”

you gasp again—deeply offended—before flopping backwards onto the bed with a loud, wounded groan, sheets tangling around your body like a collapsing ghost. “i can’t believe this,” you moan, hand over your chest. “i’m being punished. denied. forsaken.”

“good,” he mutters. “think about what you did.”

“i was! i was repenting! with my mouth!” you shriek, writhing on the bed now, like your soul is being pulled out of your body. “and you ripped your cock out like i was some kind of threat! do you hate me?!”

he stares at you like he’s mentally filing a restraining order.

and you? you crumble. dramatically. hands over your hair, you tangled into the sheets like you’ve been mortally wounded, the back of your hand flung across your forehead like you’re starring in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“oh my god,” you wail. “you’re rejecting me. again.”

“yes. because you keep fucking biting me.”

“i didn’t mean to! i got excited!” you sob. “i told you, you were moaning like, like... some low-budget porno villain and you were so deep, i couldn’t breathe, and then—then my brain shut down!”

shiu’s hand is on his hip now, head tilted, staring at you like you’re a broken vending machine that just ate his money.

“you are too unhinged to have a mouth license.”

you gasp, offended. “you’re gonna punish me for enthusiasm?! for dedication?! shiu, i was trying to impress you! i wanted to be your top-ranking throat champion!”

“you’re disqualified.”

you let out a long, theatrical wail, rolling yourself in the sheets like a demented spring roll, clutching a pillow to your chest.

“then what’s the point of living?!” you cry out. “what’s the point of being sexy if i can’t even use it?! i was born to suck your cock, and now it’s been taken from me. how cruel the world is.”

he groans, wiping his hand down his face. “you’re exhausting.”

“then let me drain you!” you sit up, eyes wild, hair a mess, sheets slipping off your shoulder. “you’re already hard again! your dick misses me! he’s not even mad! he’s asking for me—i can hear him whispering. he said, ‘where’s she goin’? bring her back.’”

he’s losing it now. jaw clenched. lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “i should muzzle you and put you in a cage.”

you moan. actually moan. “yes, daddy, punish me for my crimes! let the punishment be your cock down my throat!”

shiu walks away like he’s going to go pray or find an exorcist.

you?

you follow him on your knees, dragging the sheet behind you like a bridal veil, whispering, “please… please, just let me make it right… let me apologize to him personally…”

he turns around slowly, staring down at you. his cock’s still hard. you both know it.

“you swear you won’t bite me again?”

you nod frantically. “i’ll treat him like a prince. a baby lamb. i’ll be a good girl, i swear.”

“…if i feel even one tooth, you’re getting a gag and i’m going to edge the fuck out of you all night.”

your eyes sparkle.

“you promise?”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

you’re under his desk, knees pressed into the carpet, palms spread against his thighs like you were summoned by divine command. his slacks are already unzipped—his shirt sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear, glasses slipping down his nose. he looks like a goddamn courtroom fantasy.

you’re seconds away from having your dinner. the meal of kings. your mouth is practically watering, lips already parting as your fingers hook into his waistband.

but the second you tug his briefs down and get a glimpse of him, warm and heavy and waiting for worship—his hand snaps down.

he stops you. stops you.

your mouth hovers a breath away. “what the fuck?”

his eyes don’t even lift from the paper he’s reviewing. “no.”

you blink. “no??”

“you bit me two days ago.”

you sit back on your heels like you’ve been physically struck. like he just told you your favorite bakery burned down.

“that wasn’t on purpose!”

his brow twitches slightly, finally glancing down at you over the rim of his glasses. “you’ve said that three times now.”

“because it’s true!” you cry, grabbing his thighs dramatically. “it was enthusiastic teeth, not malicious teeth!”

he exhales slowly, setting his pen down like he’s preparing to deliver a verdict. “my cock disagrees.”

“he was moaning! he was into it!”

“he was in pain.”

you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “you’re lying to turn him against me!”

“he has trust issues now.”

you lurch forward again, arms wrapping around his hips as you press your cheek to his thigh like a rejected lover begging for one last dance. “i’ll rebuild that trust. i’ll make amends. i’ll speak to him directly if i have to.”

“you’re not putting my cock through trauma bonding.”

you groan like you're dying, forehead thudding against his knee. “hiromi, please. this is cruel and unusual. i’m starving. you’re there, he’s there—everyone’s here! let me serve my country.”

he’s trying not to smile. you can tell. you see the slight twitch in his lip, the way his fingers tap against the desk like he’s counting to ten.

“you're unbelievable.”

“i’m committed.”

“you’re a menace.”

you pout up at him, eyes big, lower lip trembling. “i’ll be soft. so soft. i’ll hum him lullabies. i’ll put a little bow on him if that’s what he needs.”

he groans under his breath and leans back slightly in the chair. “if i let you, and i feel even one tooth…”

“then what?” you whisper, excited now, leaning in. “you gonna make me cry?”

he leans forward, resting one elbow on his knee, staring you down with that judge-like stare that makes you throb.

“i’ll finish on your tongue and tell you it’s your punishment.”

you grin like the fucking devil. “your honor, i accept the sentence.”

his fly is open.

you win.

for now.

[abbotjack]

˚. ྀིྀི୧❤︎୨ ྀིྀི.˚ We know Jack writes letters.

They're the kind Robby can’t read all the way through without stepping outside to gather himself. The kind that cut clean and simple, because Jack doesn’t waste words—he means them.

So when he falls in love, of course he writes.

He works nights. You work days. It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal—just a few missed dinners, a couple uneven weekends. But two years in, it’s become a rhythm neither of you like but both of you have learned how to survive. You brush your teeth while he’s lacing up his boots. He lets the microwave run too long reheating the dinner you left him. The sheets are always warm, but it’s rare you’re both in them at the same time.

You see him in fragments.

A half-empty beer left by the sink. His stethoscope on the kitchen chair. The smell of soap and hospital antiseptic lingering in the bathroom when you step out of the shower. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you catch him in the doorway before you head out and he gets home—eyes heavy, jaw dark with stubble, scrubs wrinkled. He kisses your forehead like he’s apologizing for the hours he missed.

But then there are the letters.

Tucked in the pocket of your coat. Folded into your planner between work notes and receipts. Once, wedged between the pages of the book you keep meaning to finish, like he knew you’d open it eventually.

They’re never long—just a paragraph or two, scribbled on the back of supply sheets or crumpled chart printouts, whatever scrap he could grab between calls. The handwriting is always the same: rushed, uneven, slanted like he was writing too fast to second-guess himself. He never rewrites them. Never polishes a word. And at the bottom, always that quiet little “—J,” like he’s hesitant to leave too much of himself behind.

“Didn’t sleep today. Kept thinking about the way you were breathing last night, arm over your face like you were shielding yourself from something. I should’ve held you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“No letter tonight. Just wanted to leave a note saying I need to be near you. Wake me when you get in. Please.”

“You said something in the mirror yesterday—something about looking tired. I didn’t say anything then, but: You are beautiful. Even when you forget. Especially then.”

“There’s a receipt in your car from our favorite place. You went without me. I’m not mad. Just—next time, bring back fries. Or lie better.”

“You leave your rings on the counter and every time I see them, I think, ‘she came home.’ I don’t think you know how much that matters to me.”

“The plant you named after me is dying. Water it. Or don’t. I get it. But if it survives, I’ll take it as a sign you still love me.”

“You left the light on. Again. Which should annoy me. It doesn’t. The apartment feels like you were just here. Sometimes that’s all I need.”

“Tried to be quiet when I left. Still knocked over the shampoo bottle. Sorry. You flinched but didn’t wake up. I whispered goodbye anyway. It felt wrong not to.”

“You made the grocery list and wrote ‘Jack’s weird yogurt’ like I don’t have a brand. You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

"Tonight was rough. Lost one. Didn’t want to bring it home with me, but I needed to tell you I love you anyway."

“You were talking in your sleep again. Said something about stealing a goat. If I come home and there’s a goat in the yard, I’m not asking questions. I’ll just name it.”

“You asked me last night if I’d still love you if I was a worm. I said no. You hit me with a pillow. I’ve revised my answer.”

“You bought four new throw pillows. We now have eleven pillows on a three-seat couch. I have nowhere to sit. I love you anyway.”

“You said you felt off today. Didn’t tell me what that meant. Just curled up under the blanket and didn’t talk much. I stayed quiet too. I just wanted you to know I noticed.”

“You made the bed this morning. I know you were late. You didn’t do it for you. You did it for me. I love you.”

You keep them all. Pressed flat in a shoebox under your bed, like tiny pieces of him that can’t fade with time. Some of them still smell like antiseptic and worn leather and faint traces of his cologne. Sometimes you reread them when the loneliness sneaks in, when the hours between seeing him stretch too long.

And the thing is—he never asks if you read them. He doesn’t bring them up. It’s not about the response. It’s not even about being heard.

It’s about leaving something behind.

A thread. A trace. A heartbeat in your drawer when he can’t be in your bed.

Because Jack Abbot may not say I love you in the hallway or across a crowded kitchen—but he’ll write it. Every damn time.

And he knows you’ll find it when you need it most.

[be-xkyy]

Tw: sexual content, breeding, angry sex, jealous boyfriend, mate couple.

Yandere Cat Hybrid Boyfriend who is completely in love (obsessed) with his human girlfriend ���

He can't help but hide in the corners of the house, alert with his furry ears pulled back and his tail swishing behind him before jumping in front of you every time you pass, scaring you to death

He gets extremely offended and hisses at you when you throw his "gifts" in the trash, gifts that are mostly dead rats, dead birds, spiders, and he even caught a snake once, he did all that just for you little ungrateful one

His sense of smell is highly developed so he can smell when someone else has been around you, always when you come back from the store or work he will pounce on you purring... only for his purrs to stop abruptly when he smells the scent of another male on you...

“Why do you smell like another male?! What were you doing to make him leave his scent so strong on you, huh?! You fucked him, is that it?!”

His tail bristles and his eyes squeeze into thin slits, venomous accusations leave his lips between furious hisses, it's cruel, but it's just a defense mechanism, his heart pounds in his ears and his chest hurts at the thought of you abandoning him for someone else :(

“I thought fucking you and bathing you in my essence would keep the idiots away from you! But you have no respect for yourself or me! I'm going to fuck you with an entire litter of my kittens, so you and the idiots out there know that you belong to me! ”

He doesn't listen to any of your excuses or let you explain anything, he grabs your arm tightly digging his nails into your skin which will surely be full of bruises tomorrow and drags you to the living room pushing you on the carpet, he roughly gets between your legs, the sound of the fabric tearing fills the room when he rips off your clothes revealing your lace lingerie that in any other situation he would have admired but now he's mad at you :(

He doesn't even take off his clothes, he just rips off your panties before his fingers desperately open his belt, he pulls his pants down to his thighs along with his boxers, he takes his fat cock in his hand rubbing it up and down firmly, he's capable enough to see through his annoying haze and know that he has to lubricate you a little since he doesn't want to hurt you ♡

He spits on your pussy, uses his saliva to lubricate you by rubbing your clit a few times before taking his cock, guiding it towards your pussy, he inserts himself with a thrust, throwing his ears back in pure pleasure at the feeling of your tight warm pussy sucking him, his tail swings behind him at the moans you let out ♡

He moves his hips vigorously, the dirty sound of wet slaps along with his hisses and your moans fills the room, his fingers dig hard into your hips as he pushes you down impaling you on his cock that hits your cervix rhythmically over and over again, he leans over you licking your neck with his rough tongue before biting down hard breaking the skin and making you gasp in pain, your body tense up and your vaginal walls clamp down on his cock ♡

He's completely lost in his pleasure, his cock throbs and your walls clamp down on him, a warning that you'll climax soon, just like him, his furry tail wraps around your thigh as he fucks you harder, he frowns and squints, his cock frantically pounds against your bruised cervix and when you least expect it you cum, spurting onto his cock and belly with a high-pitched moan ♡

He hisses with pleasure as he feels your climax and buries himself deep inside you,he cums, milky white ropes painting your insides, his thick semen filling your fertile uterus, you whimper as his knot begins to swell inside you, big, making sure to keep you plugged so that none of his semen goes to waste, so that all his kittens grow in your belly ♡

He collapses on top of you, clinging to your warmth as he catches his breath. He rubs his nose against your jaw while his tail curls and uncurls rhythmically around your thigh, like a caress. He stares at your fucked-out form in fascination and smiles. His fangs gleam, he's almost angelic. His ears perk up happily, and he speaks with a haunting purr.

“I can't wait to fuck you every day! Now that we're making kittens together, you can't officially go back to work... we need to make a whole litter. This is the first of many, right, Mate..?”

[luvbabydoll]

soft target — john price

john price x teacher!fem!reader

warnings: some patronizing behavior from john

a/n: i may make a part two

you’re in early, like always. lights on, coffee half-finished, cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows as you tidy the desks just so. your sundress floats gently with each step—soft blue today, the one with the little flowers on the hem. the school hasn’t quite woken up yet. the hallway’s still quiet.

so when there’s a knock at your door, it startles you.

you turn—and there he is.

john price, standing in your doorway like he owns the place. cap low, beard trimmed, fatigues neat but somehow still menacing. he nods once, slow. confident.

“mornin’, love.”

you blink. smile automatically, polite.

“captain price. you’re early.”

“mm. wanted a look at the battlefield before the troops show up.”

he steps in without waiting for permission, eyes dragging across your classroom like he’s assessing a threat. your posters. your bookshelf. the string of fairy lights along the board. all of it feels suddenly... childish under his gaze.

“cosy,” he says, tone unreadable.

“i try to make it welcoming,” you murmur, shifting your clipboard to the other hand.

he steps closer. slow, measured. eyes on yours.

“bet they love you in here.”

you glance away. “the students?”

“mm,” he hums. “them too.”

you pretend not to hear the implication. instead, you start gathering the stack of forms from your desk, fussing with the edges to avoid looking at him too long.

“you’ll be speaking during second period. i’ll introduce you to my class before that, if that’s alright.”

“more than alright, sweetheart.”

he doesn’t move. doesn’t leave. just leans one hip against a desk and watches you work like he’s got all the time in the world.

“what do you teach again? history, was it?”

“yes.”

“so you tell ‘em the truth, do you? or just what’s in the books?”

you look up. his eyes are sharp, curious, but there’s a challenge there too.

“i tell them what matters,” you say quietly. “what they’re old enough to understand.”

he nods slowly. “fair enough. still think you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“why’s that?”

he smirks. closer.

“‘cause you’re soft,” he says, like it’s a compliment. “kind. got that voice that makes people want to sit still and listen. but that don’t mean they will, yeah?”

you feel heat crawl up your neck. “i manage.”

“m’not sayin’ you don’t. just sayin’... wouldn’t last long on a base lookin’ like that.”

your breath catches. “like what?”

he shrugs, lazy. unconcerned.

“floaty dress. bare legs. that sweet little voice. no wonder the boys don’t give you trouble. probably all got bloody crushes.”

you stare at him.

he just grins.

before you can answer, the bell rings.

you’re saved. for now.

your students filter in, loud and chatty, and john shifts back into professional mode—if only barely. he stands by the board with his arms crossed, watching as you gently quiet the class.

“alright, everyone, we have a guest today,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “this is captain price. he’s here to speak about military recruitment.”

a few of the boys sit up straighter. one of the girls whispers something and giggles.

price gives you a nod, then scans the room.

“pleasure. won’t waste your time—unless you’re lookin’ to waste mine.”

the class actually listens. not out of respect, but curiosity. fear. maybe both.

you stand off to the side while he talks—sharp, clean delivery, his voice made for command. but every so often, his gaze flicks back to you. quick. deliberate.

and you feel it. like a brand, every time.

when the bell rings again, you thank him quietly. he waves off the compliment like it’s nothing. but then—then he lingers.

offers to help you tidy up. again.

and as you reach for a stray folder on the desk, his hand brushes your waist.

“steady there, love.”

you freeze.

his hand stays just a second too long.

“wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle in those little shoes, would we?”

you clear your throat. try to step away, but he’s already one step ahead, bending to grab the folder for you.

“s’nothing, sweetheart. happy to help.”

he hands it to you with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“i’ll be back next week. same class, yeah?”

you nod.

“good. maybe i’ll get a proper tour next time.”

and then he’s gone, just like that.

but you know—you know—this isn’t the last time you’ll see captain price in your classroom.

[dohoonie42]

Why don’t we kiss since we’re bored?

⸻

fem!reader x Jeonghan

genre: fluffy, playful romance

word count: 1.4K+

summary: Jeonghan and you, bored on the couch, turn a playful challenge into a sweet kiss-filled moment, filled with teasing and laughter.

⸻

You lounged on the couch with Jeonghan, the two of you lost in your own little worlds — him scrolling through endless dramas, you scrolling through your phone.

Every so often, you’d hear him sigh dramatically.

Another click of the remote. Another scroll through titles.

“Why are these all so boring?” he complained, tossing his head back against the couch cushions with a dramatic whine.

You smiled to yourself, not even glancing up from your screen. “Maybe you’re just hard to please, Hannie.”

He grumbled something under his breath and kept flipping through the options, clearly growing more and more frustrated.

“I’m seriously bored,” he huffed.

That’s when something popped into your head.

A post you had seen earlier on social media — a cute, teasing suggestion for situations exactly like this.

Grinning to yourself, you turned your phone off and looked at him, your voice innocent as you said, “Why don’t we kiss since we’re bored?”

Jeonghan’s thumb froze mid-scroll.

His head whipped around to look at you, eyes wide, a faint pink dusting his cheeks.

“What?” he blinked, clearly caught off guard.

You just smiled sweetly, watching the flush crawl higher up his neck.

He recovered quickly, flashing you a lazy, mischievous smile. “Well…” he leaned closer, “I’m not bored anymore.”

Your jaw dropped in mock betrayal.

You pulled your legs off his lap dramatically and shuffled away from him, crossing your arms.

“Wow.”

Jeonghan laughed, reaching out to grab your ankle and tug you back. “Yah, come back! I’m sorry! I was just teasing!”

You turned your nose up at him stubbornly, refusing to even look at him.

“Jagi,” he whined, sliding closer to you. “Don’t be like that…”

You stayed silent, pretending to be unfazed even as your heart hammered at how adorable he was being.

Smiling to himself, Jeonghan reached out and cupped your face with both hands, gently trying to turn you to face him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to budge.

“Aish,” he muttered, half amused, half desperate.

If you weren’t going to look at him willingly, he was going to have to change tactics.

You felt the first kiss land against your neck, featherlight and warm.

Then another, a little higher — your jawline.

And finally — soft, lingering — his lips brushed against yours.

You kept your lips stubbornly still.

Jeonghan pulled back slightly, frowning.

“Yah,” he whined, voice petulant. “Kiss me back!”

You cracked an eye open, smirking. “I thought you weren’t bored anymore, hm?”

He groaned, dropping his forehead against yours dramatically. “You’re evil,” he accused. “How can you say something like that and then punish me?!”

You giggled, finally letting your hands sneak up to curl into the front of his hoodie. “Maybe you should think twice before teasing me next time, Hannie.”

But before you could retreat again, he leaned in and captured your lips properly this time — no more playful kisses, just sweet, lingering affection.

And this time, you gave in.

Melting into him, letting your stubbornness dissolve into soft laughter and gentle affection.

When you finally pulled away, both of you a little breathless and smiling like idiots, Jeonghan tucked a stray hair behind your ear and whispered, “We should definitely do that more often when we’re bored.”

You smacked his chest with a giggle, pushing him away slightly.

“Yah!” you scolded, but the fondness in your voice gave you away immediately.

Jeonghan just grinned, catching your hand before you could pull it back, intertwining your fingers with his.

“What?” he teased, pulling you back into his side. “I’m just saying… why waste time being bored when I have the prettiest girl in the world right here?”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but snuggled back into him anyway, letting his arm curl around your shoulders.

You felt completely at ease in his arms. Tonight, there was nothing to worry about — just the two of you, cuddled up together and enjoying each other’s company

⸻

missing my hannie guys 🥲

⸻

[hungharrington]

hear me out:

loverboy stevie makes a sex playlist for when things get hot and heavy in his bmw only he fumbles with the cassette and instead of hearing sexy jazz as you straddle him and start unbuckling his belt and zipping down his jeans, dustin’s mixtape of the star wars soundtrack starts playing instead

i’m crying there are real tears in my eyes

cos you’re so right, he so would. he’d be like so chuffed with himself, he spent a lot of time making sure each song on the mixtape is perfectly selected, it’s a curated mix that starts off softer and descends into something more saucy, more sexy if he dares to say.

— and he does dare say, only after he’d remembers it in a flurry of wide eyes and a shouted “wait!” during a makeout sessions in the backseat of his car- he shoots forward between the seats to fumble open the glove box, (giving you a delicious but confused view of his ass) before he pulls back, wiggling a tape between his fingers that you can read is labelled love-making mix with a scrawled heart in sharpie beside it <3

and that’s exactly how he describes it you, between heated kisses, murmuring the words, “it’s sexy, baby, it’s like, saucy ‘n’ shit, you’re gonna love it,” before he breaks your kisses again, adoring how you pout to lean back through the seats and feed it into the tape player.

it clatters a bit, but steve’s got one of those fancy tape player types, which can hold up to 4 tapes at a single time, so it feeds in just fine. steve hits play and sits back, not wasting any time in cajoling you back into his lap

you can hear the tape running in the back, that silence before some pre-made mixtape whirring in the back.

but you also can only hear the heavy breaths from steve’s mouth attached to yours, can’t really hear anything above how his roaming hands make you feel, how the core of you begins to flicker hotly and how the hard shape of him beneath you is—

the blaring trumpets of the star wars theme blast through steve’s speakers, loud enough to make you both startle in shock. steve bites your lip in surprise and then rears back, smacking his head on seats— in all in a half second.

“ow!” you say, right as steve says, “oh, what the shit.”

the theme keeps playing loudly — bah BAH bah bah bah BUH bah — as you and steve both scramble at the same time to push between the seats, desperate to stop the loud noise. steve reaches it first, hitting the stop button and then song cuts off abruptly, leaving the car suddenly very, very quiet.

you slither back from between the front seats and so does steve, the two of you side by side in the backseat. you laugh before you realise you’re doing so.

steve groans, head tilting back. “i’m gonna kill henderson.”

“sexy and saucy, huh?” you tease lightheartedly.

steve snorts, rolling his head to look at you. “i think my boner died.”

[differenteagletragedy]

Part two of the one where Simon lets you move into a room in his house You tell Simon that you have at least a few weeks before you need to move out of your apartment and into his spare room, but he doesn't see the point in wasting time. The day after he offers to let you move in, he goes shopping, and the next few days are spent putting everything together. The bed, the dresser, two matching nightstands, some shelves — he makes sure everything is solid and sturdy for you, and he hopes you wouldn't notice how new it all is.

He cleans, too, every inch of the place. He's not a particularly messy man, but he'd bought the small two-bedroom house years ago, and he's not one for company. So he goes over everything, and he does what he can to make sure that his home is a good place for you, from the small stepstool he buys and sticks in the corner of the kitchen to the way he organizes his shaving supplies in the bathroom so you can have half the limited counterspace.

When you tell him you're ready, he brings his truck to the bar to pick up you and your things, and his heart aches, just a little, when he sees that all you have is a couple of bags slung over your shoulder. Without a word, he takes them from you and carries them out, and he tries to shrug off the slight disappointment he feels when you open the passenger door before he can do it for you.

"It's not much," he tells you on the short drive back. "Two bedrooms, just the one bathroom. I'm gone a lot. Stay as long as you like."

"What do you think for rent?" you ask. "I've got a little bit saved, and I can —"

"I meant what I said, love. There's no rush."

He hops out quickly after he pulls into the driveway, opening your door for you this time. He takes your bags and carries them in and into the room that's now yours, setting them carefully on the floor before turning to you, sticking his hand in his pocket and pulling out a key.

"Same one for both doors," he says. "Not much in the kitchen, but help yourself to anything you like. And let me know if you need anything at all."

The first few days, you don't see each other much. He stays in his room more than usual, not wanting to crowd you or make you feel uncomfortable. You pick up an extra shift at the bar, trying to make that rent he keeps telling you not to worry about.

One night during that first week, he comes home late from the gym, and he's pleasantly surprised to see you sitting in the living room, watching tv and having a snack.

"Oh, sorry," you say immediately when you hear the door open, like you'd done something wrong.

He smiles, just a bit, and nods for the couch, wanting you to be comfortable — maybe liking the idea of you warm and cozy in his space a little too much.

"Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart," he says, stepping closer.

You nod, and slowly sit back down, but on the edge of the cushion now, tense.

He doesn't care for it.

"What's on?" he asks.

"Oh, just this show I watch sometimes. It's a dumb reality thing ... I can check it out on my phone later."

You minimize yourself constantly, he's noticed that for a while now, but it's never been so clear as it is now, with you perched on his couch like you're waiting to run for cover. He still doesn't know your story, but in the moment, he'd love nothing more than to find whatever or whoever it was that put this innate fear in you and destroy it.

It's a war in him, a fight between keeping to himself and wanting you not to do the same. This particular battle is decided when he takes a seat on the other end of the couch and forces himself to tear his eyes away from you to look at the tv.

"Tell me about it."

You do. Nervously at first, but you slowly relax. He gives a small, satisfied smile when you scoot back to sit on the couch more comfortably and start to speak more freely, and he fights back a wider one when he really takes you in, bare feet and a loose t-shirt, lounging around at home. His home.

Yours too, now.

After that night, things get a little easier. You don’t sequester yourself in your room, and he warms up to you a bit more. It starts feeling natural, having you in his space. You fall into a rhythm.

Nearly a month in, he comes home one day to find you in the living room, pulling on your shoes, and he asks you where you're headed.

"We're headed to get some groceries," you tell him.

The directness is new, but certainly not unwelcome, and he follows behind you gladly as you lead the way to the store.

Grocery shopping with you makes him feel like a kid again, but one who had someone to dote on him. You walk by the produce, asking him carefully what he likes. What's his favorite kind of apple? What kind of berry does he prefer?

At one point, you actually tell him, "Simon, you have to get some vegetables," and he can't help but laugh at how you stare up at him pointedly, like he's supposed to know he's worth being cared for.

"What's your favorite dinner?" you ask him as you walk through the aisles, carefully scanning for prices before you put things in the cart.

"Don't know," he mutters. "Never really thought about it."

It's true, sort of. He eats, of course, and he has preferences, but it's never really been something to take pleasure in. There's never been some meal he craves, or some kind of food tied to a good memory. He mostly just wants to see if you'll say his name again.

But then he thinks for another beat and starts walking.

He puts a can of beans into the cart, then goes to another aisle and gets a loaf of bread. He doesn't say anything, but you nod and smile at him.

After you buy the groceries -- more specifically, after he buys the groceries, using his body to block the card reader while you laugh and try to wrestle your way around him to pay yourself -- you walk back home. He sets the bags on the counter, and together you put up all your purchases, but he notices you leave out the things he'd picked out.

"Hungry?"

"Generally."

Simon watches, arms crossed, as you heat the beans in a saucepan you'd pulled from under the stove. He doesn't move when you stand close to get to the toaster, and he watches your throat as you swallow when your arm brushes against his to put the bread in.

"You know, I would have made you anything," you tell him as you wait for the toast. "And this is what you picked?"

"Just had it a lot when I was a kid," he mutters, not offering more.

With the look you give him, a glance that's quick but still penetrates, he knows you understand the reluctance to get into the details. It's not the easiest thing to explain, how one can find comfort in the soft lulls of a tragedy. How oddly soothing it can feel to remember any bit of kindness from hands that ripped you apart.

You give him a plate first. Beans on toast, straight from his childhood. He takes a bite and nods, appreciative, and you grin.

A few bites later, you reach your hand up and swipe off a bit of food from the corner of his mouth, and seemingly without thinking, you lick it from your finger. He keeps his eyes on you for a moment longer, then sets his plate down.

Simon moves slowly, agonizingly so, giving you every chance to stop him. He puts his hands on your waist first, high and respectable, and when you just look at him, waiting, he drops them to your hips.

"This ok?" he asks, and when you nod, he dips his hands lower, over your thighs and to the back of them, lifting you up and dropping you on the counter.

"You didn't have to make me dinner, love," he says softly, working his body just slightly between your knees.

"You don't want me to pay any rent either," you tell him. "I can't just stay here for nothing."

The idea of you bringing nothing to this arrangement is laughable, but he keeps a straight face. He studies you, every fleck of color in your eyes and every line in your skin, maybe too intensely, but you just sit there, and you let him.

"You can tell me to stop," he finally says. "Won't be offended."

"I don't want you to stop."

With that, he brings his lips to your cheek, placing a gentle kiss there, then plants one on your jaw. When you still don't object, and even lift your hands to grasp onto his shoulders, he kisses your mouth.

He doesn't want to rush this, and he doesn't want to ask for something more than you want to give. He doesn't want you to feel like you owe him, but the idea of kissing you like this has been loud and persistent in his mind for longer than he cares to admit. He tries to bridge the two thoughts with his carefulness, but when he feels you start to kiss him back, he snaps.

Not visibly -- he doesn't shove his tongue down your throat or grope you with rough hands. That's not how Simon loses control. For him, snapping is internal. It's in realizing how good you feel in his arms and letting himself feel the weight of that.

He's not sure if it's the dinner you made him or something more innate, but when he kisses you, you taste like home.

In the moment, he can admit that to himself. But he's not ready for you to know. Not yet, anyway.

[letsdrinkcoffeeinhell]

Beginners deserve better advice, and writing should be more interesting than this.

1. Show don't tell is the most repeated piece of advice you will hear, and it's worthless. Showing is a tool, telling is a tool, deploy them where you think they're most effective. Telling the reader how someone feels is almost always faster than showing them, and sometimes its better to preserve the pace of a scene. Practice doing both.

2. Head hop as much as you want, whenever you want. Third person omniscient is a fun perspective to play with. Explore every feature of your writing to find new techniques and tools to help tell your stories. Practically, you'll probably want at least a paragraph break between "heads," and starting the new paragraph with either the character's name or a lead-in sentence to ease the reader in is usually wise. 3. "Infodumping" is just inelegant exposition. Be elegant with it. If you find yourself having to rely on dialogue for something as foundational as exposition, considering working to strengthening your prose.

4. OP is a coward. If blade runner can start with exposition, so can your book. It's challenging to make that interesting and engaging, yes, but learning how to do that is the entire point of learning how to write. Those are the skills you're trying to gain and improve.

5. If suspense is the only force driving your reader to turn the next page, you've wasted every page before it. They should be invested in your world, your characters, and your story enough to want to continue without you constantly jangling your keys in front of them like the subway surfers gameplay under a tiktok. Discworld doesn't have chapter breaks, and Terry Pratchett is one of the best writers the English language has ever produced. This advice is useful if you're writing a thriller, or if you need to rely on it for the first few pages or chapters while you're still getting people invested. Otherwise, your chapter breaks should serve whatever structural purpose you desire.

6. Subverting expectations is advice for comedians and disgraced game of thrones tv show writers. Sometimes you just want to set aside a scene to describe something beautifully, or to set expectations in the first place. Choose which events or sequences you summarise cautiously: you are erasing opportunities for style and storytelling.

7. Arriving late and leaving early is great if you're wasteful in your prose. Describing a character preparing for and leaving an event does not need to be exclusively a description of just those things. The way characters do things matters, actually. You don't need the pace of your story to be as fast as possible all the time. It's your story.

8. Epithets can tell you as much about the person using them (based on the perspective you're currently occupying) as the person they're used for. If you plan to use multiple perspective characters you can use different epithets to describe the same person. You can do the same thing from the same character's perspective as they progress through their character arc. Like everything else, they are a tool for you to use wherever you find appropriate.

9. Characters are allowed to be aimless if that's what their character arc calls for at some points, and having them shift back and forth from being aimless to having a set goal can be interesting. It's up to you to decide how driven any given character is at all times.

10. If you think a scene is required by the story but you don't think it'll be something you'll enjoy working on, try to rework the scene into something that achieves the same effect but is more engaging for you to write. (I don't disagree with OP on this point, I'm just wording it to be more actionable.)

0. Writing is an art. Be an artist. Don't feel pressured to follow another artist's advice exclusively because they seem more "successful" than you are. Seek out artists who make the kind of art you are inspired by, and try to learn from them and their art.

my 10 holy grail pieces of writing advice for beginners

from an indie author who's published 4 books and written 20+, as well as 400k in fanfiction (who is also a professional beta reader who encounters the same issues in my clients' books over and over)

show don't tell is every bit as important as they say it is, no matter how sick you are of hearing about it. "the floor shifted beneath her feet" hits harder than "she felt sick with shock."

no head hopping. if you want to change pov mid scene, put a scene break. you can change it multiple times in the same scene! just put a break so your readers know you've changed pov.

if you have to infodump, do it through dialogue instead of exposition. your reader will feel like they're learning alongside the character, and it will flow naturally into your story.

never open your book with an exposition dump. instead, your opening scene should drop into the heart of the action with little to no context. raise questions to the reader and sprinkle in the answers bit by bit. let your reader discover the context slowly instead of holding their hand from the start. trust your reader; donn't overexplain the details. this is how you create a perfect hook.

every chapter should end on a cliffhanger. doesn't have to be major, can be as simple as ending a chapter mid conversation and picking it up immediately on the next one. tease your reader and make them need to turn the page.

every scene should subvert the character's expectations, as big as a plot twist or as small as a conversation having a surprising outcome. scenes that meet the character's expectations, such as a boring supply run, should be summarized.

arrive late and leave early to every scene. if you're character's at a party, open with them mid conversation instead of describing how they got dressed, left their house, arrived at the party, (because those things don't subvert their expectations). and when you're done with the reason for the scene is there, i.e. an important conversation, end it. once you've shown what you needed to show, get out, instead of describing your character commuting home (because it doesn't subvert expectations!)

epithets are the devil. "the blond man smiled--" you've lost me. use their name. use it often. don't be afraid of it. the reader won't get tired of it. it will serve you far better than epithets, especially if you have two people of the same pronouns interacting.

your character should always be working towards a goal, internal or external (i.e learning to love themself/killing the villain.) try to establish that goal as soon as possible in the reader's mind. the goal can change, the goal can evolve. as long as the reader knows the character isn't floating aimlessly through the world around them with no agency and no desire. that gets boring fast.

plan scenes that you know you'll have fun writing, instead of scenes that might seem cool in your head but you know you'll loathe every second of. besides the fact that your top priority in writing should be writing for only yourself and having fun, if you're just dragging through a scene you really hate, the scene will suffer for it, and readers can tell. the scenes i get the most praise on are always the scenes i had the most fun writing. an ideal outline shouldn't have parts that make you groan to look at. you'll thank yourself later.

happy writing :)

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ angst

[ jason bought you, your favorite flowers for the first time ]

long story — [8.2k words count]

second person writing

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

phase one ; blooming [dating]

you loved carnations.

jason learned that on your third date. It was a small, throwaway moment—something you said while sipping a lukewarm latte in a dingy coffee shop tucked away from gotham’s chaos. you’d been talking about nothing in particular, just bantering like usual, your legs tucked under you in the booth as the sky darkened outside.

“they’re not fancy,” you said, absently stirring cream into your coffee, “but they’re strong. they last longer than most flowers, you know? and they come in so many colors.”

jason raised an eyebrow. “you really into flowers?”

You shrugged. “they’re just… comforting. It’s like a reminder that something can be soft and still survive.”

he didn’t answer. just stared at you for a moment like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet—like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

you weren’t like the people in his world. you didn’t carry trauma like a weapon. you didn’t flinch at loud sounds or look over your shoulder in paranoia. you had a softness to you that he hadn’t expected in gotham. and he didn’t know what to do with it.

when he walked you home that night, you paused at a flower stall outside your building. rain was drizzling, the kind that clung to your lashes and curled your hair, and you stopped to look at a small bouquet of pale pink carnations.

“they’re my favorite,” you said, smiling. “someday I’m gonna fill my whole apartment with them.”

jason rolled his eyes. “flowers are a waste of money. they die in a week.”

you blinked. just a second. just enough for him to notice. “well,” you said, voice light, “some things are worth it, even if they don’t last.” he didn’t understand what you meant. not then. not yet.

you started seeing each other more often—slow at first. you were cautious with your heart, and jason was dangerous with his. but he started staying the night. started showing up at your place with bruises and bullet grazes and that haunted look in his eyes. you never asked where he’d been. you only asked if he was hungry. If he was okay. If he wanted to talk.

he never did. not about the big stuff. but you’d find him in your kitchen at 2 a.m., heating up leftover pasta, or sitting on your couch with your cat in his lap like he belonged there. and he did.

he didn’t say “I love you,” not for months. but he watched over you like he did. he’d show up outside your job with a scowl and coffee if you had a rough day. he knew the fastest route from your place to every hospital in the city. he installed cameras at your front door and never told you. — you noticed. you just didn’t say anything.

carnations bloomed on your windowsill. a new one every week. you bought them yourself—white-blush and lavender. you kept waiting, hoping maybe jason would walk in one day with a bunch in his hands. not because you needed them, but because you wanted to know he’d remembered.

he didn’t.

one night, curled up with him under a ratty old blanket, you brought it up gently. “I used to get flowers when I was little,” you said. “my dad would bring me carnations on my birthday. I think that’s why I still love them so much.”

jason looked at you from where he lay on your chest, his brow furrowed. “didn’t know your dad was around.”

“he’s not.. not anymore.” silence settled between you.

“I used to think… if someone brought me carnations, it meant they really saw me,” you admitted. “not the ‘I’m fine’ version. the real me.”

jason didn’t say anything. — you didn’t push.

the first time you told him you loved him, he froze.

It had been a good day. one of the rare ones—no crime scenes, no emergency calls, no red hood business dragging him into gotham’s underbelly. you’d spent the afternoon in the park, lying in the grass, his head on your stomach as you read a book aloud.

that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his back, you whispered, “I love you.” — jason’s whole body tensed.

you felt it. every muscle. then he pulled back. looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face. “you don’t have to say it back,” you murmured.

he didn’t. but he kissed you like he meant it. held you all night like he was terrified you’d disappear. you told yourself it was enough.

phase two ; budding [fiancé]

It wasn’t a proposal. not really.

It was three in the morning, and jason was sitting on the edge of the bathtub while you brushed your teeth, eyes half-lidded with sleep, his hair a mess from the pillow. you wore one of his old shirts, threadbare from a hundred washes. he wore the quiet panic of someone who had never believed they’d live long enough to consider a future.

“hey,” he said, voice low. you glanced at him in the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste. “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

you froze mid-brush. he didn’t flinch or try to recover it with a joke. he just watched you—blue eyes soft and serious, hands clasped between his knees. you spit into the sink and turned to face him.

“Is this the part where you propose with a ring made out of dental floss?” a breath of laughter left his nose, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“I’m serious,” he said. you stepped closer, cupped his jaw with a wet hand. “then ask me like you mean it.”

jason paused. his eyes searched yours, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “(y/n) (m/n) (l/n), will you marry me.”

and you—heart pounding, love swelling in your chest like it would break your ribs—smiled. “yes,” you said. “of course I will.”

he pulled you into his arms, buried his face in your stomach, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself breathe like it was safe.

the ring came later.

It wasn’t new—wasn’t even something he’d gone out to buy. one night, you found him sitting in the closet, the small wooden box in his hand. It had belonged to catherine todd—passed down, like love that tries to survive the storm.

“she kept it hidden,” jason said quietly, running a thumb over the aged velvet. “I think she always meant to give it to me… if I ever found someone.”

you sank down beside him on the floor, resting your head on his shoulder. “she’d be glad you did.”

he gave it to you that night, no speeches or ceremony. just slid it onto your finger while you sat together on the floor of the hallway, bathed in moonlight from the window. as jason kissed the ring on your finger.

It fit perfectly.

planning the wedding wasn’t easy. you didn’t want much. jason didn’t want attention. but it was yours—intimate, quiet, full of stolen glances and laughter that didn’t belong in a city like gotham.

dick cried during the vows — roy forgot the rings.

alfred gave you a smile that nearly brought you to tears.

jason kept his hand in yours like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. you didn’t walk down the aisle with roses or lilies or orchids.

you held a bouquet of white carnations, tied with a silver ribbon. jason saw them, saw the way your fingers curled around the stems, and something flickered in his expression. he didn’t say anything. but you caught the way he looked at them—like they were a language he hadn’t learned yet.

life settled into something that almost resembled normal. at least, your version of it.

your mornings were soft. you’d wake first, kiss the scar on jason’s temple, whisper something into his sleep-dazed hair. he never told you what it meant to wake up to that. but he held you tighter every day.

sometimes he cooked breakfast—burned eggs and all. sometimes you did. the coffee was always too strong, but neither of you minded. the routine mattered more than the taste. — your nights were more complicated. jason still went out. still fought gotham’s darkness with red and black. but he came home now. always came home.

and he talked more.

he told you about things he’d buried—things no one else knew. his mother. the pit. the dreams he still had where the coffin never opened. the pain of coming back to a world that had moved on without him.

you never asked for those stories. you only listened, threading your fingers through his, anchoring him with silence and steady breaths. — one night, after a particularly rough patrol, he came home soaked in rain and blood. you helped him out of the kevlar, your hands gentle, your voice quiet.

he sat at the kitchen table while you cleaned a deep gash along his ribs. “I thought I was gonna die tonight,” he muttered.

you paused, heart in your throat. jason looked up at you. “and the weirdest part? I wasn’t scared for me. I was scared you’d be alone.” you pressed gauze to the wound, leaned in, and kissed his forehead. “you’re not dying, jason.”

“someday I will,” he said, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “and you’ll have to go on without me.”

“then you better keep surviving,” you said, voice firm. “because I’m not planning on loving anyone else.”

he pulled you into his lap, held you there like he was trying to fuse your heartbeat with his.

you kept carnations in the apartment. a vase in the kitchen. one on the nightstand. always fresh. always soft. jason never brought them home. but he started noticing them—more than before.

he’d run his fingers along the petals absently while sipping his coffee. tuck a fallen one behind your ear with a fond little smile. you caught him once, standing in front of a grocery store flower display, just staring at them. — but he walked past.

you didn’t mention it.

you never asked for them anymore. not because you didn’t want them. but because you wanted him to want to bring them. — some small part of you still hoped.

one afternoon, you were lying together on the couch, your legs draped across his lap. he was reading something—an old paperback with cracked pages���and you were watching the sunlight paint gold across the hardwood floor.

“do you think we’ll ever leave gotham?” you asked suddenly.

jason looked up. “you want to?”

“I don’t know. sometimes.” you shrugged. “sometimes I imagine a house with a garden. somewhere quiet. I’d grow carnations.”

he smiled, brushing your ankle with his thumb. “you and your damn flowers.”

you chuckled. “they’d be all over the place. kitchen, bedroom, porch. even in the bathroom.”

jason leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee. “If you want a garden, I’ll build you one.”

you reached for his hand. “I don’t need a garden. just you.”

but still, in the back of your mind, you pictured it—soft soil and early mornings, dew on petals, and jason beside you, older, whole. — you didn’t know it would stay a dream.

phase three ; blooming [marriage]

married life with jason was unexpectedly sweet.

you never imagined the red hood would be the type to make tea in the mornings or memorize your grocery list, but he did. he kept your mugs on the lowest shelf so you didn’t have to stretch. he learned how to braid your hair, poorly but determinedly, just so you’d smile.

your new apartment was bigger, higher up—safer. there was a little balcony with just enough space for a few flower boxes, and you filled them with carnations in every shade. jason helped you plant them, dirt under his fingernails and a look on his face like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to understand why you loved them so much.

“you said they’re strong, right?” he asked one evening, watering them carefully.

you looked up from your book. “yeah.”

he watched a pale yellow bloom tremble in the breeze. “they remind me of you.”

you didn’t cry. but your throat ached as you crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him, resting your cheek against his shoulder. you were happy. really, genuinely happy.

jason had been changing—slowly but surely, like stone shaped by water.

he didn’t punch walls anymore. he let himself laugh more, sleep more. he still fought, still bled for gotham, but he came home more often than not. he started going to therapy, though he never told anyone but you. he even made peace with bruce—if only in small pieces, quiet dinners, and fewer arguments.

“I think I’m finally starting to feel human again,” he told you once, curled in bed with you at dawn. “you made me human.”

you kissed his chest, hand over his heart. “you were always human, jason. you just forgot for a while.”

you talked about kids more openly now.

“we could adopt,” you said once, the thought half-formed in your mind as you watched him fix the hinge on a closet door. “someday. maybe.”

jason looked up, surprised—but not alarmed. “yeah. maybe. I’d want them to be safe first. you to be safe.”

“we’re close,” you said. “gotham won’t be forever.”

he stood, brushed the dust off his hands. “no. just a little longer. then we’ll go.”

you imagined a place with less noise. a porch. a yard. real mornings without sirens. carnations blooming around the edges of a little house.

jason kissed you that night like he could already see it too.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

the last morning was warm.

you watered the flowers on the balcony while jason made eggs and toast, humming some rock song under his breath. the windows were open. the world felt light for once.

you had plans to meet barbara for lunch, to run errands, maybe grab groceries. jason had patrol later that evening but promised to be back before midnight. you kissed him at the door like it was any other day. — he kissed you twice.

“text me when you get there,” he said. — “I always do.”

you smiled, leaned back against the doorframe, watching him disappear down the hallway with a peace in your chest you hadn’t felt in years. you didn’t know it was the last time.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Ivy’s old sector.

the lab had been quiet for months—dormant, some said, shut down after the last run-in with her plant toxins. but something pinged on the surveillance net—unusual bio-activity—and you, being who you were, decided to check it out.

It was just a recon mission. you were careful. you always were.

you never saw the vines until it was too late.

jason got the call from babs, her voice tight and scared.

“something’s happened,” she said. “(y/n)… we lost her signal near Ivy’s old territory.” he didn’t hear the rest.

he was on his bike in seconds, tearing through Gotham like the city itself had betrayed him. he didn’t stop at lights. didn’t slow for anything.

he found the lab half-collapsed, tendrils of greenery coiling through the wreckage like veins.

he screamed your name.

he dug through debris with bare hands, shoving aside branches that moved like they were alive. the air was thick with the scent of earth and blood.

then he saw you. — your body was tangled in vines, arms limp, head turned slightly to the side. you looked peaceful.

but you were too still.

and around you—blooming like a cruel, beautiful grave—were carnations. each one having a meaning.

white — purity, innocence, remembrance

pink — gratitude, admiration, undying love

purple — unpredictably, capriciousness, free spirit

all curling around the vines like some terrible mockery of love.

jason dropped to his knees. — “no,” he whispered. “no, no, no—please..please.. (y/n).. no no.. please…”

he tore at the vines with shaking hands, not caring that they cut into his skin. he gathered you into his arms, blood staining your shirt where the toxins had entered.

you weren’t breathing.

“come on,” he choked out, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re strong. you’re stronger than this. you said—you said they were strong.”

he rocked with you in his arms, howling into the air like something feral. screaming like his heart had been physically ripped out of him. sobbing into your shirt, the same one he had watched you put on this morning asking if you looked good. and of course you did, jason was always mesmerizing by you. and right now he was spiraling into a new unknown feeling.

bruce was the first to arrive. then dick. then tim.

they found jason cradling you, his jacket wrapped around your body even though you were already cold.

he didn’t look up when bruce knelt beside him. “she’s cold.. i put my jacket...and she’s still cold.. i couldn’t save her,” jason whispered. “I wasn’t there. I promised I’d be there.”

“I know,” bruce said softly, eyes glassy. his daughter-in-law peacefully covered in blood and carnations. he never truly got to tell you how much he appreciated the way you helped jason grow into the man he had become— you taught jason everything he couldn’t. jason slowly became emotionally mature, your marriage teaching him how to love and be  patient everyday.

dick stood nearby, hands over his mouth, unable to speak— the way he watched his younger brother holding his lifeless wife in his arms. tim just stared, stunned— not being able to believe the scene in front of him, as the wind tugged at the scattered petals around you.

“look at them,” jason murmured, brushing a blood-streaked carnation with his thumb. “she loved these. I never… I never brought her any. n..not once.”

jason looked up at bruce with hollow eyes. “I was going to. this week. I swear. I saw some at the store. I almost bought them.” — looking back down at you, squeezing you hard. trying to look for any sign of life left in you.

bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “she knew.”

jason shook his head. “I should’ve told her more. I should’ve done everything more.”

Dick finally stepped forward, kneeling across from his brother. “you did love her, jay. you loved her more than anyone. she knew. she felt it.”

jason’s face crumpled. “she died alone, dick. In pain. In fear.”

“no,” bruce said gently. “she died trying to help people. that’s who she was. that’s why you loved her.”

jason buried his face in your hair, silent now, his grief no longer words—just broken, shaking breath. staying like that, planting himself on the ground sobbing into you. tracing your body trying to remember every detail about you, like you always did for him. “i love you (y/n).. i love you.. please.. god we were going to leave.. we should’ve... i can’t.. (y/n) please baby, wake up… what am i supposed to do.. sweetheart please.. pleaseplease.. you’re so strong.. my beautiful wife.. we were gonna adopt.. you would’ve been a p..phenomenal mother..my sunshine.. please babygirl.. i can’t do this without you.. im so sorry.. im sorry..god please” jason holding your hand, rubbing his moms ring — the ring he vowed to love and protect you forever.

they had to pull him away eventually. jason fighting each one of them, not ready to let go of his wife. “please.. stop.. please.. a few more minutes.. please.. i can’t..please..i need her” he sounded defeated. bruce helping him up while he still clung to you. carrying both of you out of the building. struggling, not because of holding you two — but struggling not to sob along with his sons.

phase four ; wilting [death]

the funeral was three days after they pulled your body from the vines.

gotham had turned grey that week. the sky hung heavy, like even the clouds mourned you. the streets were quieter. the city somehow knew it had lost something bright.

they dressed you in soft fabric. nothing flashy. just something gentle and familiar. jason picked the dress. he remembered how it looked on you the first time you danced in the living room, barefoot and laughing.

you had flowers around you. carnations. barbara brought them. white, pink, red—your favorites. jason couldn’t stop staring at them.

he hadn’t cried since that night. now, at the funeral, he was quiet, but this time it was different. empty.

a shell wearing his face — everyone was there.

dick stood beside him, barely breathing. tim sat stiffly, not blinking. bruce kept a hand on jason’s back, grounding him, like he was afraid he’d float away.

barbara gave a speech. so did roy. even alfred, voice trembling, spoke a few words about love and grace and the way your laughter changed the manor the few times you visited.

jason didn’t hear any of it — he just looked at you.

laid out in the casket like sleep had taken you mid-sentence. lips soft. lashes resting against your cheeks. skin too pale, but peaceful. like you were waiting for him to say something.

the carnations framed your face like a crown.

and jason— he hated them.

not because they were ugly. not because they were yours. but because they were there, blooming, when you weren’t breathing. —because you always asked for them, and he never brought them.

and now they were here. too late.

someone touched his shoulder after the service. maybe dick. maybe bruce. maybe god himself—jason didn’t look.

“she loved you,” the voice said. “she never doubted you.”

but jason didn’t believe it.

not when he’d failed you in the most final way possible.

the grave was at the edge of the cemetery, under a weeping willow. the headstone was simple. your name. your birth and death dates. and a small engraving at the bottom:

“still the light in the dark.” he visited the next day. and the day after that. and the next. — he came without flowers. he didn’t know how to carry them.

weeks passed.

the apartment stayed quiet. your shoes still by the door. your toothbrush still in the cup. your pillow still untouched. the only thing touched were parts of your clothing. lingering perfume you’d sprayed on your shirts — jason needed the items to help him sleep. craving any ounce of you he could find. clinging onto the fabric imagining it was you. your body laying on top of his, cupping his face and kissing him endlessly. whispering about the good life they had. it broke jason. everything reminded him of you. it was killing him in a way he couldn’t grieve properly.

he didn’t move anything.

he didn’t patrol much anymore. bruce didn’t force it. dick stopped asking. jason barely responded to texts. calls went unanswered. roy left voicemails. barbara stopped by once and found him curled on the living room floor, clutching one of your sweaters, rocking slowly.

“it still smells like her,” he whispered. barbara didn’t say anything. just sat beside him and cried quietly.

he didn’t dream of you. not really.

just flashes. the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. the sound of your laugh in the kitchen. the scent of carnations on your skin. the feel of your hand in his—soft and warm and alive. soft words leaving your lips — “i love you jay, i love you, i love you” you said like a prayer to him. your sweet voice haunting him in a way he hoped he’d never forget. wanted these cruel dreams, just to listen to you until his brain slowly fades it away.

then he’d wake up. and the cold would remind him. you weren’t coming back.

one night, he sat in front of the flower shop you used to visit. they had carnations in the window. he stared at them for an hour. then he walked inside. — the woman behind the counter gave him a curious look. “need help?”

he cleared his throat. “just… just the carnations.”

“any color?”

he looked down. his hands were shaking.

“all of them.”

he brought them to your grave the next morning. the sun hadn’t risen yet. the cemetery was still wrapped in mist, cold and soft. the carnations trembled in his grip. red, white, pink, purple, yellow, orange, lavender— tied with a pale ribbon. the kind you would’ve picked.

he knelt beside your headstone, laid the flowers gently across the grass. “you deserved these,” he whispered. his voice cracked. “i should’ve brought them sooner.”

he brushed his fingers across your name, eyes stinging.

“i thought they were pointless. i thought flowers died too easily.” his breath hitched. “but they were never about that, were they? they were about love. about life. about choosing something beautiful even when everything else was dark.”

he laughed, bitter and broken. “you knew that. you were that.”

the wind shifted, gentle and cold, like a simple answer.

“i miss you,” he said. “god, i miss you so much it fucking hurts.” he pressed his forehead against the stone. “i don’t know who i am without you.”

days blurred. he kept bringing flowers.

sometimes he talked to you. sometimes he just sat. sometimes he cried. he never stayed dry-eyed for long.

he stopped going to the apartment eventually. moved back into one of the safehouses. colder. emptier. more fitting.

he stopped shaving. stopped eating well. he looked thinner, paler, his eyes sunken like the weight of grief was dragging his soul down with it. — no one could reach him.

not dick, not bruce, not even alfred.

roy visited once. found jason standing in the rain at your grave, drenched and shaking. “you need to come inside,” roy said.

“she’s alone,” jason whispered. tears and rain mixing together, not knowing which was which.

“she’s not,” roy said. “you carry her everywhere.”

jason shook his head. “it’s not enough.”

roy didn’t know what to say. because maybe jason was right. and roy didn’t leave his side. they both sat in the rain. his best friend holding him and rubbing his shoulder in a ‘i’ve got you’ way. sitting in silence while jason continued to cry.

jason would be walking down the street, trying his best to clear his mind when he would see a little girl walking with her dad holding hands while the girl had a carnation, a small reminder. the ghost of you she saw in that little girl. — crushing him. these flowers were now everywhere he went. he couldn’t get away from them. it was a sign just like roy said — that you were everywhere.

jason never moved on. he didn’t date. didn’t laugh like he used to. he existed. he survived. that was it.

every year on your anniversary, he brought nine carnations. three white, three red, three pink. one for every phase of your life together—dating, engaged, married.

every year, he whispered the same thing. “you were the best thing that ever happened to me, i love you eternally sweetheart. i miss you.. every.. every fucking day.. it’s so difficult.. you were my favorite person…god i hate this city.. i gutturally hate ivy for taking you away from me…i miss you..so much.. please know that… i love you (y/n) todd”

and one night, sitting by your grave, his back against the cold stone, he looked at the flowers and finally said it aloud: “i think… i think i was a carnation too.”

his voice was hoarse. the wind tugged at his coat. “strong. stubborn. quiet. always trying to survive. but…” he blinked slowly. “i needed care. i needed you. you were the one who watered me. gave me sunlight. made sure i didn’t wither.”

he closed his eyes. “you kept me alive.. and now—” he didn’t finish. he didn’t need to. because the silence answered for him.

the carnations on your grave never wilted for long. he always replaced them — always brought fresh ones — always sat with you. — in every lifetime, you had been his light. his warmth. his reason.

he was just a flower with cracked petals. and you— you were the hands that kept him blooming. and without you, he wilted. and never truly grew again. stuck in the endless cycle of grief. still having dreams of you, bright and beautiful. a cruel reminder of what he can’t have anymore. “i use to be scared that if i went you’d be alone.. now.. i..”

jason was alone. he shut everyone out. he knew it wouldn’t be what you wanted. jason was afraid of actually accepting your death, grieving properly and moving on. you were the most impactful person in his life, and couldn’t imagine moving on from you. he was only alive for you, knowing you had dreams and passion about life, it was taken from so you abruptly that jason wanted to find comfort in your activities. his routine meshing with your old one. “i built a flower bed.. right outside that coffee shop where we had our first couple date.. i know you’d love it. a couple kids painted it for me.. it’s stunning, just like you baby…” jason said kissing the headstone, placing a bouquet of carnations down.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

i love jason 🫂 i should write something sweet next time, or would ya’ll like more angst? — have a good day / night xx !!!

i hope this was an okay read!! i could’ve gone more in depth at some parts, but i kept training off :p !!!! mwaahh byyee <3

[merakiui]

I headcanon Georgina is head of the Leech family. She's known as a pretty brutal woman but has a soft spot for her sons.

She frequents a hole in the wall known bakery who's cakes and teas are just fabulous. She develops a friendly relationship with a waitress she hit it off with. They gossip for an hour every time she's there. Her darlingsons are a frequent point of discussion.

It's gets too the point your boss wants to tell you to get back to work, but the smile Mrs. Leech gives him is nothing short of menacing as she tells him this is just good customer service leave her be.

One day a bloodied individual is brought to her begging for his life. Saying he'd give her anything. His gambling debts had left him with little else other than a daughter. When Georgina looks at the provided photo it's her waitress!?

... Well who is she to squander such an opportunity.

You find yourself forced into a car on your way home from work. Georgina is there playing up how awful it is to have a father willing to sell his daughter to pay off his debts, but don't worry Mama Georgina will look out for you, all you have to do is one tiny favor and the debts will be considered repayed! You're practically shaking as it's just you and her in an elevator. Once you're at the top floors penthouse you're shoved out, falling into the arms of twins you recognize from her pictures.

Mama leech hits the button to go back to the lobby "Be gentle with the poor thing..." she gives her sons a smile that basically says:

"I want a positive pregnancy test in hand by the end of the week."

Ohhhhh….. orz orz that’s perfect,,,

Forming a bond with her favorite waitress and it pays off in her favor when your terrible father owes a serious debt. She’s so seamless with her motherly manipulation, sympathizing so sweetly to your circumstances, and insisting she’s here to help you. Even though it does nothing to ease your anxieties, considering your father essentially used you as compensation for his debt. >_< for the first time since you met her, you don’t trust the “sincerity” in her smile.

Nor do you quite understand what she means when she tells her beloved sons to “be gentle.” You’re immediately scared. They’re so tall and strong-looking, and their razored grins are too intimidating. You realize what’s happening when they’re guiding you to a bed, promising to treat you nicely just as their mama asked them to~

Suddenly, you’re resisting. You don’t want this! You’ve never had sex before and if you ever were to you always imagined your first time to be full of love and sweetness. This is nothing like this as your legs are pried apart and they tell you you’re cute when you squirm. You’re so scared. This isn’t what you want, but it’s what you must do because you were practically handed on a silver platter to them. ;;;

It’s impossible to hold back your moans, too. You try your hardest, but that just makes them even more determined to unravel you. One of them eats you out with a long, skilled tongue while the other teases your nipples. You cry out when you’re stretched open on a cock that feels too-big, choking on the other stuffed into your mouth. They’re mating pressing you into the sheets to ensure you won’t waste a single drop of cum. >:) that way you’ll be mothering a child or two (or three) in the near-future.

Mama Leech simply adores you. She knew you’d be a perfect match for her darling boys. And it’s a wonderful thing they seem to like you just as much.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ruggie Bucchi - Room Relaxation Voice Lines

I made sure to tell a buncha people it's gonna be my birthday... Pheeew, tomorrow can't come fast enough!

Summon: You better have somethin' to show when comin' to wish me a happy birthday. Don't worry, I already got a paper bag prepped to carry all my presents!

Groovification: I'm gonna get some gifts, and eat some good food... This year's birthday's gonna be a blast!

Home: Sure worked up a sweat today～

Swap Looks: Gotta get ready.

Home Transition 1: How do I set my hair? I just use a bit of hair oil and comb through it with my fingers, is all. I ain't got money to buy stuff like wax!

Home Transition 2: Riddle made for me a chronological table of magical history. ...Eh, it'd be a waste to just toss it, so I guess I'll use it.

Home Transition 3: I gotta chow down on the party food like there's no tomorrow. Can't let any of the other guys in the dorm devour everythin'.

Home Transition - Login: Feasts, parties, and presents, oh my...! I got waaay more excited about celebrating birthdays after coming to this school!

Home Transition - Groovy: Floyd-kun said he usually just buys stuff whenever the mood strikes 'im. Guess he doesn't know impulse shoppin's the worst possible thing for your savin's.

Home Tap 1: I get along pretty good with my roommates. Like they say, "one hand washes the other," so... Sheeheehee

Home Tap 2: What should I ask Kalim-kun for, hm... This is a primo chance, so I wanna take full advantage!!

Home Tap 3: The oil from the Wildebeest brand's a product that's been sellin' good for a long time. From babies to seniors, this product's great to use on all parts of your body～

Home Tap 4: I tried to get Vil-san to give me some of his clothes he didn't need anymore, and he just said to, "become someone who'd look good wearing them, first." 'S not like I was gonna wear them...

Home Tap 5: Back when I first found these clothes, they were all baggy and fallin' off my shoulders... But I think I'm fillin' 'em out pretty nicely now.

Home Tap - Groovy: C'mon, here's your chance to butter up one of your upperclassmen!

Duo: [RUGGIE]: Floyd-kun, buy me some donuts! [FLOYD]: Buy it yourself, Sharksucker-chan

Birthday Login Message: Thanks for the birthday gift! Let's see what's inside... Oh, a T-shirt. I like practical things. Thanks. None of the guys on the Spelldrive team'll cough up a present without me naggin' them, y'know～ I'm not even gonna start with Leona-san... Eh, I did end up gettin' stuff, so I guess it's fine. On that point, though, you and Epel-kun got me somethin' without me even askin', so you both went up in my book. Sheeheehee! What, that gives you mixed feelings? Oh, come on～ It's fiiiiiine! Just think of it as us being buds foreeeeever!

Requested by Anonymous.

[annoyedbreadstick]

"There's one of them in every time. Somebody who's willing to help, who always has the necessary information. It's easy to spot them, if you know what to look for. A Guide always has short fluffy brown hair, and androgynous clothing. They have no makeup(or little makeup, depending on the time), and tired eyes. But most of all, they give off an aura that draws time anomalies to them.

After the Federation legalized heavily regulated time travel, time agents were trained in what to do when heading to the past. We would always appear near a Guide, and though confused, they would always relay the basic information needed to ground oneself.

Manipulating the fabric of time is not a precise science, which is why Guides are required. Unlike some fictional works, we cannot simply set coordinates and a date and be on our merry way.

My name is Mæřÿ, and this is the story of my first Travel.

I had manifested in what looked to be somewhere in the 2020s, during the height of the quarantine, judging by the scarcity of people out and about. That would make finding the Guide slightly harder than usual.

I let myself wander around until I felt a pull in one direction, then let myself be led by the feeling. I came across an unassuming house, with blue paint and an untended lawn. I knocked on the door, feeling apprehensive about meeting my first Guide. Had I got the wrong house? Were my senses wrong?

My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening; just a crack, but enough to see to the other side. A child stood there, looking up at me.

"Could you bring your mother or father to the door?" I asked him. The boy nodded and scurried off back into the house, leaving the door open. I peered inside, seeing if I could catch some hint of the year. The living room, from what I could see, was cluttered with toys, shoes, and other debris. A bowl of popcorn sat forgotten in front of the television, gone stale a long time ago.

The child returned with his mother in tow, this time wearing a cloth mask decorated with a tie-dye pattern of red and blue. The mother wore a mask as well, though this hers was paper, resembling a surgical mask.

"Yes?" She asked me, her voice weary. Her hair was cut short and tied into a ponytail, frizzy from LA of care.

"Apologizes, but if I may inquire about the year?" I questioned, confident she was the Guide I seeked.

She sighed, recognizing the question from years of experience. "2020, during the Coronavirus quarantine. The date is February 2, the current president is Joe Biden. The iPhone 12 is coming out this year, and there's a store with a bathroom you can use to finetune your time about 15 minutes from here.'

I thanked her, but as I moved to leave, she stopped me.

"Do I get a pay?"

"What?" I asked her, not understanding her question.

"A pay. I've been doing this since I was 16, shouldn't I be counted as an employee?"

"Guides aren't counted as employees, they're a Timelinal Constant."

"Well we should be. I have to keep track of all the relevant political data at all times, just in case one of you comes knocking at my door. Shouldn't I be counted as an employee?"

"Ma'am, without you Missions couldn't be completed, this is an obligation." Her child looked between us before walking back inside, evidently bored of the conversation.

"If I'm so important, I should get a paycheck, shouldn't I? If the whole future rests on my shoulders or whatever bullshit I'm being told this time, shouldn't I be compensated for my work?"

I dug around in my pouch before handing her the business card for the Time Travel Federation. "I don't know Ma'am, but you can contact my higher-ups if you'd like."

She took the card, staring at the number on it. "And this will work in my time?" She asked skeptically.

"Yes, it's a separate line. It shouldn't be affected by time or distance. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go. I've wasted too much time already."

I walked away to complete my mission, leaving the Guide with the business card.

"And that, dear friend, is how I unionized all the Guides."

Ĵæme§ looked at me skeptically.

"Mæřÿ, you work in IT."

You once made a promise to yourself: if you ever met a time traveler, it wouldn't be a big deal. You’d tell them the date, the most important political conflict, a recent technology, and send them on their way. You now encounter a time traveler nearly every week.

[artficlly]

read between the lines [one-shot]

college marvel au frat!jock!bucky x cheerleader!reader tutoring bucky barnes was already distracting enough, but leaving your diary in his room? that is a whole new problem.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, tutoring, first kiss, college au, vague panic from reader, idk it's just kinda fun and cute :), no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: hi this was for a request! so so cute, i wrote this so fast i didn't even think i would have it ready to post so quickly. idk anything about cheerleading or how college works in america, so forgive me. inspired by that willow song! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

I’ve been tutoring Bucky.

Well, James, technically. But he goes by Bucky. Says it’s a childhood nickname and it just stuck, and honestly? That’s kind of adorable. Like, who clings to a nickname that hard? Even the professors call him that, which should be cringe, but somehow it’s not? It just suits him. I literally don’t think I could call him James even if I tried. ‘Bucky’ feels right. It sounds warm. Familiar. Stupidly charming.

Ugh. Anyway.

He’s in one of those frats I usually stay far away from. The kind that smells like cheap beer and Axe body spray. Always yelling, always playing music way too loud, always shirtless for no reason. I swore I’d never waste my time on a guy like that. I really thought he was gonna be a cocky, arrogant douche when I first got assigned to tutor him.

But he’s not. Like… at all?

He’s actually really nice. Like, unfairly nice. That casual kind of nice that makes you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed. He remembers stuff I say. Not the big stuff, the tiny stuff. Like how I chew my pen when I’m stressed, or how I like lemon Gatorade for cheerleading practice. And yesterday he brought me those sour gummy worms I mentioned ONE time. Just handed them over all casual like, ‘Thought you might want a little sugar after practice.’ Who does that?? Like… stop. That’s not fair.

But of course, he’s like that with everyone. That’s the worst part. He’s charming in this totally effortless way. Looks at you like you’re the most interesting person alive and then turns around and does the exact same thing to someone else. How am I supposed to know what’s real?

And GOD. He’s hot. Like, it’s actually rude. He laughs and it does something to me. Like full-on makes my brain stop working. And his ARMS?? Every time he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows I lose one year off my life. For real. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. (I mean, he’s not, but like… what if he is???) Sometimes I forget what I’m even explaining because he’s just sitting there smiling at me with those eyes and that stupid little smirk and suddenly I’m thinking about kissing him instead of confidence intervals. It’s not okay.

He’s on the football team. Scholarship guy. Big deal. Girls are obsessed with him. I’ve literally heard people talk about him in the locker room like he’s a celebrity. And me? I’m just… I don’t know. I’m me. I cheer and I study and I try not to let my GPA fall apart and I pretend I’m not crushing on someone completely out of my league.

So no. I’m not gonna say anything.

Because maybe I did catch him looking at me the other day when I tied my hair up. Maybe he does stay a little longer when we’re done. Maybe he leans in a little closer than necessary. But maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I want it too bad and I’m just reading into everything. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to get hurt.

So I’m gonna do what I’m supposed to do. Help him pass stats. Smile when he brings me candy. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Pretend like my heart doesn’t skip a beat every time he says my name.

I’m just going to help him pass stats. That’s all this is. Right? God, I’m so dumb.

—

You were fucked. Well and truly screwed.

You couldn’t even focus during practice. Missed counts, off-beat claps, a completely botched dismount that nearly took you and the poor girl spotting you both out in one go. Natasha pulled you aside with that look—the one that said she was two seconds away from losing it—and muttered something about getting your shit together because the big game was in a week and this wasn’t the time to be spacing out.

But how were you supposed to focus? Your diary was missing.

Your actual, physical, spiral-bound diary filled with every unfiltered thought you’d been too scared to say out loud. The same one where you’d spent the last four pages gushing about Bucky freaking Barnes like some sad, delusional teenage cliché. You didn’t even want to think about what you wrote last night, something about his arms and the way he smiles and how you swore he looked at you differently when you tied your hair up. It was humiliating.

You never should’ve taken it out of your room. You knew it was a bad idea. But Yelena had been on one of her ‘I’m bored and nosy’ benders, and the last time you left anything out, she’d read your old poetry journal and quoted it back to you at breakfast. You weren’t about to risk that again. So, like a total idiot, you shoved your diary in your bag before heading to class, thinking you’d keep it safe with you.

The entire day had been chaos. You barely managed to scarf down lunch between lectures, and by the time your 3 p.m. class let out, you were already sprinting across campus to make it to Bucky’s place for tutoring. Not that you actually got much tutoring done. You never did, not when he looked at you with that stupid, easy grin, or leaned back in his chair like he owned the air around him. One second you were going over statistical formulas, and the next you were talking about childhood pets and favourite movies, laughing like you hadn’t just been drowning in assignments ten minutes earlier. Time always slipped away around him. You ended up bolting to cheer practice.

It wasn’t until hours later, back in your dorm with your bag dumped upside down on the floor, that you realised your diary was missing. Your diary. 

You’d spent a solid hour panicking, then a full thirty minutes rummaging through the lost and found at the campus security office, practically elbow-deep in a box of mismatched gloves and cracked phone cases. The guy behind the desk eventually looked up from his screen, where he was rather obviously playing solitaire, and told you with the energy of someone who very much did not care that maybe it hadn’t been handed in.

You wanted to scream.

Now your most personal, most mortifying thoughts were just out there. Floating around. God only knew where or with who. And sure, maybe whoever found it wouldn’t read it. Maybe they’d be a decent human being and just turn it in without flipping through. But let’s be honest, if you found a diary with someone’s deepest secrets in it, you’d probably peek too.

You were going to be sick. Actually sick. And not because Natasha had you running suicides again like she was training you for the NFL, but because your life might genuinely be over. Because if he found it? What if you left it in his room? What if Bucky read even one word of what you wrote?

You didn’t even want to finish that thought.

No, you literally couldn’t even finish that thought because, as Natasha finally called for the end of the session and the team began their warm-down stretches, swapping tired smiles and gulping down water, you saw him.

Bucky.

Standing at the edge of the field in that stupid grey hoodie, sleeves pushed up, all smug and handsome like he hadn’t just shown up to ruin your entire existence. He had that lazy, charming smile on his face, the one that made people trust him too fast, the one that made you trust him too fast, and in his hand?

Glittery blue cover. Spiral binding. Your diary.

You were going to throw up. No, genuinely, you could feel your stomach lurch. This was it. This was how you died. Not in a blaze of glory or during a botched basket toss, but here, sweaty, humiliated, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown in the middle of the goddamn football field.

You didn’t even think. You just stormed over before anyone else could notice, grabbing his arm and dragging him behind the bleachers like it was a crime scene. Which it kind of was. A crime against your dignity.

Bucky didn’t protest. He followed easily, letting you pull him along like it was some sort of game. Of course he did. And of course, he was smiling the whole time, like you hadn’t just gone into cardiac arrest ten feet away.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could barely speak. It rattled in your chest like a warning, like it knew this moment was about to go down in your personal hall of shame.

“Where…how…why do you have that?” you hissed, snatching at the diary, but he held it just out of reach, still annoyingly calm.

He raised a brow, like you’d just asked him what two plus two was. “You left it at my place. After tutoring. You were in a rush, remember?”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Of course, it had been his place. Of course.

“I—I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, I just—” You were spiralling, words tumbling out too fast, too breathless, and your fingers were twitching like you might just snatch the book and sprint across campus. “Did you…Did you read it?”

A beat. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you.

And then, God, he smiled. Not the cocky one, not the football-star grin. This one was softer. Slower. Dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

“I read enough,” he said.

You froze.

Your ears rang. Your mouth went dry. Your body just stopped.

“Enough?” you echoed, voice cracking halfway through. “Enough of what? Enough to—oh my God.”

You turned away instinctively, hand over your mouth like that could somehow keep your soul from escaping your body. Because what did that mean? What was ‘enough?’ Enough to ruin your life? Enough to laugh about it with his frat brothers? Enough to tell every girl on campus that the cheerleader who couldn’t even stick a full-out had a crush on him?

You didn’t even realise you were pacing until Bucky gently caught your wrist.

“Hey. Relax,” he said, and his voice was way too steady for someone holding the social equivalent of a loaded weapon.

You yanked your arm back like his touch burned. “Relax? Bucky, that was private. It’s literally a diary! It’s not for reading, it's for… spiralling in silence!”

He tilted his head a little, watching you carefully, and if he was offended by your panic, he didn’t show it. “You left it on my bed. Open.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands. “Please. Just kill me. Right here. Hide the body under the bleachers. I’m serious.”

Bucky chuckled—chuckled, like this was some kind of joke—and stepped closer. You could feel his presence even before you lowered your hands again. 

“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, quiet now. “If you felt that way.”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Because I didn’t know if it meant anything! You’re nice to everyone. You flirt like it’s a reflex. You remember everyone’s drink orders, compliment their outfits, hold doors and say all the right things. I thought I was just another person you were… nice to.”

He didn’t answer your panicked rambling right away. Just looked at you for a long moment.

“Yeah, I’m nice to people. Doesn’t mean I feel the same way I feel about you.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, hating how small your voice sounded.

He held your gaze, completely serious now.

“Like I wanna kiss you every time you chew that damn pen cap. Like, I think about you even when I’m supposed to be studying. Like I can’t focus when you’re talking ‘cause all I do is stare at your damn lips.” He paused, and something almost like a laugh broke out of him, soft and self-conscious. “Like I’ve been trying to find a not-creepy way to tell you I like you since the second tutoring started, but you were always so focused and cool and out of my league.”

That last part made your head spin.

“Out of your league?” you repeated, eyes wide.

He smirked, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Have you seen yourself? You’re smart, you’re so pretty it’s ridiculous, and you’ve got this whole thing where you act like you don’t know you’re the coolest girl on campus. Of course, I was nervous.”

You blinked at him. “Bucky… are you flirting with me behind the bleachers while holding my diary hostage?”

He grinned. “Maybe. Depends. Is it working?”

You tried to snatch the diary out of his hand, but he was faster, effortlessly holding it just out of reach like it weighed nothing.

“God, I hate you,” you muttered through gritted teeth, bouncing up on your toes in a desperate attempt to grab it. All it earned you was the embarrassing realisation that you were now fully pressed against his chest, warm, broad, and stupidly solid.

“You really don’t, at least not according to this—” he said, low and smug.

“Bucky!” you warned, trying to reach again, but he shifted it higher.

“Give. It. Back,” you hissed, practically climbing him at this point.

“I will,” he said, eyes flicking down to your mouth in a way that made your stomach twist and your breath catch. “But only if you let me kiss you first.”

Your brain short-circuited. Completely and entirely. The words took a second to process. His voice had dropped, softer now, more serious, like he wasn’t just messing with you anymore.

You looked up at him, heart thudding so loudly against your ribs you swore he could hear it. His eyes searched yours, and for once, he didn’t look like the effortlessly confident guy everyone knew. He looked… nervous like he was the one waiting to be rejected.

“…Fine,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips, but your smile gave you away. It was impossible to hide, giddy and crooked and ridiculous.

And then he kissed you.

He bent his head and closed the gap like he’d been waiting weeks for it—maybe he had. His mouth was warm and sure against yours, one arm still holding the diary hostage, the other dropping to your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t help himself. You kissed him back without thinking, without doubting, like maybe this was the answer you’d been afraid to ask for all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and blinking at each other like idiots, he handed over the diary with a grin.

“Okay,” you whispered, still a little breathless. “That was… good.”

“Just good?” He smirked.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Don’t push it.”

He laughed softly, thumb still brushing your cheek. “So… does this mean I get to keep seeing you after stats is over? Or do I have to fail on purpose to keep you around?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right. You’d probably kill me.”

“More like definitely.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. He looked at you like he already knew what you were thinking. And for once, you didn’t feel like running from it.

You were so, so screwed.

But maybe… in the best way possible.

[ruinix]

I’ve hit you over the head with the breeding kink bat today, but I’m coming back around.

Quinn would be such a feral little fuck about it. He’d taunt you with everything he was doing. Wouldn’t be hiding from the fact that he’s trying to baby trap you. Making a big deal about how you’re stuck there. How much cum he’s fucking into you.

He’d tell you exactly where you are in your cycle. How he’s been counting, tracking. How long he’s been wanting to have you restrained under him.

All his to breed-

I might uh, be a bit off my head today

Hello, 911 ☎️ I would like to report a murder. Yes, it's this one. I saw her hit someone with a bat. She also just came back to hit that someone AGAIN. I just saw it. Oh, yes, didn't say that? It is I who got murdered. I am merely a ghost now, I fear. 👻 I must avenge myself. 🫠🤧

Whore thoughts. Smut. Dark. Baby trapping = Breeding kink. Same thing in my whore of a brain ⬇️

Quinn could only chuckle about how easily he got you used to submitting to him and being tied up, how easily he got you used to the stretch of your thighs being spread so widely and raised up until you're almost folded in half, how easily he makes you lose yourself as he fucks into you harder. He would fuck you dumb, propping your hips with two pillows until you are gushing around him. So fucking clueless on what would happen next.

He already played long game of earning every bit of your trust. For every week he fucked you with condoms after you told him you had to get off of your birth control, every week that he had to pretend that he is still sane while he takes notes when your cycle start, when it end, when you're ovulating. Oh, it fucking irked him how much cum he wasted, how much time have passed because you still have the freedom to leave him.

He can't have that.

You're not allowed to fucking leave at any point in the present or future.

While Quinn is harshly fucking your pussy, his fingers digging into the back of your thighs, he would derangely stare at you as your thighs shook, as your body arched from the bed, as his sweat drips over your skin and mixing with yours, as your lips begged him for a break. He would always give you a break, but not now.

However, he would pull away, grinning at how you sag, your eyes showing both relief and betrayal, because he knew exactly how close you were. So fuckinf greedy when you already came exactly six times when he hasn't.

That's when he would slap your pussy with his cock, making you gasp and writhe, making you recoil at the sight of the broken condom.

"Quinn, you need to change--"

He would cut you off with a darker laugh, leaning back and sitting on his ankles as he combed back his hair, staring at you with a manic look in his eyes. He was gone.

"Now, why would I do that?" He asked. "Why would I waste my cum when you're a couple of days away from ovulating? You're so fertile now, so I will fuck you until it takes, my Love."

He tore off the pathetic remains of latex, sinking his tip into your pussy, chuckling at how you were sucking him in. So fucking greedy. All while you still tried to move back, to escape.

Not like you were going anywhere. Not when you're tied to the bedframe that's bolted into the floor. Nowhere to go for you.

He would be absolutely feral with his harsh thrusts, his heart pounding at every plea and every tear, because he feels exactly how much you clench around him like you don't want him to slip out. He won't.

He would slap his palm over your thighs, over your sensitive clit, until you were coming and making a mess then he would slam into you, spurting his hot cum so deeply that you were looking at him with both fear and awe.

He knew it. You wanted his baby as much as he does. You just need to face the inevitability of it happening soon.

Not letting himself get soft, he would languidly thrust into your pussy, gritting at how his cum drips around him. Angry at the waste but he still has more to give you, so whatever. He hissed when your hips pathetically and successfully meeting his thrust.

That set him off to another frenzy, ignoring his own sensitivity. Ignoring your fresh set of tears. Ignoring the dark spots dancing on his vision.

Quinn has plans. He already got a chain that would be long enough for you to get to the rest room, an ankle shackle that is lined with soft cotton and fur that you won't get any friction burns, oils to soothe your aches when he actually needs to rest. It would be just for this week. He would be more vanilla after. He would try, at least.

Right now, he wouldn't stop.

He would fuck you until your pussy's too full that you would be dripping cum for hours or days. Until your pussy is red and raw and so utterly fucked. Until you finally reach the exact day of your ovulation. Until the next fucking day because he will not lose any fucking chance of you getting pregnant.

Because he needs you to stay with him. Forever.

In his mind, his and your baby would seal your fate with him.

Your Honor, I didn't do anything. I swear! I am the one who got killed. Two hits to my head! Oops. Good night.

-> more thoughts? List.

[burrowkit]

"I'm going to do these ten things tonight!"

Tonight: car: "so, what if you take me to see a mechanic? And like, waste money you don't have?"

Which also means any further writing plans for the week have been effectively squashed...

Also me and anytime I plan to go to bed early... "I'll go to bed ear- why is something going wrong??? Why did time distort itself? What the heck?"

It’s not even funny how relatable this is.