#what I don’t write

[writtenbyan-aries]

hiii! i don't know if my question went through lol because ive been having some problems with that lately. i was just wondering what your wills and won'ts are. will you write dark stuff (non con, dub con, stalker, kidnapping, etc)? pretty much what won't you write? ily and your work!

-🍉

I started to reply and then I totally forgot about it. But i finally got around to finishing it.

I’m going to add a read more label just because there’s going to be some triggering phrases that might not be comfortable for anyone who may stumble upon this.

I’ll come back and update this with anything else I think of, but as of right now this what I will and won’t write about.

I’m a pretty open person, so I don’t really think there isn’t much I wouldn’t be okay to write, but four things I am NOT comfortable writing about and will not write for are

Miscarriages, anything with children (you know what I mean), SA, and self harm.

The non con, I’ve thought about it, and come to figure out that I’m not okay writing non consensual stuff, even if it’s like a role play thing.

The dub con, yes, but it probably wouldn’t be anything drastic, I’d probably write it with a background of sexual tension, reader and other, are super drunk and wanting to do it, but don’t realize it until the next morning that they actually did do it.

As for kidnapping and stalking, after writing Obession, i think that’s the farthest I’d go - if you haven’t read Obsession, I suggest reading it, it’s ghostface inspired.

I’m also not at all comfortable writing the adult/child role play. That’s 100% a NO.

I also wanted to throw in that I am 11 years clean from self harm and that is why I will not write about that topic. I haven’t gotten any requests mentioning it, and I don’t think I would, but I just wanted to put it out there because I’ve seen some one shots [not in the SnC fandom] where people have requested that the person of their choice comforts reader struggling with self harm and scars, and although I see the gesture behind it, that’s just not something I would like to write for.

I’m sorry if that made absolutely no sense and/or was all over the place. I tried my best to explain how I feel about writing each specific topic. If there is any other topic I have missed from the anon and if you want my input on anything specific before you request, just send me an anon. I’ll answer and then I’ll update this post!

Just remember, there isn’t anything wrong with sending a request. If I don’t feel comfortable writing it, I’ll just let it sit in my inbox.

And I promise I am not judging because trust me..

We all have our things 😉

I love you guys! Thank you for reading! 🖤

P.s. no one in my life knows I have this blog, so you’re safe with me

[local-crying-boy]

Do you have a list or post about your rules for requests? Like what you will and won't write and what you need/ want in the request? I just want to make sure I do it right 😅

I honestly have forgotten to make one so I’ll make one now lol

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬

𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝙸 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛

— MCU Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes,

— Criminal Minds Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Spencer Reid

— Lord of the Rings Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Legolas

— Arcane Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Ekko, Mel Medarda, Silco, Vander, Viktor

— Twilight Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Carlisle Cullen, Jasper Hale

— Call of Duty Characters:

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛: Alejandro Varags, Farah Karim, Hadir Karim, John Price, Soap MacTavish, Gaz Garrick, Nikolai, Phillip Graves, Rodolfo Parra, Ghost Riley

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎:

— Fluff

— Angst

— really anything requested unless said otherwise

𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎:

— Huge age gaps (e.g. child x adult)

— insest (e.g. Parent x child, sibling x sibling, step-parent x child ect:)

— Rape / non-consensual smut

— Smut (when it is requested)

— writing for real people (i only write for fictional characters because they’re that. Fictional)

Old asks with smut will be written, however, rather recent and recent ones will not.

[gigireece16]

“how do you plot / plan your book?” very bold of you to assume i do that.

[pixiemage]

Please, for the love of god, please don’t be this person. No matter how long it’s been since an update, no matter how many unfinished stories are sitting on their account, no matter what - do not be this person.

Not only is it insanely rude, but you also do more damage than you think be being such a self-entitled ass about something someone created for free and for fun. “This author” can see what you say.

RIP decency indeed.

[nyehhehhehs]

Being a Papyrus is not for the faint of heart

[runraerun]

[humanjarvis]

on the fleet’s busiest days, caleb brings his work home with him.

as the sun sets, your heart aches at the thought of him barely getting a moment to relax. but the less considerate part of you can’t help but seek his attention. 

in the golden lamplight, he’s slouching on the sofa, halfheartedly flipping through a stack of mission reports. freshly showered and draped in your nightgown, you slink into the living room and take a seat next to him, tucking your head into his neck. 

he knows you’re up to something, but you’re a welcome distraction. so he lets it happen without a word, shifting his body to ease the strain on your neck. the new position makes his muscles burn, but he doesn’t complain. 

“how much longer?” you mumble sleepily.

he pats your head in reassurance. “almost done.”

but you know he isn’t.

running your fingers up and down his arm veins, you hum in feigned acceptance. but after a few moments, your head droops to the side, landing perfectly in caleb’s lap. 

he tenses, but says nothing. 

“can’t you read a little faster? i miss you,” you whine, and the sweet vibrations of your voice flow right to the center of his sweatpants.

before long, a bulge grows. and you stay right where you are. 

you sigh in his lap, nuzzling into his straining cock as you languidly paw at his drawstring. 

your cheek rubs against him with sinful friction, and his composure crumbles. from his mouth slips a startled little noise, and as you glance up at him, his adam’s apple bobs. 

when he catches you looking, he clears his throat. “you can’t be comfortable like that,” he says shakily, lust clouding the pleading look in his eyes. “why don’t you lie on my shoulder instead?” 

at the suggestion, you only pout and nuzzle further into him. he shudders as your nose grazes his swollen tip, but if you’re happy where you are, he won’t disturb you. with decimated focus and a bright pink blush, he finishes his analysis, growing harder and harder beneath you. 

[buggachat]

something so fucked up about Chat Noir’s whole deal is that he is in a lot of ways Adrien playing a character. Like Adrien picked up his miraculous and was told he’d be a superhero so he was like “ok, time to act like a superhero!” and he lets himself have fun w it and play up the role and let loose and kind of just allow himself to be silly and goofy and have fun and for once in his life not care about performing Perfection™.

But. But none of the other characters KNOW THAT. So everyone just sees Chat Noir and is like “look at this guy’s ego. He’s so full of himself. Surely it’d be fair to knock him down a few pegs” without being aware of how few pegs he actually HAS. He’s like the “insecure character who overcompensates in ego” trope except he’s really not doing it unironically, he’s just having a fun LARP pretending to have self worth in his off-hours but nobody else is on the same page about it being a game and he refuses to tell them. He just dramatically pouts about it and lets them laugh and pretends like he’s not internalizing it and it is almost 3 am and my brain forced me to write this instead of sleeping I’m gonna take a melatonin

[jesuistrestriste]

cw (18+) : dom!art donaldson, sub!reader, reader has afab anatomy, rough and messy fingering, squirting, dirty talk, multiple reader orgasms, art cumming untouched, tears from overstimulation

sometimes when art loses a match, he loses part of himself.

the shift in him happens so quick once he’s off of the court. you can merely blink, and just like that: he becomes a different person. one who you almost fail to recognize.

seeing that sweet, groveling, familiar expression on his face becomes a rarity during the following twenty-four hours after the loss. he gets quieter, his fuse gets shorter, and he begins to use your body like a stress toy. like it’s something to be squeezed and thrown around.

in other words, he gets a bit.. mean.

he lost a tournament earlier this afternoon, and that’s why he’s currently got you stripped down to nothing but your undies, sat in his lap with your back to his chest. his right hand is holding your right thigh to keep your legs open, while his left hand is down past the elastic band of the only garment left on your body. your head is tipped back onto his shoulder and he’s already murmuring the most painfully arousing things into your ear as he fingers you hard enough to have your hips jolting.

“fuck, you’re such a fuckin’ mess down here,” he growls through gritted teeth, his middle and ring finger nestled as deep as they can go into your core, curling and pumping and forcing out gushes of your fluids, “spilling all over our couch, gonna have to get it cleaned or something—“

your eyes are rolled back under low lids, and he knows you don’t have it in you anymore to respond to his taunting quips. he just keeps pushing the pads of his calloused fingers up into that special, spongy spot that makes fizzy little stars dance in your limited vision. it feels like carbonation in your brain and in your gut. he’s relentless. but you knew he’d be this way as soon as he lost the final point. belted out an expletive that made the crowd gasp, smashed his racket, and then rolled his shoulders. the look he gave you then before he fell sweatily into your arms told you everything you needed to know—he was going to take it all out on you later, exactly like he’s doing now, and then kiss it all better. just like he always does. it’s routine.

“mmn, hngh, g-fu-fuuuck,” you sob, your hands flying behind your head to hold the back of his short blonde hair, “aaah—!”

he knows what that means.

the lewd squelching of his digits inside you picks up in volume and in pace. he can feel your gummy walls beginning to pulse around his touch, pulling him in and pushing him out, like even your body isn’t sure what to say or do in response to so much pleasure. you’re drowning in all of it, and he’s holding your head under the water with nothing but love.

you’re coming again. this is the fourth time.

he moans as he feels you squirt, soaking your already-drenched panties, and he trembles when the warmth of your juices fills his cupped palm. he thinks about licking the remnants from his skin once you’re done. he dreams about letting you coat his mouth in your releases. maybe next time. maybe when he’s feeling like less of a failure; maybe when he’s not making you orgasm solely to prove that he’s still good at something.

when your body goes boneless over his own, he lets go of your right leg and rubs circles into your stomach.

“you’re still cumming, baby.. just like that.. keep it going..”

you can only wail in response, feeling the way he starts to use his thumb to flick over your swollen bud while he continues to relentlessly massage your g-spot.

“t-t.. tuh—too.. much..!” you shudder after a few more moments of overstimulation, sniffling and hiccuping, even if you know deep-down that you can take more.

he shushes you. sweet and soft. drags his hand from your stomach to your throat, and rests it there. he doesn’t squeeze, only wanting to ground and comfort you. it’s his way of silently saying “i’ve got you, you’re all mine, we’re almost done.. hang in there, honey..”

so you do.

it’s not like you can really deny yourself the release anyway, it’s too good to give up. he knows all of your weak spots and he abuses them so perfectly, it’s like a dream. an overwhelming, disgustingly wonderful dream.

one last flutter of his thumb over your bundle of nerves is all that it takes to tip you over again, and your stomach drops like you’re jumping off of a diving board from a height of fifty feet. it’s damn-near bruising.

you scream as it washes over you. he keens underneath your seat on him, and you can just barely make out the feeling of his cock jumping beneath his pants and his boxer briefs, his own orgasm involuntarily trickling in and overtaking his frame.

“oooh, shit, shit, shit,” he curses, rutting into your backside as he pulls his fingers out of your sopping hole to rapidly swipe them back and forth over your clit, “that’s it, keep going, you’re so perfect like this—don’t stop, please, don’t stop—“

you buck against his hand, crying out, and then pant like a little puppy when he starts to slow it down after several long moments. you truly can’t move a muscle, he’s turned you into a puppet with severed strings. he gives one last nudge of your sensitive spot with his fingertips, eliciting a whimper from your lips, and then pulls himself back. he sighs heavily with relief. he’s finally sated. he reaches to squeeze at your sides and your chest.

“you’re so perfect..” he whispers breathlessly, trying to bring you back to him, “just breathe for me, baby, you’re alright.. we’ll stay here—like this—for as long as you need, and.. and then i’ll make you some dinner. how does that sound?”

he waits with bated breath for an answer. a confirmation that he didn’t go too far, and that he made you feel good in the end. that you don’t think he’s some loser. that you think he can still win at something.

“.. y-yeah.. please..” you slur.

and that’s all he really needs.

[syoddeye]

you get a new neighbor.

he moves into the flat across the courtyard. same floor, same narrow balcony. a smoker with restless, twitchy hands. you catch glimpses of him through the blinds.

you’ve never been one to keep them open—facing another unit all these years, privacy has been a comfort. but now, often without thinking, your fingers find the cord, tilting the cheap plastic slats just enough to peek through.

unlike you, he doesn’t bother with curtains. either unbothered or proud of his sparsely decorated, meticulously kept space. when he’s home, he spends hours in full view of his windows. sinking into his couch with a controller in hand, headset on. sometimes, not as often, a book. pacing, phone pressed to his ear, wearing a track into the floor.

more often than not, though, he’s maintaining his body. that, he clearly takes pride in. push-ups. crunches. weights. he’s fit. almost always shirtless. almost always in joggers or shorts. a thick pelt of hair across his chest, matching the wild, overgrown mess on his head. whatever cut he once had, it’s grown out strangely—a longer ridge along the top of his skull, like the raised hackles of a dog. it connects to an untrimmed tangle of a beard, hiding what must be a sharp jawline if it matches the body.

you know what it looks like—watching someone like this. if you admitted it to anyone, they’d call you a creep. a pervert.

but you can’t stop.

you don’t even know when your new little habit began. the moment the sun sinks, your lights go off. you sit in the dark, barely moving behind the slats. waiting. watching.

your spine goes rigid, every nerve at attention, when he steps onto the balcony for one of his many smokes of the night. saliva pools on your tongue in anticipation.

a cigarette dangles from his lips, moonlight catching every plane and muscle of his torso. he stretches. his big, broad back flexes as he grips the rail. biceps bulging when he pulls one arm over his chest, then the other, thatches of pit hair poking out.

however, it’s his eyes that draw you in.

bright blue. too bright. a glowing, animalic eyeshine. fresnel lenses, catching and refracting the light. as unnatural as they are alluring. unsettling in a way that itches at the back of your skull—but still, it makes you want to wrench the door open and leap across to him.

the same feeling you get standing at the edge of a cliff or rooftop.

then, he lifts his head. tilts it back until his nose juts into the air and sniffs.

you freeze. glance up at the closed, locked glass door. he can’t.

smoke billows from his lips as his gaze sweeps the courtyard. down at the ground, then scanning the floor beneath you. searching.

a shiver slides down your spine. you will yourself smaller, pressing into the shadows. he can’t possibly know you’re watching, let alone smell you through the walls and windows.

but then, just as you think he’ll go back inside, he turns his head slightly, just a fraction, toward you.

the cigarette burns, momentarily forgotten, between his fingers. his gaze fixes on you, direct and unblinking.

but there’s no way. no way he sees you in the dark.

then he smiles. the barest quirk of his lips. a knowing pull at the corner of his mouth.

he turns, steps inside, and yanks his blinds shut.

your breath catches. the slats slap against each other as you jerk back, heart hammering, blood roaring in your ears. you reach for the cord, fumbling, pulling too hard—yanking the entire thread free with a sharp, splintering snap.

not two minutes later, as you’re still panicking, up on your toes, uselessly trying to thread it back into place—an insistent knock rattles your door.

[kangals]

friendly advice from vetmed: I know that when your animal has an infection that is generating a lot of discharge, you want to describe that to the veterinarian, because it’s a concerning sign. that is true. I also know that the most common word for this type of discharge is “pus,” so it’s logical that that’s the word that you’ll use when describing what’s going on. and in English, we often add a “-y” when we’re using a word as a descriptor.

but. the word. the word you are looking for. is purulent.

please stop sending in messages telling the doctor that your dog has a “pussy wound.”

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Hedghodg Snugglz

[fictionalsownme]

smash???????? who said that?????????

engineer doesn't get enough love on this blog considering how much I cannot express my devotion to him, so I’m working to fix that :) this is similar to what I did for damien but it took foreverr!! iswm lighting is so so pretty which makes it impossible to get right ;;u;; the saturation is really high and there's multiple light sources so in terms of rendering it, its like it was personally designed to leave me dead on the floor :))))) either way,, I'm happy with how it turned out!! he’s very prettie :))

also bonus:

[brucedefender4eva]

<1>. <2>. <3>. <4>.

——

Tim: I have never seen you as an obligation- as a means to an end

Bruce: … Neither have I

——

Bruce slowly sipped his chamomile tea. Alfred had somehow noticed his back flaring up and brewed him a nice cup of tea to help with the inflammation. Bruce had asked for extra honey and sugar, which the older man generously allowed.

“I can feel you staring at me, Tim.” Bruce rumbled, taking another slow sip, making sure not to slurp. Both he and Tim hated the sound of people slurping their drinks; it was horrid. “Drink your tea, sweetheart, it’s good for gut health.”

Tim let out a small hum of acknowledgment but didn’t look away, his own chamomile tea going untouched in his cup.

“Switch?” Tim asked, pushing himself up from the couch he was sprawled out on and carefully bringing his full cup to Bruce. “Want yours.”

Without a second thought, Bruce took Tim’s teacup and placed his own on his son’s saucer, grabbing two more sugar cubes and plopping them in the tea for Tim. “Still hot,” Bruce warned, watching Tim as he took a sip and let out a soft hum, making Bruce smile softly.

The two lapsed into another comfortable silence; the only sound audible in the study was the soft clicking of their teacups every time they set them down on their saucers.

“Hey.” Bruce looked up from the newspaper he was absentmindedly skimming, tilting his head at Tim. “Say I love you.”

Bruce blinked but complied nonetheless. “I love you. A lot. I love you very much, Timmothy.” Bruce stated, his face remaining in a relaxed expression.

Tim wrinkled his nose at his Dad using his full name, trying to hide the flush on his cheeks from Bruce being able to say the three words so easily, compared to how it was before. “Ew, you full named me.” Tim pouted, hiding a grin behind his teacup as he heard Bruce chuckle lightly.

“Me too, by the way…” Tim set down the teacup, looking into Bruce’s eyes before shifting them to look at his forehead. Much easier than actually looking into his eyes. “I love you lots, Dad.”

This time, Bruce wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Did your brothers put you up to this?”

Bruce’s voice wasn’t accusing, but then again, it never really is when he talks to his children. He always gives them the benefit of the doubt.

Tim scowled, feeling a twinge of embarrassment bubble up in his chest. “No. Why would you think that, Bruce?”

Uh oh, he was back to being Bruce right now. Bruce let out a small huff of air from his nose and folded his hands over one another. “You and your brothers have been acting… strange. Coming here, to me, once a week and interrogating me over… menial topics.”

“Menial?” Tim’s voice took on a sharp edge once he heard the word. “You made Dick cry and Jason looked like he was in fucking shock. Obviously, those conversations were important.” Tim accused, pointing his finger at Bruce.

Bruce blinked, the only sign that would tell he was surprised by the change of tone. “I did no such thing. I have no idea why that happened, and they refused to tell me. You can not blame that on me, I will not allow it.” Bruce asserted.

“You’re supposed to know!” Tim raised his voice.

“How am I supposed to know when no one will tell me?! You guys always get mad at me for ‘snooping’ or ‘going through your business’ on normal days! How am I supposed to know when it’s appropriate?” Bruce struggled not to raise his voice at Tim. He knew Tim would shut down immediately and this… conversation would devolve into a screaming match that would rival the ones with Dick and Jason.

“You told Jason that you think we hate you! How could you do that?!”

Bruce threw his hands up in the air. Fuck! Not this stupid conversation again. Was this the only thing people wanted to talk about in this household?

“When someone says they hate you, you tend to believe that!” Bruce shouted, immediately regretting the action when he saw Tim curl into himself and his face harden.

Bruce let out a shuddering breath and ran a hand through his hair, grateful that he had forgone putting gel into it. He did not need to be overstimulated on top of this talk with Tim.

“I don’t understand why this is a topic of discussion in the household as of late.” Bruce continued quietly. “And I don’t know why you would insert yourself into something like this.”

Tim squinted his eyes, not understanding what the fuck that meant. Before he could ask, Bruce continued speaking.

“Look… I know how this relationship between the two of us officially started. I see you as my son, Tim, one of my own, and I’ll always love you as such.” Bruce reassured, but instead of it making Tim feel better, he felt like he was about to be dropped off into a gaping black hole. “But I know that this,” Bruce gestured between the two of them, “is nothing more than a… responsibility on your part.”

And just like that, the floor was swept out from underneath Tim’s feet.

“What makes you say that?” Tim could feel his lips move and feel the way his vocal cords vibrated to ask the question, but blood rushed through his ears, making everything sound muffled. "What have I done that could possibly make you say that?"

“You came to me because I was a danger to myself, which meant I was a danger to Gotham,” Bruce said matter of factly, like he knew what the fuck he was talking about. “I’m just glad that somewhere along the way you decided to stay with us, even if it wasn’t for me.”

The words leave Tim’s lips before they even have a chance to register in his mind. “But it’s the same for you!”

“The only reason why you took me is because I pestered you so much! And even then, you didn’t want me; Alfred was the one who gave me Robin.” Tim tried to pretend that his voice didn't break in the middle of his sentence, silently glad that Bruce didn't mention it and allowed him to keep his dignity.

Bruce tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, peeling off the flaking paint and ripping it up into smaller pieces. He would run out of paint soon enough if people kept trying to lie right to his face that they didn't hate him.

“You became Robin not just because Alfred gave it to you, but because you wanted to do good. Because you are good.” Bruce let out a small hum. “If I could go back in time, I would change how our relationship started. How everything started.”

“Change how?”

“I would be better. I would show you that I love you.” Bruce nodded to himself, smiling softly as he turned to Tim. “I would tell you it’s okay to hate me, that you don’t have to pretend that you love me. I already know. Everyone hates me. I also hate myself.”

And truly, what the fuck do you say to that?

Because if Bruce could believe something so… twisted, then how could Tim believe anything that this man in front of him was saying?

How could he believe that Bruce truly loved him if Bruce didn’t believe that Tim loved him?

[mossymage]

coping with 800 years of yearning with karaoke

[comatosebunny09]

Before AO3 goes down for maintenance, and before you flock to Tumblr to complain about how much it pains you to be deprived of your blessed, mood-enhancing, pillow-gnawing fics, make sure the writers of said fics know how much you enjoy them. It’s as easy as saying, “I like this. ☺️”