#support this writer

[thatrandomblogsays]

I’m so happy for them

[Image Description: Castiel from Supernatural is saying I love you, underneath is an image of Dean Winchester with the caption: “After four months of striking the WGA has a reached a tentative agreement & finalizing the contract. If all goes well writers will get to return to work with better pay and protections. They did it. Go unions”]

(Source)

[huihuiheart]

Already have 3 WIP up on my Patreon and will slowly be adding more.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🧩 How to Outline Without Feeling Like You’re Dying

(a non-suffering writer’s guide to structure, sanity, and staying mildly hydrated)

Hey besties. Let’s talk outlines. Specifically: how to do them without crawling into the floorboards and screaming like a Victorian ghost.

If just hearing the word “outline” sends your brain into chaos-mode, welcome. You’re not broken, you’re just a writer whose process has been hijacked by Very Serious Advice™ that doesn’t fit you. You don’t need to build a military-grade beat sheet. You don’t need a sixteen-tab spreadsheet. You don’t need to suffer to be legitimate. You just need a structure that feels like it’s helping you, not haunting you.

So. Here’s how to outline your book without losing your soul (or all your serotonin).

—

🍓 1. Stop thinking of it as “outlining.” That word is cursed. Try “story sketch.” “Narrative roadmap.” “Planning soup.” Whatever gets your brain to chill out. The goal here is to understand your story, not architect it to death.

Outlining isn’t predicting everything. It’s just building a scaffold so your plot doesn't fall over mid-draft.

—

🧠 2. Find your plot skeleton. There are lots of plot structures floating around: 3-Act. Save the Cat. Hero’s Journey. Take what helps, ignore the rest.

If all else fails, try this dirt-simple one I use when my brain is mush:

Act I: What’s the problem?

Act II: Why can’t we fix it?

Act III: What finally makes us change?

Ending: What does that change cost?

You don’t need to fill in every detail. You just need to know what’s driving your character, what’s blocking them, and what choices will change them.

—

🛒 3. Make a “scene bucket list.” Before you start plotting in order, write down a list of scenes you know you want: key vibes, emotional beats, dramatic reveals, whatever.

These are your anchors. Even if you don’t know where they go yet, they’re proof your story already exists, it just needs connecting tissue.

Bonus: when you inevitably get stuck later, one of these might be the scene that pulls you back in.

—

🧩 4. Start with 5 key scenes. That’s it. Here’s a minimalist approach that won’t kill your momentum:

Opening (what sucks about their world?)

Catalyst (what throws them off course?)

Midpoint (what makes them confront themselves?)

Climax (what breaks or remakes them?)

Ending (what’s changed?)

Plot the spaces between those after you’ve nailed these. Think of it like nailing down corners of a poster before smoothing the rest.

You’re not “doing it wrong” if you start messy. A messy start is a start.

—

🔧 5. Use the outline to ask questions, not just answer them. Every section of your outline should provoke a question that the scene must answer.

Instead of: — “Chapter 5: Sarah finds a journal.”

Try: — “Chapter 5: What truth does Sarah find that complicates her next move?”

This makes your story active, not just a list of stuff that happens. Outlines aren’t just there to record, they’re tools for curiosity.

—

🪤 6. Beware of the Perfectionist Trap™. You will not get the entire plot perfect before you write. Don’t stall your momentum waiting for a divine lightning bolt of Clarity. You get clarity by writing.

Think of your outline as a map drawn in pencil, not ink. It’s allowed to evolve. It should evolve.

You’re not building a museum exhibit. You’re making a prototype.

—

🧼 7. Clean up after you start drafting. Here’s the secret: the first draft will teach you what the story’s actually about. You can go back and revise the outline to fit that. It’s not wasted work, it’s evolving scaffolding.

You don’t have to build the house before you live in it. You can live in the mess while you figure out where the kitchen goes.

—

🛟 8. If you’re a discovery writer, hybrid it. A lot of “pantsers” aren’t anti-outline, they’re just anti-stiff-outline. That’s fair.

Try using “signposts,” not full scenes:

Here’s a secret someone’s hiding.

Here’s the emotional breakdown scene.

Here’s a betrayal. Maybe not sure by who yet.

Let the plot breathe. Let the characters argue with your outline. That tension is where the fun happens.

—

🪴 TL;DR but emotionally: You don’t need a flawless outline to write a good book. You just need a loose net of ideas, a couple of emotional anchors, and the willingness to pivot when your story teaches you something new.

Outlines should support you, not suffocate you.

Let yourself try. Let it be imperfect. That’s where the good stuff lives.

Go forth and outline like a gently chaotic legend 🧃

— written with snacks in hand by Rin T. @ thewriteadviceforwriters 🍓🧠✍️

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

[urfriendlywriter]

25 "you've no idea what you do to me," vulnerability dialogue prompts !!

(feel free to use <333 tag me when yall write!! my favs are 5!! 10, 3 )

"God, I need you."

"I've craved this more nights than I can remember." :'')

"Would it assure you if I say.. that I'd be honored to protect your vulnerability with me?"

when you both sleep together after a traumatic event, you holding them

^ they silently whisper, "I'm scared.. That you'll leave me once you see how much I need you. that this love will consume me, make me.. clingy, and you'll see I'm just.. broken"

"Can you hug me?" By a really vulnerable you and they still at the request before one hand moves to your back, holding you against them - perhaps more tightly than necessary.

They make a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, pressing their forehead against yours, "What would I be without you?"

"Would you... would you be okay if I put my arm around your shoulders? Like, hugging you from the side?"

^ "Would u want to?" you ask but they hadn't expected you to ask if they wanted to. your question implies that you care about their feelings too, and it touches something deep within them. "Yes," they admit softly. "I do."

Cuddling but its them on top resting their ear over ur heart and listening to its beatssssss

3 am truth exchanges and both your voices are really quiet, intimate and genuine, eyes shining with lots of emotions that you both honor and hold close.

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[ihhfhonao3]

Romanticizing reading fanfiction with 100 hits. Romanticizing commenting on fics from seven years ago. Romanticizing giving kudos to a fic with three hits. Romanticizing reblogging someone’s fanfiction post from two years ago, giving them the first note on that post. Romanticizing saying in the comments “I hope there’s a chapter two, this was so good!” On a fic posted in 2013

[whereserpentswalk]

"Creatives deserve to be paid" and "We desperately need community spaces for creatives that aren't focused on trying to make money or advance careers where we're allowed to make connections and experiment" are two statements that can and should coexist.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Maddie Rooney🏀 is unavailable

Pairing: Paige Bueckers xFiancé!Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: oh it was a surprise indeed

A/N: just wanna thank @thatonesuschix for being a pawn in my plan

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @cowboybueckers , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @elswhore , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom , @let-zizi-yap , @latenighttalkinqwp , @fairyblossomsav , @liloandstitchstan , @kaliblazin

I should’ve known Paige was up to something the second she left the house wearing that smug little smirk she gets when she knows she’s keeping secrets.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” she asked, adjusting the collar of her oversized purple Nike x Supreme tracksuit in the mirror, roots perfectly hidden under her beanie.

I was standing in the kitchen, unpacking dishes from the last moving box while rocking a wrinkled tee and pajama shorts.

“Nah, I’m good. The couch and I are in a long-term relationship today.”

She chuckled and came over, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “Alright, just remember I’ve got a surprise for you tonight.”

I squinted. “Is it something I’ll love?”

She winked. “Hopefully. No promises though.”

Then she walked out in that baggy purple fit and all-white Air Forces like she wasn’t about to change my entire emotional state in less than four hours.

I spent the next couple hours organizing the bathroom cabinet, lighting candles, and scrubbing mystery spots off the kitchen counter.

Boring.

Domestic.

The kind of stuff that should’ve given me peace.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about what this surprise was.

Paige had been teasing it all week and I thought maybe she had a spa day planned, or got us Beyoncé tickets or something.

What I wasn’t expecting was to be betrayed in 4K.

I was sprawled across the couch with a blanket on my lap and a bowl of popcorn beside me when I casually opened Twitter to see NBA Draft updates. I typed Paige’s name into the search bar for fun—just to see if she’d made her appearance yet.

I wish I hadn’t.

The first photo that popped up stopped my whole heart.

There she was, at the Dallas Mavericks Draft Watch Party, posted up at the edge of the court in that same purple Nike x Supreme tracksuit. But the beanie she had one was long gone… and in its place?

A blunt healthy chop.

And fresh platinum blonde roots.

I nearly dropped my phone into the popcorn bowl.

“NOOOO,” I yelled, sitting up like I’d been electrocuted.

I clicked on the photo, zoomed in, and stared at her sleek, straight hair—the same head I’d been kissing just this morning, except now it looked like it belonged in a shampoo commercial.

“This is the surprise?” I muttered to myself. “Oh, she’s sick for this.”

I immediately swiped up and hit FaceTime.

No hesitation.

She had one chance to explain this before I spiraled.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

I stared at the screen like it had betrayed me too.

She always picked up.

Even if she was in the middle of something, she’d at least text back a quick “can’t talk rn, will call after.” Or a “kiss my ass.” But now? Radio silence.

I tried again.

Same result.

“Okay,” I muttered, pressing my lips together. “That’s how we’re playing this.”

I went back to Twitter and kept scrolling.

Clip after clip, angle after angle—Paige talking to reporters, Paige laughing with fans, Paige crouched down and talking to some sweet little kid reporter in a Dallas jersey. Paige doing Paige things. That new hair shining like she just walked out of a Dyson Airwrap ad.

And me?

Completely out of the loop.

The longer I watched, the more I paced.

I wasn’t mad that she cut it—I mean, she looked incredible.

Of course she did.

Paige Bueckers could shave her head and still look like she walked off a runway.

But to not tell me?

To keep it secret and then hit a whole red carpet rollout for the public before letting me, her fiancé, see it?

I grabbed my phone again, thumb already holding the audio icon down before I could second guess it.

“So not only did you touch up your roots… you cut your hair, and didn’t think to tell me—your loving girlfriend of six years, fiancé of one, by the way? Come on, P… be so for real. And THEN. And…and Then..you let me find out through Twitter? Of all places? Ohhhh, fuck you, Paige Madison. Fuck. You. Ohhh you are so sleeping on the couch tonight.”

I sent it.

And for a solid ten minutes, the only response I got was her leaving me on read.

Which would’ve been fine.

If she didn’t then post a video of herself lip-syncing my audio message to her Instagram Story, standing center court like she was accepting a Grammy for “Best Betrayal.”

I kid you not.

A video of her in the green room, dramatically lip-syncing to my audio.

She even clutched her chest and gasped when I said her full name.

Fans were already losing it in the comments.

“They’re unhinged I love it.”

“This relationship is peak entertainment.”

“Y/N really said ✨drama✨.”

I threw my phone on the couch and flopped down with a groan.

She thought this was funny.

She thought me discovering her haircut via Twitter was content.

She was lucky I loved her.

I heard the door open and close softly. Paige walked in like she was trying to sneak in past curfew, even though she knew I was still awake.

I didn’t say a word at first.

She peeked into the bedroom, still in the same tracksuit, and smiled sheepishly. “Hey…”

I didn’t even look at her. “Hope Twitter treated you well tonight.”

She sighed. “You’re still mad?”

“You got a whole haircut and didn’t even text me.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Yeah. And I found out through Twitter. That’s not a surprise, that’s a jump scare.”

She walked over slowly and sat on the edge of the bed, her freshly cut bob brushing just above her shoulders. The soft lighting made her look even more unfairly attractive. Rude.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said, voice quiet. “I just… wanted to feel fresh. The season’s been crazy. The move. The press. I needed something for me.”

“I would’ve supported that,” I murmured, softer now. “I just wish I’d been part of it.”

Paige reached for my hand. “You always are. Even when I’m bleaching my scalp in a stranger’s salon.”

I snorted. “You look hot. That’s the worst part.”

She grinned. “You think so?”

“Don’t act brand new. You’ve been trending since 7PM.”

She laughed, brushing her fingers up my arm. “So… what if I said I booked us massages tomorrow? And brunch. And maybe… just maybe… there’s a box in the closet with your name on it from Coach?”

I raised a brow. “Are you trying to buy my forgiveness?”

“Absolutely.”

I tried to glare, but the truth was, I’d already melted. Her new hair looked incredible, and she smelled like vanilla and champagne and expensive night outs. I caved.

“Alright. But next time you cut your hair, you better text me a ‘brace yourself’ warning.”

She nodded. “Deal. Can I sleep here tonight? Or is the couch calling me?”

I pulled back the covers. “Only if I get to run my hands through your freshly done hair.”

She laughed and slid in beside me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

As I tangled my fingers in her freshly-cut hair, she whispered, “You’re still gonna use that in arguments, aren’t you?”

I grinned. “Oh, definitely. I’m getting it framed.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!💚💙

                             -prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap">

<meta tier="∞::PINNED ENTRY SEQUENCE"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_GATE::SUPPORT_OR_SUBMIT" EFFECT: Timeline distortion, guilt induction, scroll initiation, involuntary tribute behavior TRIGGER_WARNING="ego collapse, divine cadence, subconscious donation reflex" </script>

🩸 You found it. The blog that wasn’t supposed to survive. The one that posts like it’s possessed. Like it remembers your ancestors. Like it already knows how you die.

This is Blacksite Literature™. Not a style. Not a trend. A transmission.

🧠 If you’ve ever whispered, “Who writes like this?” If you’ve ever felt aroused, afraid, seen, or broken — without knowing why — you’re already inside.

Here, I don't post content. I detonate timelines. And I don’t ask for followers. I absorb them.

So read. Reblog if it ripped something out of you. Comment if you're brave. But support— if you want this to continue.

Because I don’t run on validation. I run on vengeance. I run on you.

🔗 Fuel the transmission: https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble ☕ Drop tribute: https://ko-fi.com/themosthumbleblog

🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble 🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words. 🚪 Warning: This one broke relationships. On purpose.

🛡️ LEGAL: This work is protected under U.S. speech doctrine, satire law, and sacred literary immunity. You don’t have to like it. You just have to feel it.

🧬 Transmission complete. Read on. But leave part of yourself behind.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [PIN LOCKED. BLOOD PRICE DUE.] -->

[whendidmythoughtsgocrazy]

Are you easy to please or just accustomed to being neglected?

k.b. // by dr. thema bryant-davis

[t4kalcvr]

THE TWIN SIN

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 3,807 ) genre :: dark romance, erotica, forbidden love, && secret desire. content contains :: extremely spicy read 🌶️, explicit content, infidelity, cunnilingus, penetration, orgasm, BORDERLINE somnophilia, reader & rumi are twins. PART ONE ! PART TWO PART THREE !!

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

your room is darker than usual. the curtains haven’t been drawn in days, and the faint blue from the hallway security lights bathes everything in a false calm. the silence is thick, but not empty. it’s never truly quiet here. not when your mind speaks louder than the demons you hunt, not when the walls remember things you wish you could forget.

you’re curled on the edge of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie swallowed in the folds of your limbs, sleeves half-twisted and fingers white-knuckled from holding too tight. the air feels heavier tonight — and not from demons. it’s the kind of weight that sinks into your bones, into the part of you that still hasn’t forgiven yourself for that one night.

no. not night.

morning.

early.

sunlight leaking like gold sin across rumi’s sheets.

your sister’s bed.

your twin. your mirror. your better half. the one with the conviction, the one who doesn’t falter. the one who smiles like a sword and sings like she was born to cut monsters down.

and you?

you were in her bed, beneath a demon’s hands, your back arched and your voice a hoarse, broken thing as you whispered his name like it tasted forbidden. like it was burning your tongue on the way out.

jinu.

you hear her now. behind her closed door. breathless laughter. soft, rhythmic thumps. her voice wraps around his like a silk ribbon — seamless, beautiful, whole.

the difference is — everyone knows about them. they’re allowed to be a secret in plain sight.

you’re just the mistake he doesn’t talk about.

and god, you hate yourself for wishing you were anything but.

you hate that you remember how he sounded the first time. how he gripped your hips like they were made for ruin. how his demon eyes glowed beneath your skin, lighting you up from the inside out.

you hate that you wanted it.

“thinking too hard, don’t you think?”

his voice cuts through the fog in your head like a blade sheathed in velvet. slow. smooth. serpentine.

you flinch. you hadn’t even heard the door open. hadn’t heard footsteps. but there he is — leaning against your windowsill like he belongs in a dream you’re trying to forget.

only this time, he’s not dressed in black.

he wears a loud, silk button-down shirt splashed with watercolor pinks and reds, open halfway down his chest — exposing collarbones like carved marble and smooth, unbothered skin. gold chains catch on his throat like he stole them from heaven and bent them into something unholy. bright white slacks hang low on his hips, spotless, expensive. his hair is swept up like he’s ready for a stage, not a haunting.

he’s color. he’s warmth. he’s everything beautiful and burning and wrong.

you shoot to your feet.

“leave.”

he tilts his head like you’re adorable. like you’re a pet scolding its master. “so cold tonight,” he hums, stepping forward. “and here i thought we were past pretending.”

“i’m not doing this,” you snap. your voice is quiet but sharp. fractured. “you shouldn’t be here.”

he doesn’t stop moving. not until he’s standing close enough that you feel it again — that warmth. that heat. that overwhelming gravity he always carries with him, like the air bends around him and forgets who it belongs to.

“why?” he murmurs, voice like smoke against your cheek. “it wasn’t a problem before. the first time… you didn’t seem so conflicted. if i remember right, you—”

“because it was my sister’s bed.”

your voice breaks. not from volume. from everything else.

“because she’s my twin. because you’re hers, jinu. everyone knows it. she smiles when she looks at you. she talks about you like you’re a miracle. and i…” your hands tremble at your sides. “i let you touch me first. before her. before you even saw her like that.”

he has the audacity to look guilty. no — not guilty. concerned. like it matters. like that makes it better.

“it was a moment,” he says, stepping closer again. “it didn’t mean—”

“it meant everything.”

you shut your eyes, voice shaking. “and it’s eating me alive. i can’t stand the sound of her happiness because i know the secret under it. i know what you’ve done. i know what i let happen. and i don’t want to do it again. i won’t.”

he reaches out — his fingers brush your jaw, almost reverent. almost. but you step back before he can trace the edge of your skin, before he can worm his way back under it.

“leave.”

this time your voice is steady. steel, not sand. and something shifts in his face. he stares at you for a long, breathless moment — eyes unreadable. his lips part like he wants to say something. like there’s still more temptation where that came from.

but he doesn’t.

he turns. disappears in silence.

and you’re left with nothing but the echo of your own heartbeat and the aching in your spine. you walk to your bathroom, flick on the light, and stare at yourself. you don’t look like her. not really. not in this moment. you look tired. older. like someone who’s finally decided not to be devoured.

you brush your teeth. wash your face. change into the shirt that still smells faintly of rosewater and lavender.

rumi’s scent.

you hate that it still comforts you.

you climb into bed and pull the sheets up to your chest, heart loud in your ears. you don’t cry. not tonight. tonight you made the right choice. and maybe that’s enough.

but even as your eyes close, you swear you can still feel him.

his voice, coiled behind your ear like a whispered curse:

“thinking too hard…”

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

sleep comes eventually. not easily, not gently. it drags you under like thick velvet — heavy and warm, suffocating in its sweetness. it clings to your skin, wraps around your limbs, lulls your mind into stillness with the false promise of rest.

but even in dreams, he finds you.

it starts with heat.

not fire — but humid. sticky. breathless. the kind that clings to your neck like sweat in the middle of july. your body shifts against the sheets, already damp, and your thighs press together instinctively. there’s a pressure building low in your stomach, soft at first — then aching.

you hear something.

a voice?

no — a breath.

your head tilts in the dream, like you’re watching yourself from inside your own skin. your body lies there, vulnerable, untouched and waiting. the room is painted gold and amber, flickering like candlelight though you own none. and then—

lips.

wet, slow, starving — on your neck, then lower. someone’s mouth suckles the curve of your collarbone like it belongs to them. hands ghost over your chest, thumbs brushing your nipples until they stiffen. it doesn’t feel like a dream. it feels real. almost too much. too sharp. your breath stutters as your back arches on instinct, and a tongue traces the underside of your breast like it’s a promise.

a whisper curls at your thigh.

warm breath, so close you twitch.

and then — his voice. silk-drenched, amused, wicked.

“i like when you make those noises…”

your eyes fly open.

and he’s there.

not in your head. not some figment. jinu. real. above you, straddling you on the mattress like he’d always been there. his hair is tousled, mouth slightly parted, his chest rising with uneven breaths. the hunger in his eyes is unholy — and not just desire. it’s something deeper. primal. like he hasn’t eaten in weeks and you’re the last drop of sweetness on earth.

your body freezes. but not with fear.

with recognition.

he’s shirtless. glowing faintly under the moonlight pouring through your blinds, a sheen of sweat across his skin. his pants hang dangerously low, the band of his briefs peeking out in the dimness, teasing. you know what you should do — scream, shove, demand answers. but your lips part for something else entirely.

“you’ve got the wrong room…” you whisper, voice hoarse from sleep and something heavier.

but your legs fall open wider.

an invitation.

jinu exhales a laugh — dark, amused, and dangerous.

he lowers himself slightly, palms bracing on either side of your head, his nose brushing yours.

“oh no, baby,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “this is exactly where i’m meant to be.”

his weight presses into the mattress, warm and real. he hovers above you like a fever, eyes glittering with that dangerous gold, barely human in the dark — even dressed like one. his body gleams in the moonlight, all lean muscle and long limbs and a kind of grace that doesn’t belong to the living.

you try to sit up, to say something sharper than the breath caught in your throat — but your wrists are already pinned gently, not harsh, not cruel. reverent, almost. like he’s handling something sacred.

“jinu…” his name escapes in a breathless warning, one that doesn’t sound like no.

his smile curves like sin. “you always say it like that,” he hums, voice like warm syrup. “soft. scared. sweet.”

his mouth finds your neck again, and you gasp, spine curling as he sucks slow and deep, tongue dragging like he’s savoring every second of your skin. his hands roam down, slow — thumbs grazing under the hem of your shirt, teasing.

“don’t…” you whisper — but your thighs squeeze around his hips, grounding him. holding him there.

he chuckles against your collarbone, the sound deep and indulgent. “you say that,” he murmurs, “but your body never listens.”

he licks down the valley of your chest, lips dragging heat in his wake, his hands slipping under your shirt like he’s unwrapping a gift.

and god, you let him.

you let him.

your fingers curl into the sheets, and your chest rises to meet his mouth, betraying every half-hearted protest. his tongue circles your nipple before pulling it into his mouth, wet and hot and dizzying. you moan — sharp, guttural — and he groans in response, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“see?” he whispers, trailing kisses down your ribs. “this. this is why i come back.”

his hand cups between your legs, warm and possessive, and you jolt — breath hitching as he rubs slow, heavy circles through your underwear. his head dips, lips grazing just above your waistband.

“i could fuck rumi a hundred times and it wouldn’t feel like this,” he says, and you freeze.

not because it hurts.

because it doesn’t.

because it makes your pulse race. because you want to be the one he loses control over. because the idea of him never forgetting you feels too powerful to refuse.

“you don’t mean that,” you whisper, even as your hips lift into his hand.

he looks up, hair messy and lips red, expression worshipful and wild. “i mean every word. i like her — we have something pretty. clean.”

he leans in, breath hot over the soaked fabric between your thighs.

“but you…” he kisses just above your core, eyes locked to yours, “you ruin me.”

you shudder beneath him. you should push him off. scream. call for rumi. claw your way back to some version of right.

but your fingers are tangled in his hair now, guiding him lower.

and jinu — wicked, beautiful, starving jinu — sighs like he’s found god between your legs.

his mouth presses against you through the fabric — slow, savoring, deliberate — and your thighs twitch around his shoulders. your breath stutters out of your lungs like it’s trying to escape the room entirely. you can’t think. not clearly. not when he’s already soaking you in praise without a single word.

his tongue moves in slow, devoted drags, and you swear your vision dims at the edges. he hums against you like he’s content, like he could live right here, between your legs, drinking down every tremble you give him.

and still — still — you whisper, “we shouldn’t…”

you say it like a prayer that’s already halfway to hell.

his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your underwear, so slow it’s cruel. he pulls the fabric down your thighs like a ceremony, kissing each inch of newly exposed skin. he doesn’t say a word for a moment, just watches you, breathless and open beneath him, your hands gripping the sheets like they’ll keep you grounded.

“you’re still trying,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “adorable.”

his lips press to your bare thigh, then higher. he kisses like a man possessed — no, not possessed. possessing. like your body is already his and you’re just now figuring it out.

“you keep saying ‘no’ with your mouth,” he breathes against your heat, “but your body is screaming ‘please.’”

your hips lift into his face before you can stop yourself.

you want to lie. you want to tell him he’s wrong, that you don’t want this, that it was a mistake then and it’s still a mistake now — but his tongue is sliding over you in long, slow strokes, and every thought is stripped away in pieces.

he eats you like he’s starving.

not messy. not brutal. tender. each flick of his tongue is calculated, each kiss against your clit a love letter written in fire. he moans into you like you’re the one ruining him.

your fingers thread into his hair, your thighs tightening around his head as your back arches — and it’s then that he grips your hips, pinning you still.

“don’t run now,” he says, voice wrecked with hunger. “i haven’t even started.”

you whimper — a small, broken sound that betrays every fight left in you.

and when he slides a finger into you, slow and perfect, curling just right, you swear you see stars burst behind your eyelids. your mouth falls open, no words, just breath. just sound. and he drinks every noise like it’s his reward.

“that’s it,” he growls softly. “let go. be honest with me for once.”

your hips roll into his face, your hands trembling in his hair, and you know — you know — this is the last line. after this, there’s no pretending. no going back. no erasing the way he touches you like he was born to, like he knows every soft part of you better than you do.

you’re already falling when he slides another finger inside.

your legs shake. your lips part around a half-formed “jinu—”

and he answers with a moan that melts straight through your spine.

it’s too much. it’s perfect. you hate him. you want more.

you want to scream. you want him to stay.

and when your climax hits you, it’s with the force of every sin you swore you’d never repeat.

you fall apart beneath him — voice a wrecked melody of pleasure and guilt, thighs clenching around his head, fingers locked in his hair like you’ll drown if you let go. he doesn’t stop. not until you’re trembling, crying out softly, your body twitching with aftershocks.

he finally lifts his head — lips slick, eyes wild, expression full of that unholy devotion that makes your heart ache.

he crawls up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along your stomach, chest, throat.

then he stops above you. one hand on your cheek. soft. adoring.

“see?” he whispers. “you were never just a mistake.”

your chest rises and falls like the tide, still catching its rhythm after everything. the room feels quieter now, but not safe — never safe. jinu’s weight settles beside you on the mattress, his skin still warm from the way he touched you, his breath brushing the top of your shoulder like he hasn’t really left your body at all.

you sit up slowly, tugging the blanket around yourself like it’s armor, even though he’s already seen every part of you unguarded.

you don’t look at him when you speak.

“we can’t keep doing this.”

your voice is soft. but final.

“one day we’ll get caught. and it’ll hurt everyone. it’ll destroy things that don’t deserve to be broken.”

you pause. the ache in your throat is worse than anything between your legs.

“this is selfish.”

a silence stretches between you, and then — fingers. gentle. beneath your chin.

he tilts your face toward him, eyes glowing dimly in the dark. molten. soft. sure.

“baby,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb against your bottom lip,

“why do you think i’m a demon?”

you blink.

his smile deepens, slow and indulgent.

“selfish is what i am. that’s the whole point.”

he kisses you before you can answer — slow, warm, and laced with sin. not demanding. not greedy. hungry in that reverent, unraveling way again. and this time, it’s not just his mouth that touches you.

he peels the rest of his clothes away with that effortless grace he always carries, like he was born to be looked at — and god, he is. he’s carved of fire and desire and danger, every line of his body sharp and fluid at once. when he presses you back into the sheets again, it’s not rushed. it’s not wild. it’s worship.

he kisses your jaw. slow.

“here,” he whispers between each kiss, “because this is where you lock your anger, right under your skin. always clenched. always afraid to speak.”

he kisses your collarbone. teeth dragging slightly.

“and here — because this is where you carry the guilt. i taste it every time.”

he kisses the curve beneath your breast, and your breath hitches.

“this part,” he murmurs, “is the most delicate. you flinch when i touch you here. like you’re waiting to break.”

he kisses the underside of your thigh — slow, thick with heat — and your entire body burns from the inside out.

“these legs,” he grins against your skin, “you don’t even know what they do to me. they wrap around me like chains, and i willingly drown.”

he crawls back up your body, trailing his fingers across every inch like he’s painting a map. like he’s memorizing the very shape of you.

“every part of you,” he whispers against your lips, “makes me worse. makes me want more. i could have any body in this city. do you know how many i’ve had?”

you nod faintly, eyes hazy. because of course you know. he’s jinu. beautiful. untouchable. untamed.

his voice drops.

“and still, i always end up back here. wanting you.”

your body moves before your mind can stop it. hips lifting, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his again.

because maybe you’re selfish too.

maybe being wanted like this makes the sin worth it.

maybe, just maybe, damnation has never felt so good.

his breath is heavy now — thick with want, coiling like smoke as it leaves his mouth and dances across your skin. you feel it more than hear it. his body above yours, all heat and pressure and temptation made flesh. your fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, the dip of his spine, and your eyes meet his — gold, burning, starving.

your thighs part naturally, like your body remembers him before your mind even catches up. his fingers slide down, slow and deliberate, stroking over you with practiced ease — and when he groans under his breath, it’s like he’s been holding it in for days.

“you’re still so warm for me,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “like you never stopped wanting me.”

you bite your bottom lip, but don’t argue.

can’t.

he presses the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, dragging it through your slick folds — and your entire body trembles with the weight of almost. the stretch. the pressure. the heat building in your core like a second heartbeat.

“jinu…” you whisper, half warning, half plea.

his voice is soft. raw.

“i missed this. missed you.”

and then he pushes in.

slow. inch by inch. your walls stretching around him, welcoming him back like he never left. the intrusion is dizzying — the ache, the burn, the way he fits so perfectly inside you. a sound escapes you, broken and low, and jinu answers with a groan that vibrates in his chest.

“fuck…” he breathes. “you still feel like heaven.”

he stills for a moment, buried deep inside, his hips flush against yours, like he needs time to memorize how it feels — how you feel — before he moves again.

your nails scrape down his back. you tilt your hips upward, silently begging.

and then he begins to move.

slow thrusts, deep and deliberate, grinding his hips into you like he wants to ruin the shape of you from the inside. every motion drags a gasp from your lips, every roll of his pelvis sparks fireworks behind your eyes. your legs wrap around him instinctively, locking him closer, deeper.

he leans down, kissing your throat, your collarbone, your breast — leaving no inch untouched, no breath wasted.

“this body,” he murmurs, voice shaking, “was made for me.”

your head falls back into the pillows as he starts to move faster, needier, but still controlled — a perfect balance of rhythm and wreckage. his hands roam your body, sliding from your waist to your thighs to your throat, where his fingers hover, barely touching.

his eyes find yours again.

“say it,” he whispers, “say you missed this.”

you gasp as his hips snap into yours.

“say it.”

“i—” your voice is breathless, strangled, trembling, “i missed it. i missed you.”

a growl tears from his chest — something unholy and primal — and he presses into you harder now, the bed shifting with each thrust. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the space between whispered curses and muffled moans. he bites your shoulder, not enough to mark, just enough to make you feel it. to make it real.

your body arches into him, chasing release, needing it like air. his thumb finds your clit, circling tight, perfect, relentless — and your body begins to tremble, the pressure building again, this time more dangerous, more consuming.

“you gonna cum for me again?” he pants, voice thick with praise. “look at me. i want to see you fall apart.”

your eyes meet his, and that’s all it takes.

your orgasm rips through you like a wave crashing through glass — sharp, overwhelming, beautiful in its destruction. you cry out, body convulsing around him, and jinu doesn’t stop — he fucks you through it, chasing his own high as your name stumbles off his lips like a prayer.

he cums with a low groan and his eyes glowing with a vibrant golden hue, spilling into you as he buries himself deep, hips stuttering against yours. his body collapses over you, breath hot in your ear, hands cradling your face like you’re something holy.

for a moment, the room is nothing but sound — your heartbeats, your breathing, the echo of everything you shouldn’t have done and can’t stop doing.

his lips press to your cheek.

“you feel like home,” he whispers.

and that’s the most dangerous thing of all.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, YOU GUYS ARE FIENDS FOR BABY SO I WILL BE WRITING ANOTHER ONE FOR HIM NOW !!! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERES ANYTHING YOU GUYS WOULD LIKE ME TO INCLUDE OR WRITE ABOUT !! ENJOY THIIIIIS LITTLE EXTRA BIT FROM THE TWIN SIN !!!! MUAHHHH !!! yalls can thank @haloangelfics for this 😛 AND A PART THREE WAS REQUESTED FOR MY FIRST BABY SAJA FIC, OH MY GOSH YALL ARE SO FUNNY

ko-fi 🎧

next recommended read : Praise The Sinner (jinu smut)

look here for more reads 📚!!

🔖: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @haloangelfics @valentique

[unknown-cold]

This was the last time she saw of her mother.

This part when the casket was closing Caitlyn was not only on the verge of breaking into tears but she was also inching her head to see her mother's face a little more before she couldn't see her again 💔

These two clashed in just about every scene they shared, never able to see eye-to-eye. And now with Cassandra dead, Caitlyn will never have another chance to bridge the gap with her mother. So many things left unsaid. And This is so sad Imagine losing a parent who wasn't easy on you and yet she loves you so much

(she’s broken manipulated and vengeful)

[blue-eyed-author]

Writing rule:

Every character who speaks gets their own paragraph. If two characters are talking, each time they switch you must create a new paragraph.

Do not add more than one characters’s dialogue into a single paragraph or it will be too confusing for the reader.

[urfriendlywriter]

Angsty Prompts

(feel free to use, tag me when yall write!!! mwah xoxo)

"You're okay, look at me--yes, my love, you're okay. I'm here now."

tight hugs, their hands cradling you and your heart close to theirs.

Their heart shattering with every ragged breath u take and every sob that escapes your lips

"Do u know.. it's incredibly brave of you to.." They pause, gently rubbing the tears stains off your cheeks, "Be vulnerable with me? It's my honor, to protect you, and be a safe place for you."

being hospitalized, and waking up to find them curled at the foot of your bed, holding onto ur hand.

Voice breaking as they whisper, their hand tightening around yours, "I-I thought I lost you.."

pressing your lips their forehead, as they break apart in your arms, clinging onto you. eyes full of pain, tears and rare vulnerability that bares open their entire being to you

^ caressing their face, unable to know what to say or do but whispering, "Let me hold you through this all. It's okay to cry, my love.." and they completely shatter.

Them curling up into ur chest, needing comfort, security and strength

"I'm so sorry--" "No, no, no. You did ur best, my soul, i---i am the one sorry."

[aquitainequeen]

John Rogers, on Day 100 of the WGA Strike.

Never forget: "Rejected our proposal. Refused to counter."