#the execution of this prompt is not how i wanted it to be

[avocadorablepirate]

hello! i enjoyed reading zoro's portion of your tiny but lethal fic. you captured his character well, and i like how you characterized reader too!

may i request prompts 1 and 28 with zoro? i’m thinking a hurt/comfort/fluff situation where reader gets injured or has a few “off” days, and zoro worries.

or, maybe the roles are reversed - zoro gets injured or his insecurities creep in, and reader comforts him. either way, i look forward to reading more of your stories!

hope you have a nice day :)

Hiii! I’m so glad you liked that headcanon! :) Zoro’s was one of my favourites when writing, so I’m so happy you think I captured his character well! I’ve kinda gone with your second suggestion, so I hope you like what I’ve done with these prompts. Hope you have a nice day as well! ☺️

××××

“Why do you keep pretending you’re okay, when you’re clearly falling apart?” + “You’re hurt.” - “So are you.” - “I’m not worried about me.”

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x gn!reader

Word Count: 983

Warnings: hurt/comfort, mentions of injuries and blood (nothing else that I can think of, but let me know)

Hmm…I have mixed feelings about this one y’all 🤔 like I like the direction, but I’m not too happy with the execution/result (why do I sound like some team leader??).

The ache in your chest felt like déjà vu. It was almost as if it had yanked you from the present and thrusted you back to that fateful day on Thriller Bark - a day you had tried so hard to forget, but somehow always found a way to come back to haunt you.

The memory came in merciless flashes: All the pain the Warlord had extracted from Luffy sat trapped in a translucent bubble. Zoro, face set with resolve stood before it. You had crouched behind a pillar, feet rooted to the ground, breath caught in your throat. Then, without warning, Zoro plunged his hands into the sphere, and you watched in horror as his body jerked violently. You couldn’t hear him scream, you weren’t even sure if he did; but what stayed with you was how the pain twisted his features into something unrecognisable.

When it was done he remained standing - barely - eyes bloodshot, bruises spattered across his body. You managed one hesitant step towards him, but then Sanji had burst in, wide-eyed as he stared at the swordsman.

“What happened!?” Sanji asked, concerned as he eyed Zoro.

“Not-nothing happened.”

That was all he said, and you didn’t say anything. You could’ve told Sanji. Could’ve stepped out and told them all. But you didn’t. Because that was what he wanted — to shoulder that burden alone, and you - mortified, grateful, aching - let him.

But tonight, years later, as the Sunny rocked lazily after a skirmish with the Marines, you watched Zoro stagger across the deck, clutching at a wound he pretended wasn’t there. And that familiar ache came flooding back like it never left.

You didn’t speak right away. Just watched, as he braced himself against the mast, his breath shallow and slightly uneven. You could see blood seep through his ripped shirt, fresh, vivid and ignored. Always ignored.

This time you didn’t hesitate. Boots silent, you followed the crimson trail of blood he left in his wake. Zoro neither saw or heard you approach - the pain flaring in his side had dulled his senses. It was only when you spoke that he realised he wasn’t alone.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, voice firmer than you expected it to be.

Zoro stiffened but he didn’t look at you.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, almost the same words as last time, the same lie. And just like last time it cracked something open in you.

You swallowed hard, your eyes scanning his ribs that had been hastily wrapped with a bandage that was already turning red. You let out a breath and took measured steps towards him.

“Why do you keep pretending you’re okay, when you’re clearly falling apart?” you asked quietly.

That stopped him cold. As if your words struck a chord in him - leaving him frozen, unable to respond.

You stepped closer, the first-aid kit you had pilfered from the med bay already in hand. Peeling away the gauze, you uncovered a gash, seven inches long and at least a centimetre deep. Warm scarlet slicked your hands.

“You did this at Thriller Bark too,” you muttered, voice steadier than your hands. Zoro flinched, whether from the burn of the alcohol you pressed against his wounds or the weight of your words, you couldn’t tell.

“What are you talking about?” he grunted, shoulders tensing.

You exhaled a frustrated sigh, before answering. “I saw everything. Kuma, the sphere, you soaked in blood telling Sanji nothing happened.”

Zoro turned just enough for you to catch the way his eyes flickered, part annoyance, part resignation. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“But I did,” you snapped, not out of anger - out of heartbreak. “And now every time you stagger off half-dead pretending it’s nothing, I wonder when we’ll wake up and you won’t.”

“It’s my choice,” Zoro growled, not meeting your gaze. “And I will always choose to fight for the rest of you.”

You shook your head, fighting the urge to yell, but the frustration boiled over. “I know! But that doesn’t mean you don’t let us share the burden that comes with it!”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. It was only when you tied the final knot that he looked at you. He seemed irritated, both with himself and with the fact that you’d been bearing this weight all along. He hated it. He hated seeing you worry about him. That was the last thing he wanted.

Zoro opened his mouth to say something — possibly to argue once more. But his eyes flicked to your trembling hands, and then a glint of regret crossed his face.

“You’re hurt,” he said softly. Not about your injuries, not even about tonight. It was about something older, something you had been carrying for years.

“So are you,” you answered, anger melting into raw desperation.

His expression was unreadable in the darkness, but his voice was low and gentle. “I’m not worried about me.”

With a wince, he slid further down the mast, tugging you along with him until you both sat on the cool wooden planks. The timber groaned, and the waves lapped lazily against the hull - the two of you savouring the rare quiet moment.

“Knowing you’re all right - that’s enough,” he murmured.

“I won’t stay alright if you keep doing this to yourself.”

A tired but playful smirk curved his lips. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep an eye on me.”

You nudged his shoulder, unable to stop the soft smile tugging at your own lips. “Oh I definitely will be. You’re going to be begging to get away from me.”

Zoro said nothing, instead after a moment he shifted his arm slowly, hesitantly, until his fingers brushed against yours.

You looked down, watching as his calloused, blood-stained hand finally closed around your own. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Just a soft, gentle squeeze.

Permission.

Acknowledgement.

Small, but it was there. And that was enough.

How are we feeling about this one? 🤔

[queeniewithabeanie]

Dear Diary

Dpxdc Prompt #38

After a long overdue clean up of the Manor's attic, Alfred brought a box of forgotten objects to Bruce. One of which being his old diary from when he was a kid.

Being curious, the man opened it, wondering what was on his mind as a child.

He shut it after the first mention of his parents.

He instructed Alfred to burn it, Bruce didn't want any more reminders of how his life was with his parents, how it could have turned out. He had already spent far to many nights dreaming about the what-ifs.

Alfred had other plans, however, giving the diary to the Wayne kids and instructing them to not let Bruce know about it.

They need to know that before he was Batman, he was a kid too. He had a life before vigilantism, before his parents had died.

What neither Bruce, nor Alfred remembered was Bruce's old "imaginary" friend Danny.

They also didn't know that he was real and still around, not alive, but kicking.

Danny allowed himself a little smile as his best friend's children read about him. He had been watching over them for so long after all, it was nice for them to finally know his name.

He knew pushing the diary towards Alfred was a good idea.

[ana-cantskywalker]

sabezra + start over again by new hope club for the drabbles?

I try to respond to an ask in a reasonable timeframe challenge (level: impossible)

Legally this isn’t a drabble (I only very recently learned what a drabble technically is and this ain’t it) I don’t even think it can be considered a microfic anymore. It absolutely got away from me and is kinda massive considering the prompt.

Anyways, I hope you like it!

Setting: Modern au, they are in college (idk the details just college)

-

He was an idiot.

He’d been told that before but now he was sure of it because only an idiot would do what he’d done yesterday.

It had started out going extremely well for him, after taking nearly three years to work up the courage to do so, he’d finally told Sabine how he felt. How he saw his best friend as more than just a best friend, how he wanted them to be more.

And she hadn’t killed him surprisingly enough.

He thought such a heavy confession would ruin what they already had, which is why he’d taken so long to admit it, but she took it well. She didn’t hate him for one, and she even agreed to go on a ‘date’ with him. Not a real go to a nice restaurant type of date, but something slightly more intimate than their usual hangouts, to see if it would be a dynamic they might want to pursue.

He didn’t really know why she’d agreed, he wouldn’t dare hope it was because she reciprocated even if she wouldn’t admit it, but maybe…

They’d agreed on a picnic in the park near his house, casual but not anything like what they would normally do together. All their cards on the table, but without the pressure, the stage was set to be a perfect day, and he’d been thrilled.

That is until he had to go and kriff it all up.

His first mistake was being chronically late, not on purpose of course, but late nonetheless. She had to wait for him for nearly half an hour, it was a miracle she hadn’t just left, and maybe she should have. And then he had to go put his foot in his mouth when he tried complimenting her, he couldn’t even remember now what he’d said, just that it had sounded like a borderline insult.

He should’ve just told her she was beautiful, because kriff, she was.

Then, the cherry on top to the disaster of a date was when he knocked over his drink and spilled it all over her dress. Like an idiot.

It hadn’t ended with her yelling at him like he probably deserved, but it had been three days ago and she hadn’t so much as texted him. They usually talked every day. She was rightfully upset and he didn’t know how to fix it.

He needed to, his relationship with Sabine, friend or otherwise was one of the most important relationships he had. Also if he didn’t Tristan was going to kill him the next time he saw him.

The sound of a door closing snapped him from the doom spiral he was having face down on the couch. Looking up he saw his roommate Zeb walking in. The older boy gives Ezra a disapproving once over, “You still moping?”

Ezra doesn’t dignify him with a response, so he keeps going. “You know moping here on the couch isn’t going to fix anything.”

He rolls his eyes, “Thank you for that astute observation, Zeb.”

Zeb pushes through their tiny living area towards his room, “Fine, if you want to sit here in your misery then do it, just don’t bother me about it. But, if I was you, I would go apologize.”

With that he’s gone and Ezra sits up, he was right and Ezra hated it. He’d known for the past three days that was what he needed to do, he was just terrified of the response he might get. What if she chewed him out and never wanted to see him again.

Well, maybe that was a little extreme, she had every right to be upset but he might have been making the situation more drastic in his head. He had been known to be dramatic over things on occasion.

As he is pondering the extent of his dramatization of events, his eyes land on a picture stuck to the fridge, he could barely make it out from where he was, but he knew what it was of. It was a picture he and Sabine had taken when they went to the amusement park outside town last Summer. It was one of his favorite memories, not just with her, but ever. Was he really going to ruin that over his stupid cowardice?

No. He wasn't.

He was going to make things right.

-

The trip to the coffee shop where Sabine worked was quick. It was the prime spot to run into her for two reasons. One, because it was currently her work hours and he didn’t want to wait. Two, because if he risked waiting till later and trying to go see her at her and Tristan’s shared apartment, there was always a chance he would be there and she wouldn’t, and he didn’t fancy getting punched in the face today.

However, that still wasn’t out of the question with Sabine.

The bell above the door rang as he entered, and he was greeted by the familiar smells of coffee and pastries. It was quiet inside, only a few customers sitting at tables and no one in line at the register. Behind it sat Sabine, hunched over what he could assume was a sketchbook, golden eyes narrowed in concentration, purple and pink hair framing her face. She really was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

He cautiously approaches the counter, and she doesn’t look up, even when he reaches it, clearly not noticing it was him. Without so much as a glance she asks, “How can I help you?”

He clears his throat, pushing down the nerves in his stomach. “Could I have a hot chocolate please… and a second chance?”

Her head snaps up, eyes locking with his, shock written on her face, “Ezra-”

He cuts her off, which probably wasn’t the best idea in terms of trying to make it up to her, “Sabine, I’m really sorry about the other day. I messed up completely, and I know you’re probably really mad at me because I was a total idiot.”

It all comes out as one big word vomit, and he looks at the ground, embarrassed both because of why he had to apologize in the first place, and also because of his delivery of said apology.

“Yeah, you were kind of a total idiot weren’t you?”

When he looks up, instead of the disapproving scowl he’d been expecting, he finds a mischievous smirk. He could cry from relief at the fact that she apparently didn’t hate him.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, “Could we start over?”

[moe-broey]

Why did I start like three other projects when I was already working on a big project when I just got hit with the autism exhaustion beam (requires. At least One Full Day just dead in bed, and then some more Taking It Easy time after)

[painsandconfusion]

Writers, here’s your reminder that you should be doing warm-ups!

Athletes need to warm up. Musicians need to warm up. Artists need to warm up. Heck, I even have to play a few matches in video games before I get into a groove every day.

Warm-ups help you get into the right headspace, give you more control of your actions and word choice, get you comfortable in your physical setting (eg: with your keyboard, notebook, tablet, or whatever you're writing with), and spark creativity.

Even if you don’t think you have spoons to write, sit down and do a couple warm-ups. If you still don’t want to, that’s alright. But. I think you’ll be surprised how often they help break that ice.

5-15 minutes is all you need. I personally set a timer for ten minutes each time and do not stop writing until the time is up. Your warm-up can be anything at all so long as it gets you writing and starts nudging those creative juices.

Here's some common warm-ups:

Journaling. Just jot down some notes about your day. Feel free to really lean into something that you noticed. We're going for description and details -- try to avoid settling into a spiral or focusing on something negative that will upset your creativity.

Short story prompts. Type that into Pinterest and pick the most ridiculous, cliche thing you can. Write a little scene, story summary, or even a rant about why you do or don't like the prompt. Just write.

Vocab challenge. If you like a bit more critical thinking to get you in the zone, have a random vocabulary word generator spit out five or so words. Check their meanings and jot down a little story or thought that includes all five. You get more familiar with beautiful and descriptive language, and it gives you a much narrowed prompt (which is lovely if you're like me and suffer each time there's an open-ended task assigned).

Character moments. Try putting your character into a generic setting and write down almost meticulously what their thought process would be. Follow them realizing they've just stepped in mud or dreading the start of the day. Pick a mundane thing and describe them working through it. This will not only get your writing going, but it will wake up the character's voice in your head.

Ongoing storytelling. Did you know that Whinnie the Poo was A.A. Milne's warm up story? He would jot down a quick little story with those very basic characters and did so every day. Whatever came to mind. He kept writing little tidbits on the same characters and eventually it turned into a series. Having that ongoing plot with isolated scenes and simple characters can help you feel more motivated to sit down and write.

Get-to-know-you-questions. Google a list of basic first-date questions (there are a million out there) and answer one yourself. Go into specifics. Where do you most want to travel and why? Let yourself ramble until the question is fully answered.

Writer's block blues. This is a favorite of mine. If you're truly stuck, write about being stuck. Eg: 'I'm supposed to write for ten minutse, but that feels so stupid and impossible. No one is goign to read this anyway. I have no ideas and the page is so overwhelming when its blank. I used to be able to write on and on and nothing could stop me. it was like breathing. but now I have nothign and do nothing and I can't even do a stupid prompt-' Even the rambling and ranting got me writing. It made things easier. It made writing this post easier. Also -- notice the typos? Yeah, don't fix those. You're in writing mode, not editing mode when you're doing this. If you edit while you write, you're forcing yourself to stay in your executive and calculating headspace rather than falling fully into creativity and dream. Ignore the mistakes. That's for future you to handle.

I've officially rambled far too much, but I hope that helps even a little bit. Live well and write often, my friends. Best of luck to you <3

[lucanderie]

Still need to mull this over some more, but it's very intriguing how much player-defying Kris proves themselves physically capable of this chapter.

They maliciously comply with our exact wording when asked to turn a doorknob. They cover their mouth midway through a sentence. When asked to say Berdly's name, they repeat themselves loudly in shock. They do PLENTY of physical actions or gestures unprompted, such as kneeling down and touching Ralsei when only prompted to talk, pushing Susie out of harm's way for the second time, giving her their knife with a flourish, laughing or nodding to clarify a statement... as well as their unprompted hijinks at the church. They act by themselves both in the spur of the moment and premeditated, in both low-stakes interactions and highly emotional, instinctive reactions. It seems like they're capable of doing any emoting, physical gesturing, or creative prompt interpretations they so desire apart from a) speaking, b) when directly commanded to do something else and c) in many weird route sequences (will circle back to this). They know entire commands word for word before they execute them, and they are aware enough of the fact that we have goals and what those goals may be to actively conspire against us. Kris knows our "rules".

This is extremely interesting because we saw very little of this in the previous chapters- leading us to believe Kris had basically zero input on Dark-World happenings, and had less understanding of their own situation then say, Ralsei did. But here, Kris isn't just getting more clever about or more accustomed to defying us- they're proving progressively more capable of just doing things of their own volition that any possessed kid who was randomly dropped into this situation with no warning or context would not wait two days to try.

Combined with the fact that from the beginning, they defy us to limit what we see long before they defy what we actually force them to do, (even when they clearly don't like doing it!), and that there's precedent for a character's mindset determining the player's level of control with Susie, it's seeming more and more like Kris is purposefully limiting themselves in earlier chapters. They have a vested interest in "playing the part", coming across to either us or someone else like they have less agency than they do, and they get progressively more open about the amount of defiance that they are capable of.

This is just, a fascinating jump in Kris's amount of agency! At the very least, they may know a similar amount of meta-info to even Ralsei. It changes some of their earlier actions from purely-forced to compliant. And there's a lot of (non-evil, you guys) reasons they would do this- they're probably at least, (at this point), afraid of some kind of retribution from us or their co-conspirators. They want to stay ahead of us by hiding their agency, they may not be comfortable enough with themselves to show express in certain instances... And this changes their defiant actions from things that they are allowed to do into things they are willing to risk doing- saving Susie twice, not hurting Ralsei's feelings, comforting Noelle, slorking down those juice cups like they're NOTHING- all little risks they're willing to take.

This just leaves the weird route- which may either be a route where the player simply gains more control over Kris, or maybe the "proceed" commands could be more general and therefore more inclusive. Or Kris could be initially, willing to play along with freezing the Darkners in order to achieve their goal, to bide their time, and once they realize how fucked up we can get it's too late.

I don't know. I'm definitely missing things, but I just love how much more Kris we have and are eventually going to get.

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 293

Adjective: Ambiguous

Noun: Casket

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Ambiguous: (of language) open to more than one interpretation, or having a double meaning; unclear or inexact because a choice between alternatives has not been made

Casket: a small ornamental box or chest for holding jewels, letters, or other valuable objects; (North American) a coffin

[whumperless-whump-event]

WHUMPERLESS WHUMP EVENT 2025

Welcome back to the Whumperless Whump Event of July, where we celebrate the situational and environmental side of our community via beating the shit out of our blorbos!

FAQ and plain text prompts under the cut!

Frequently Asked Questions

Q: How are the prompts divided?

Q: Where can I find the prompts list?

A: @whumperless-whump-event on Tumblr.

A: The title is a “theme” for the day, followed by two tropes and a dialog prompt.

A: Absolutely.

Q: Can I use the title as a prompt?

A: Not at all.

Q: Do I have to use all of the prompts?

Q: Can I use all of the prompts?

A: Absolutely. If it's fun, go for it--don't feel pressured to finish them all, but do follow what's inspiring you.

Q: If I'm writing a chronological story, can I swap the days to make it fit the timeline?

A: Yes. Just make sure you tag each piece with the prompt and day you're filling.

Q: Can I have early or late entries?

A: Yes. Early and late entries will not be reblogged to the event account, though.

Q: Is there an Ao3 collection?

A: Yes! This year's collection can be found here, or through searching whumperless_whump_event_july2025. Please remember to submit this year's prompts to the 2025 collection and NOT the 2024 one!

Q: Can I write NSFW?

A: You absolutely can, but the event blog will not reblog any prompt fill rated Explicit. Please ensure you tag NSFW appropriately.

Q: Can I use AI?

A: No.

Q: Can a whumper be included in the prompt fill?

A: The short answer is no. The long answer is that you cannot have the role of whumper in your prompt fill (aka: no whumper-on-whumpee); however, if the character you want to be a whumpee or a caretaker happens to be a whumper, then as long as they are not fulfilling the role of whumper, it's fine. Also, if there is a whumper, it must be totally impersonal and faceless. Here are some examples for clarification:

A character's drink is spiked at a party. OKAY: The whumper who spiked the drink is never mentioned and is completely faceless, and the story is directly about whumpee recovering. NOT WHUMPERLESS: The whumper who spiked the drink kidnaps the whumpee. A character is left alone in a storm. OKAY: The character is stranded or lost. NOT WHUMPERLESS: Whumper tied them to a post and left them in the storm. A character is mugged on the street. OKAY: The whumper is a stranger, faceless, and the focus is on Whumpee. NOT WHUMPERLESS: The whumper is a stalker and there to kidnap Whumpee.

All in all, if your goal is to fulfill the event, then try to avoid a whumper. If you're using the prompts elsewhere, then ignore this; but in the spirit of the event, no whumper roles please.

Q: How do I tag my posts?

A: Tag with #whumperless whump event, #wwevent 2025 and #wwevent day [x](Don't just tag wwe, that's wresting.) Then, tag triggers and content warnings. Please put these first in the tag order! It just makes it easier to reblog.

Q: How do I get reblogged?

A: Mention this blog in your post! It's the easiest way for me to find you. Otherwise, I won't reblog it. (This also means if you do not want your post reblogged to the event, just don't mention the blog, and it'll stay private.)

I think that's about it. That's a lot, so if you've got any questions, feel free to shoot me an ask. I'm happy to help!

PROMPTS:

INSULT TO INJURY: Infected wounds / Hurt and ill / “Fate really has it out for you, huh.”

PUBLIC MISINFORMATION: Presumed dead / Search party / “There's a hand, I can see them!”

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME: Left behind / Attempted Martyr / “Get out while you can, and don't look back.”

LIKE A KALEIDOSCOPE: Numbness / Dissociation / “Can I hold your hand?”

AT LEAST IT'S NOT MANUAL: Trapped in a car / Stranded / “You can't drive like this.”

DOOMED BY THE NARRATIVE: Scheduled execution / Near death experience / “That was too close.”

AHOY THERE MATEYS: Motion sickness / Washed ashore / “I hate the ocean.”

CHEF MIS-STEAK: Hot stove / Slip of the knife / “I swear, I'm usually better at this.”

SCHEDULE YOUR MAINTENANCE: Lack of self care / Sick day / “Just take a nap. I can handle the rest.”

BOOM, CLAP: Gunshots / Sound sensitive / “Shut up, please.”

CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP: Overworking / No time to rest / “We're not safe yet.”

HOW DID WE GET HERE: Isekai'd / Evacuation / “This is not a good place to be.”

A GOOD OLD FASHIONED BEATDOWN: Training mistake / Accidentally hurting someone / “…Let's take a break.”

RIPPED THE RUG FROM UNDER YOU: Despair / Clinging on for dear life / “Please don't leave.”

GET BEHIND ME: Using their body as a shield / Full team whump / “You're such an idiot!”

KNOCK ME OFF OF MY FEET: Collapsing in public / Dizzy / “Woah, there, you good?”

SEEING RED: Bloody nose / Coughing up blood / “Good lord, is all that yours?!”

BREAKING NEWS: Storm Shelters / Huddling for warmth / “It'll be over soon.”

IRRESISTABLE: Venomous snake bite / Spiders / “Man, these bugs really just love you, don't they.”

GOT THE SNIFFLES: Seasonal allergies / Can't stop coughing / “Bring tissues next time.”

FEAR IS THE MIND KILLER: Phobias / Uncontrollable shaking / “I gotta do this. I have to.”

HUG TIME: Touch starved / Comfort / “You're safe. I promise, you're safe.”

RECOVERY PERIOD: Tending to past injuries / Bruises / “Alright. Lecture me before you pop a blood vessel.”

IT WAS ALWAYS BURNING: Wide-scale fire / Third degree burns / “You'll only make things worse if you keep doing that.”

IT'S JUST SPRINKLING: Stuck outside during a storm / Natural disasters / “We should not be out here right now.”

CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE: Flying debris / Pinned / “We gotta get you out of here.”

ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH: Withdrawal / Hangover / “You'll get through this.”

TAKE A WALK (LITERALLY): Hiking mishap / Heatstroke or heat exhaustion / “Can we take a break?”

TAKE A WALK (FIGURATIVELY): Snapping under pressure / Lashing out / “You wanna say that again?”

MIND THE STRINGS: Mind control / Psychic mishap / “Come back to yourself, please!"

ONE WRONG STEP: Caught in a trap / Impaled / “If we remove it, you'll bleed out in seconds.”

ALTERNATES:

THE CLOCK IS TICKING: Losing track of time / Long term coma / “Was I… dreaming?”

IMPROVISED SOLUTIONS: Field medicine / Makeshift gurney / “It's all we have, I'm sorry.”

HARD KNOCK LIFE: Severe concussion / Clumsiness / "Sorry… who are you again?"

UNDER PRESSURE: Can't stop the bleeding / Disrupted healing factor / "Why isn't it working?!"

WHO'S YOUR EMERGENCY CONTACT: Workplace mishap / Distress call / "Talk to me."

SHENANIGANS AFOOT: Time loops / Body swap / "You're scaring me."

A RIVER IN EGYPT: Working through injury / Recovery / "I'm fine. I'm fine."

[dreamersparacosm]

𐙚₊˚⊹ ceo!jungkook x assistant!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; sub!reader, reader calls jk ‘sir’, jk is a dick btw, public sex, degradation, overstimulation, you ride him and he’s so nonchalant about it, mile high club

prompt ; in which it’s just another day at work.

You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: being thirty thousand feet in the air, or the way his hand was already halfway up your skirt before the wheels had left the runway.

You’re seated on his lap, facing the empty chairs across from you, spine curved in a subtle arch like your body already knows what he wants from you. The jet hums beneath you but it’s nothing compared to the sound of his breath against your ear as if he isn’t palming you through your panties at cruising altitude.

Your white blouse is wrinkled and halfway unbuttoned, the swell of your black lace bra peeking through, rising and falling with every breath you take. His hand drags slowly up your stomach, pushing the fabric aside like it’s in his way, which of course, it is. Everything is, when it comes to him.

You whimper quietly and he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even spare you a glance. He simply tightens the arm around your waist and takes a sip of his whiskey, the clink of the ice echoing loudly in the stillness of the cabin.

“Sir,” the flight attendant says, appearing beside him like a ghost, voice perfectly even. “Can I get you anything else?”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, his hand stays right between your legs, fingers now hooked in the waistband of your panties, middle knuckle dragging over your slick heat like he’s just testing how wet you are.

Without looking up, he replies, “No. I’ve got everything I need.”

The attendant nods, since you squirming on top of him is nothing worth noticing, and disappears down the aisle without another word.

You try to breathe and focus but his fingers dip lower, push aside the last scrap of modesty you had left, and you gasp, hips twitching forward.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so low it barely counts as speech. The whiskey is warm on his breath. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please,” you whisper, a breath more than a word. “Please, I-I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, mouth brushing the back of your neck. “You always can.”

He’s not wrong. You melt for him like he’s heat itself. Like his touch is gravity and you’ve never known how to resist it. Your hands are gripping the armrest now, thighs trembling as his fingers begin a slow, devastating rhythm.

You’re drunk off him; dizzy from the altitude, from how easy it is for him to pull you apart with just one hand and a glass of Glenfiddich in the other. He’s still sipping like nothing’s happening.

You let out a choked sound as he presses deeper. His fingers curl inside your sopping entrance and you let him. You let out another shaky breath which is more like a sob, and his fingers still don’t stop.

Your head tips back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs threaten to fall open wider, your dignity already somewhere back on the runway.

“You don’t even know how to sit still anymore,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue along the shell of your ear, “Look at you. Whimpering in my lap like you’re fucking starving.”

You are. You’ve never been so full and so empty at the same time.

God, you don’t know how this happened. Or… well. You vaguely remember it.

It started a year ago. A new job, a better title, a desk with a view. Executive Assistant to Jeon Jungkook, CEO of one of the fastest-growing private conglomerates in the country. You’d walked in with a pressed blouse and an updated resume, ready to prove yourself. No nonsense, no distractions, all ambition.

Apparently, the role had meant more than just fetching coffees and arranging schedules.

It had meant late nights in his office with the doors locked. It had meant taking dictation with his fingers between your legs. It had meant waking up in hotel suites with bruises you couldn’t explain to HR and an unread text from him that just said “bring aspirin. meeting at 8am”

He warned you the first time. “If you come into this office in that skirt again, I’ll ruin you.”

And you did. He kept up his end of the bargain too.

Now, months later, here you are; tens of thousands of feet above land, shaking in his lap while his fingers work you open. “Say it,” he drawls, “Say how badly you want it.”

You press your lips together, but the sound escapes anyway, a half-formed moan as his thumb brushes where you need him most. Your hips buck despite yourself.

“Please,” you whisper. “I want… God, I want it so bad.”

He exhales a laugh against your neck, amused and unaffected. His fingers thrust deeper in response, drawing another broken moan from your throat.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” he teases, “Wearing my name around your finger like it’s a secret. Begging for me.”

You choke on a breath. It’s true: there’s a thin gold ring on your right hand. It’s not a wedding band, nothing official. But it is engraved on the inside and he got it for you three months ago when he realized he needed to have some proof for himself that he was claiming you.

JJK is engraved on the inside of the ring.

“Open wider,” he commands softly, and your thighs obey before your brain catches up. “You don’t even think anymore when you’re with me, do you?”

“No, sir,” you breathe out. “I—I can’t.”

“Good,” he purrs, fingers curling just right. “You don’t need to think. You just need to let me use you.”

Your fingers clutch at the only thing you can find: his sleeve. The crisp, rolled cuff of his button-down is pushed just high enough to reveal the ink that snakes up his forearm, and your nails dig into it to anchor you to something solid.

You’re keeling over from the force of it, chest heaving, mouth open in a silent gasp as he pumps his fingers in and out of you like he owns you, even though you know he does. Not just your body, but your mind, your routine, your schedule, your every breath. You haven’t had a single thought that didn’t include him in months.

The muscles in your stomach coil tight, your head lolling back helplessly against his shoulder. His voice is the only thing tethering you now, warm and steady against your skin.

“Gonna cum just like this?” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw as his fingers keep working you open. “My fingers inside you, my name on your mouth?”

You nod. It’s pathetic, really, the way your whole body trembles just from the sound of him.

“Of course you are,” he bites his lip. “That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it? Cum for me. Sit on my lap and make a mess while I do all the work.”

You sob just a little, gripping tighter to his sleeve, and then, just as your legs start to shake, just as you’re right there on the edge, he pulls out.

Your cry is instant and desperate but he doesn’t give you time to protest.

He brings those soaked fingers straight to your lips. “Open,” he says, and you do, and he slips them past your mouth, two fingers deep, pressing on your tongue with the weight of command.

You moan around him, the taste of yourself flooding your tastebuds, heat rushing to your cheeks. He watches you suck like it’s just another task in your job description.

“God,” he mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip as you hollow your cheeks. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Before you can blink, he shifts beneath you. One hand still in your mouth, he moves the other to his belt, unbuckling it with one smooth flick of his wrist. The metallic click of his zipper coming down fills the cabin with such finality that your eyes flutter open in time to see him push his slacks down far enough to free himself.

He’s hard and already leaking. Thick and heavy against his stomach, flushed a deep, angry red. Your body reacts before your mind does, hips tilting instinctively, thighs vibrating as you grind back against him with muscle memory.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a soft pop and trails them down your throat, then lower. “You want me inside you?” he speaks lowly, dragging the head of his cock against your slick folds cruelly.

“Yes,” you breathe, already delirious. “Please, please, sir, I need it.”

“You need it,” he repeats, almost amused, guiding himself to your entrance. “Hm. You’re soaked.”

With one slow, possessive thrust, he slides into you, inch by devastating inch, and you swear you see stars. He pushes in slow, savoring the stretch. Your walls clamp around him instinctively, fluttering from the burn, the sheer fullness. You can barely breathe. Every time it’s the same: that impossible stretch that makes your eyes roll back, makes your stomach tighten, makes your mind go blank.

You always think uselessly to yourself how you got to this point. When one of your friends asks, you give the same answer: It’s his voice, his touch, his control. The way he ruins you and pieces you back together without ever breaking a sweat.

His cock drags against every sensitive inch as he bottoms out, your walls struggling to take all of him. You feel split open, stretched past your limit, and still you can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop pulsing around him like your body’s already surrendered.

“Fucking tight,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt. His arm tightens around your waist, keeping you flush against him, chest to back. “You get tighter every time. Your pussy knows it’s mine.”

You whimper and nod helplessly. “It is. It’s yours, sir.”

He lets out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Damn right it is.”

You shift and the pressure makes you cry out again, a weak little sound that only makes him hold you tighter. “Shh,” he soothes, kissing just below your ear. “Don’t overthink it, sweetheart. Just sit here and take it like a good girl.”

You lean forward, shaky hands finding his knees to steady yourself. Your thighs burn already, heels still on, skirt bunched around your hips. You start to move, your breath hitching as you lift yourself up an inch, before sliding back down with a choked moan. The angle punches the air from your lungs.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up your stomach, over the swell of your bra. “Letting me stretch you open like this.”

Your head drops, hair falling over your face, your hips starting to find a rhythm. The stretch hurts so good, pleasure simmering low in your belly, your thighs trembling with the effort to keep moving. He groans behind you, “That’s it. Fuck, that’s my girl.”

Of course you’re his girl. You’ve always been since the first time he made you cum on his desk and told you not to get any ideas. Since the first time he let you stay the night but made you leave before sunrise.

Since the first time you said “yes, sir” and meant every word.

“Jungkook,” you whimper, bouncing a little harder now, every motion pushing him deeper, “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, hand sliding up to your throat, resting there, just reminding you. “You’ll cum when I tell you to. Not before.”

You nod, gasping, tears brimming in your lashes. You’d do anything he says.

Your thighs are shaking. Every movement now is a pathetic, stuttering bounce driven by the maddening stretch of him inside you and the need building low in your stomach like a fire that won’t go out.

You should feel ashamed but your mind is gone. Fucked right out of your body and left hovering somewhere above the clouds with the seatbelt sign still glowing overhead.

You’re still moving. gripping his knees for balance, skirt hitched up to your waist, blouse half off, bra on display and he’s just sitting back now, fully leaned into the leather of his chair, cock buried deep inside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

One hand rests lazily on your hip. The other holds his glass, the amber liquid catching the cabin lights in a warm shimmer as he lifts it to his lips, eyes locked on the way you move for him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, “Bouncing like a good little fucktoy. So fucking pretty like this.”

You don’t even hear her footsteps until she’s already there.

“Mr. Jeon,” comes the voice, professional, not a hint of shock. “Just letting you know we’ll be landing in about an hour. Would you like anything else before we begin our descent?”

You freeze for a second but Jungkook doesn’t. He takes another sip of his whiskey, lets out a soft sigh and replies, casual as ever: “No, I’m good. My assistant is good too.”

The attendant offers a polite smile like she didn’t just see you fully fucked-out and stuffed full in her peripheral vision, and glides away without another word.

You should be mortified. You should be scrambling to fix your shirt, to pull your skirt down, to hide. But all you can do is keep moving. You keep rolling your hips in tiny, desperate circles that send sparks up your spine, because you’re so close. You’re going to cum and you don’t even care who knows it.

“I should make you stop,” Jungkook says idly, thumb dragging along the curve of your ass. “Should make you sit still and behave like a proper assistant.”

“Please don’t,” you gasp, your whole body clenched around him. “Please, sir, I— I’m so close, I can’t—”

“Of course you’re close,” he mutters. “You get off on this. Being used and watched. Being mine.”

You whimper, helpless, your grip tightening on his knees as you bounce faster, chasing that high like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

He finishes his drink in one smooth sip, sets the glass down, then slides both hands to your hips, steadying you.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes, voice hot against your ear. “Be a good girl. Cum for me.”

Your vision blurs, your whole body spasms, and the orgasm crashes through you with white-hot force, ripping the air from your lungs as you fall apart in his lap. Still, his cock stays buried inside you and his hands don’t stop and you can’t think of a single reason to care.

Your body’s trembling, thighs twitching, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob but you don’t stop.

He hasn’t finished and he hasn’t told you to get off of him. Which, in his words, means you keep going.

Your cunt is throbbing, slick and soaked and stretched so wide you feel hollow and full at once. The orgasm is still echoing through you, nerves frayed. You grind down onto him with shaky little bounces that make your overstimulated walls flutter around him.

“Good girl,” he exhales. His hands grip your hips tighter,“You’re gonna give me another one?”

You let out a choked sound, something between a moan and a cry. “I-I can’t,” the words are already dissolving before they fully form. “I’m too—”

“Yes, you can,” he interrupts, dragging you down harder. “You’re gonna sit here and take my cock until I’m done with you.”

You comply with his request, chest heaving, face flushed and damp with sweat. You try to lift yourself again, but your thighs give out halfway through, and the angle sends him even deeper. Your jaw drops in a silent moan, overstimulation sparking like electricity under your skin.

“Fuck,” you gulp down saliva you didn’t even know you were holding, nails digging into his knees. “Hurts… feels so good, Kook. I can’t think..”

“I know,” he groans, thrusting up into you now, meeting your broken rhythm. “You don’t need to think. You just need to ride me like the needy little slut you are.”

That word makes you shrink under normal circumstances. It used to make you want to crawl off people and fix your blouse and hide in the bathroom.

With him, it makes you pulse. Makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back as your body begs for more.

“Keep going,” he moans, slamming into you again. “You’re so fucking wet. Gonna let me cum inside this perfect pussy?”

You shake your head up and down frantically, body too spent to lie.

“Say it,” he growls, hand tangling in your hair, forcing your head back against his shoulder.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you stammer out “Please cum inside me. Please, please, I need it.”

“Fuck,” he snarls, his pace snapping into unforgiving territory. “You’re gonna take every drop. Gonna sit on my cock and keep it all in, even when you’re shaking.”

“You were made for this,” he hisses, thrusts going sloppy now. “Made to ride me, to be walking around with my cum in you.”

And just as your body starts to tip into another high, another dizzying crest, you feel it. He curses loudly, hips jerking up hard one final time. Then he’s spilling into you, white ropes of cum painting your walls to a lethal degree, his grip bruising on your waist as he buries himself deep and stays there.

You’re still in his lap with his cock still inside you, thighs slick and trembling from overstimulation and the slow, obscene drip of his cum leaking down the back of your legs, soaking into the soft leather seat beneath you.

Somehow, he’s already fixing his cuff.

His other hand ghosts over your thigh to feel the mess he made, before reaching for his watch, tapping the face like it’s just another Monday.

“We land in forty-five,” he says, voice cool again, like it hadn’t just spent the last hour commanding your body into oblivion. “Fix your shirt.”

You swallow hard, nodding because it’s all you know how to do. Your fingers are clumsy on the buttons, fumbling through the half-open blouse you never managed to fully remove. He straightens your collar like it’s part of the routine. Like you didn’t just ride him through an orgasm so intense your vision went static at the edges.

He reaches into the briefcase beside him, pulls out a slim black folder, and places it gently in your lap (As if you’re composed enough to read.)

“You’ve got a briefing packet to review,” he orders, thumb brushing your jaw, then gone. “Be ready when we land.”

You blink and try to remember where you are, who you are beneath the wreckage of everything he just did to you.

All you can muster up is a nod.

As the jet hums quietly beneath you, your body still split open around him, you realize you do know how this happened. You’ve always known. It’s him. And you’re still not sure what’s more dangerous: being thirty thousand feet in the air, or the way you’ll always let him touch you like this.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; i am qualifying this as a blurb because calling it a fic would imply there’s plot, character development, or literally anything else. there is not.

thank you all for flying xoxo

[augustofwhump]

AUGUSTOFWHUMP ’25

A whump event set in August, run by @starryybrained!

Write-up of prompts & rules under the cut!

AUGUSTOFWHUMP PROMPTS:

Day 1: brainwashing / heavy / overheating

Day 2: sold off / bleeding heart / bargaining

Day 3: greed / on display / black and blue

Day 4: blurred vision / hallucinogen / haunted

Day 5: shadow / rules / ransom

Day 6: coughing fit / bone saw / seeing red

Day 7: flashback / faint / noxious

Day 8: defiance / distrust / numb

Day 9: simple / disgust / gutting

Day 10: overthinking / meat / memory loss

Day 11: nausea / squeeze / vertigo

Day 12: long day / migraine / mind control

Day 13: countdown / marked / shame

Day 14: lacerations / limping / intubation

Day 15: religious trauma / dissociation / helpless

Day 16: body swap / disorientation / dissection

Day 17: panting / panic / pet names

Day 18: zip ties / taut / torn muscle

Day 19: silenced / stalking / regret

Day 20: car crash / burns / bloody nose

Day 21: ooze / withdrawal / open wound

Day 22: pistol / body slammed / blinded

Day 23: weep / intimacy / immobile

Day 24: sacrifice / unresponsive / recovery

Day 25: force fed / struggle / found

Day 26: unworthy / endless / execution

Day 27: filmed / lies / left behind

Day 28: long gone / gashes / can’t breathe

Day 29: slaughter / undone / love

Day 30: coward / forget / death wish

Day 31: free day (or, “fuck it we ball” day)

ALT PROMPTS:

Afterlife

Self-destructive habits

Food poisoning

Hatred

Treated as an object

Broken bone

Mindfuck

Amputation

Used as bait

Relapse

Apocalypse

GUIDELINES:

Prompts should ideally be responded to in the form of whump

Creators can make any type of media they want (Yes, this includes any kind of media, no matter how niche. As long as it’s creative, it’s allowed)

You can do as few or as many prompts as you like

You can complete these prompts in tandem with any other event or other prompts (such as in combination with Bad Things Happen Bingo, AU-gust, etc.)

DO NOT use ai. I can’t be entirely sure what is or isn’t, but I trust you to at least put some type of effort in your creations. These events are no fun otherwise!

Tag & trigger warn your content accordingly

Yes, NSFW is allowed (and this year you CAN tag me in it! Aka I’m eighteen now baybeee)

Tag your works as #augustofwhump and/or #augustofwhump2025. (No spaces please! From now on I’ll only be reblogging what I find in these specific tags for my convenience.) In addition to that, you can also tag this account — @augustofwhump. I’ll try to reblog whatever I can!

Extra info and clarifications here

AO3 collection coming to an AO3 near you in the summer of 2025! (Check og post for link update)

[squirrelno2]

No but EVERY TIME I go back to the umbara arc Appo is just. There. You're quiet and unassuming and your usual commanding officers kind of ignore you and you're probably OK with that given the chaos they drag the captain into. And then you have a new temporary general who visibly hates your people but keeps you at his side, safe and out of the fighting even when you prompt him to send you and your people down as reinforcements, and this general calls everyone by number EXCEPT you. He knows your name. He uses it frequently, as an example to other clones, and you can see the anger stewing on their faces but what can you do? You're a clone. You follow orders. And at least when it's all over and you turn on the general as a unit, you don't have to be there for the execution. Maybe nobody trusts you but you hope it's because they're back to not thinking about you. Umbara is over and you go back to obscurity and you can't tell who still thinks about it, about the role you played, about how the silent backup who never has to go out in front is still who you are but this time nobody is playing favorites about it.

And then you're promoted at the end of the war, as your captain goes off to lead his own unit, and you're probably thrilled. You probably think "maybe i can earn this, make it up to the clones who I hurt before. I'll do this right."

And then your orders come down, and your first major act as a leader is to massacre children, and before you felt like you had no choice but now - now you don't even have the option of wondering if you have a choice, because these orders are telling you this is what you wanted all along.

[ofbatsandballads]

Yay! I’m so glad you take requests. Feel free to decide if you want to write this or not, it’s fine either way :)

So, I was thinking about Jason dating civilian!reader, and her coming home all disheveled and horrified. Since she knows about him being Red Hood, she can confide in him. She had just killed someone for the first time, whether it was an accident, self defense or whatever, you decide.

I was just wondering how Jason would handle this situation since usually he’s the one doing the killing.

Thank you <3

oh, this is amazing food for thought. I actually think he’d be the very best person to come to in such a situation because he has experience with killing. who’s gonna understand you better than him? literally nobody. had something similar to this in my drafts but now my mind is whirling in a whole host of directions. excellent prompt, nonnie!

jason todd x f!reader. warnings include graphic depictions of violence and killing (in self defense), attempted and failed sexual assault, the aftermath of both events (reader’s in shock), hurt/comfort. this one’s got heavier subject matter so please do mind the warnings, folks. i did way too much research of the Gotham Knights map for this, but it’s my favorite depiction of the city so so be it. also reader and Jason live in the Belfry bc i said so (personal hc that i may or may not elaborate on some time). and one last thing! the romanized Arabic at the end is “حياتي ” which translates to “my life”. I love the idea that Jason picked up Arabic terms of endearment from Talia calling Bruce just about every one she could.

Jason wakes up to soft afternoon sunlight shining on his face. He grumbles out a gravelly hum and scrunches up his face in protest against being awakened when he was sleeping so nicely. He reaches out to find the comforting warmth of his beloved beside him, to pull you in and bury his face into your hair so he can hide from the morning for a bit longer.

All he finds are cold sheets and an empty pillow.

He bolts upright. Something’s wrong. You never, never wake up before him. He doesn’t even register the way that the sudden abundance of light stings his eyes. He takes stock of his surroundings, his training executing on autopilot. The open layout of the Belfry lets him get his bearings in seconds. He doesn’t see you anywhere from the bird’s eye view of your loft bedroom. There’s no smell of food in the kitchen nor any mess that would indicate you’d been working in there. The living room space, fully visible below, is empty too. The only enclosed space in your home, the bathroom that’s just around the corner from your bedroom, is dead quiet. No running water, no sweet singing, no familiar coughing from swallowed toothpaste. And without so much as leaving your bed, Jason’s already come to a conclusion that sends his heart pounding and dries his throat. You’re not here.

He’s up and grabbing the 9mm taped under your bedside table in the span of a few breaths. He moves through your home methodically, like he’s clearing one of Gotham’s criminal hideouts. There’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing’s been disturbed. He’s not surprised by this—barring Wayne Manor, the Belfry is the most secure building in Gotham. That’s precisely why Jason had moved you both here once you decided to live together. He checks the coffee table and sees that your phone and wallet are gone. A different type of fear takes over now. One that makes his heart ache. What if you’ve finally had enough, finally seen that he’s not good enough for you, not worth sticking around for? It makes him sick. He swallows hard and tries to clear the blistering thought from his head. No, that’s not you. You’re not cruel. You’re kind and gentle and loving. You wouldn’t hurt a fly. And you wouldn’t hurt him.

The sight of gears turning in his periphery catches his attention. He sees the cables pulling and the security panel go green, and he’s running to the elevator doors damn near ready to pry them open. He hastily tucks the 9mm into the waistband of his pajama pants, easily within reach if he needs it. Relief floods him when the huge metal doors grind open and he sees your pretty face on the other side. Then his heart drops when he realizes that that pretty face is scraped and splattered with blood.

Your hair is tangled and wet, dripping dirty water down your neck and staining the bright red of his your favorite hoodie. Your hands, which shake as they reach blindly towards him, are stained crimson and battered too. But it’s your eyes that haunt him. You look broken.

“Jay,” you croak out, unable to summon anything but a plea for the one person who can keep you safe.

The tears fall from your eyes at the same time that you collapse into Jason’s arms. He drags you inside and locks down the Belfry. Jason wants to panic but feels a strange sense of calm about himself. As loathe as he’d be to admit it, he finds himself falling into Bruce’s habit of assessment and action.

“Baby, what happened?” he asks, voice steady and assured.

You don’t even hear him. You’re digging your hands into his shirt, clinging on to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth. He may very well be. He feels you going rigid and cold and he knows he has to get you stable before you descend further into shock.

“Listen to me,” he says firmly, adding on and enunciating your name for emphasis.

That sparks some semblance of lucidity. Jason hasn’t called you by your name in months, much preferring you be his baby or his sweetheart or his doll, or simply his. If it jars you back to reality, so be it.

“I need you to tell me what happened,” he demands gently.

It all pours out of you like a flood.

You’d woken up early by chance this afternoon. Normally you’d just close your eyes and snuggle closer to Jason to catch a couple more hours of sleep, but you wanted to do something nice for him. So you’d gotten up and gone to Lemay’s Flower Emporium in Gotham Heights. You’d bought him the prettiest bouquet of red and pink roses, so big that you had to hold on to it with both arms. The taxi ride from the Heights back to Coventry Station went fine. You were almost home. So close that you could see the clock tower where your heart was sleeping peacefully.

Then you stopped at Commerce Avenue Station. You just wanted to get him some pastries from the little bakery tucked away on 3rd Street that you both love. It was a decent walk; you knew that. You also knew that Jason wouldn’t want you to go out of your way by yourself. But it was morning and you were a grown woman and you could handle yourself, right? Well, that’s what you thought until a pair of hands clamped down on your shoulders and yanked you violently into a side alley.

Jason had prepared you for something like this. You’d spent countless evenings with him teaching you self defense techniques in the training area of your home. None of it mattered because the man that had you by the shoulders slammed you so hard into the brick wall that all your thoughts went hazy. Before you could regain your footing, you were shoved to the ground. The bitter sting of your palms scraping open pierced through the fog, as did the crushing weight of the vile man on top of you. Fear shot through you as the man started tugging at his belt and you realized that this wasn’t intended to be a mugging. You tried to scream but a grimy hand clamped over your mouth, hitting your head against the ground and soaking your hair in dirty rain water and blood.

Your eyes darted around in search of someone—anyone. But no one was coming. You felt fingernails scratch against your stomach as clammy hands curled into the waistband of your sweatpants and suddenly you saw your savior. A brick from the damaged alleyway laid within reach. You didn’t even think when you grabbed it, when you swung it as hard as you could into the side of the man’s head. The corner hit his temple and he crumbled to the side. You rose to your knees and hit the man again. And again. All you could remember were Jason’s firm instructions: if someone makes it a choice of you or them, you make sure that it’s you no matter what it takes.

“I don’t r-remember anything else,” you sob into his chest. “There was so much blood, Jason. And his head—oh, God.”

Jason shushes you gently. He holds you tight in his arms like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even slightly, you’ll fade away on him.

“Don’t think about it, baby. You did what you needed to do. You protected yourself. I’m so proud of you.”

“I killed someone, Jason. I killed someone.”

You look at him wide eyed—afraid, horrified, guilty. No. Jason won’t have that. You will not feel guilty over some lowlife scumbag who wanted to hurt you, who probably would have killed you. Jason can’t even stomach the thought. He wants to put a bullet into whatever’s left of that predator’s head. No, the only shame in you killing that man is that you got to him before Jason could.

“I need you to listen to me,” he says, repeats your name again for emphasis. “You. Did. Nothing. Wrong.”

“Someone’s dead because of me, Jay,” you argue, gripping him tighter as your panic rises.

“Baby, do you know how many people are dead because of me?” he asks. “Far, far more than I’d ever want you to know. Do you think I’m a monster, honey? That I did something wrong?”

He knows it’s an apples to oranges comparison. But you’ve used this same tactic on him so many times that he also knows it’s effective. Every time he demeans himself for something, you ask if he’d treat you the way he treats himself for the same thing. The answer is always no.

“No!” you reply emphatically. “You protect people. You do it to keep people safe.”

“You did it to keep yourself safe.”

“But—”

“No buts. Or ifs. No ands, either, just in case you get any ideas,” he says lightly, brushing a speck of blood off your cheekbone.

You smile at his stupid little comment and he feels the tension in his body release just slightly. As long as there’s light back in your eyes for even a moment, he knows that you’ll be okay. He picks you up, lets you cling your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest as he carries you to the bathroom upstairs. He runs you a bath and, after asking repeatedly if you were okay with it, undresses you and washes the blood and grime from your body. He wraps you in a big fluffy towel, dries and brushes your hair, and tends to your injuries before he bundles you up in his comfiest hoodie and pajama pants. He soothes you when your tears make their return and never leaves your line of sight because he knows he makes you feel safe.

The thought gnaws at him throughout the day. It outright scalds him as he lies in bed with you after deciding to skip patrol. He’s failed you. Failed to protect you, failed to ensure nothing harms a hair on your head. He’s failed at taking care of you, the one thing that matters more to him than anything else. He’s seconds away from spiraling into self hatred when your sweet voice comes calling, soft and pleading.

“Jay…please stay with me,” you say softly.

Your eyes are clear and focused again. You squeeze his waist tight where your arms are wrapped around him, like you’re physically trying to anchor him in place in your bed. The look on your face says that you know exactly where his mind was headed. You see right through him. It makes him feel more vulnerable than anything else, and it surprises him how much he loves the feeling. And Jason, as always and for eternity, can’t bring himself to deny you. So he pulls himself together and shoves all his self loathing down. He can deal with it later—you need him more right now.

“I’m right here, hayati. Not goin’ anywhere, I promise.”

He kisses you gently and feels some of that self hatred wash away when you chase after him for more goodnight kisses. He feels it dissipate even more when you fall asleep in his arms with a soft smile on your face. It’s all but forgotten as he drifts off too, safe in the knowledge that you’re here with him, that he can feel your heart beating pressed tight against his own.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Jack is one that if you aren’t paying attention to him because you’re cooking or reading. He will literally pout

Oh, yeah, big time! Like you're just making your breakfast, trying to fry an egg and he's sat there pouting because you won't cuddle or kiss him because you're dealing with hot oil, Jack! I'd love to do more of these short drabbles/prompts, especially any like dialogue prompts where people send me a single sentence/word/piece of dialogue and who they want it with like '"You're pretty..." with Luke' type vibes. Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

"Baby..."

"Mmm...." You don't look up from the frying pan, too focused on the egg you're frying for your avocado toast sandwich, trying your best to avoid spitting oil as you cook and trying to get the perfect consistency for your yoke. (Failing miserably because who said you were a great cook?)

"Baby..." He's pouting now, not that you can see it because you're refusing to look at him and this is a fucking crime. He's just sat here and you're so close but you won't even look at him. His bottom lip juts out away from his top, eyes turning sad and pitiful like a puppy. Not that you notice, which makes his pout deeper.

"Yeah?" Still you don't look at Jack, your egg is nearly cooked and you move away to get your toast as it pops out of the toaster, slathering guacamole across both sides and bits of avocado, drizzling sriracha mayo over top.

Jack makes an executive decision, if you won't look at him then he'll just have to make you take notice of him. He picks the exact wrong moment to get up and slide his arms around your waist. The moment when you're transferring your egg to your sandwich and you nearly, nearly drop a boiling hot fried egg on your foot as a result.

"Jack!" You're quick to save the egg, getting it onto your toasted bread before putting the pan and spatula down. Jack's nuzzling into your neck, still pouting because you're more focused on your food than on him and it's not fair, he's been away for a week on a roadie and he's missed you. Didn't you miss him?

"You're ignoring me..."

"Jack, I'm not ignoring you but I need to eat my breakfast, you know how crazy my blood sugar gets..." You try to reason with him, putting the top bread on your sandwich and cutting it in half. He's latched onto you like a limpet on a rock, pressing little kisses to your neck, nose nuzzling against your skin in a way that is far too ticklish.

"You won't even look at me, do you not love me anymore?"

You can't help but laugh at him, turning in his arms and wrapping your own around his neck. Jack's pouting down at you, but there's a little twinkle in his baby blues that tells you he's messing about and just being silly.

"Of course, I love you, Jackie."

"But not as much as your stupid food." His pout manages to become deeper as he glares over your shoulder at your breakfast.

"I love you more. I promise. C'mere..." You cup his cheeks and smile at the way he melts into your palms, practically nuzzling into your hands as his pout melts away. You drag his face closer, pressing one, two, three kisses to his lips before attempting to pull away from him. You should have known that wasn't going to happen.

"Nooo...." He doesn't let you, hands sliding into your back pockets, cupping your arse and pulling you as close as possible. Jack's busy pressing kisses now to your cheeks and nose and you can't help but giggle, a laugh that puts his pout at rest and makes him smirk because he did that. He made you laugh. You're paying attention to him.

"Jack...I need to eat..." You say it between giggles, face scrunching as he kisses across it, finding any and every spot imaginable.

"But I wanna be close to you, baby..."

"Then I'll eat and sit on your lap, is that enough of a compromise?" You try your best to get him to release you, he takes a moment to think, pretending that the decision is a hard one.

"Okay, but I want kisses after."

"Deal."

[n0tamused]

Jiyaaaan request coming your way~

While training his soldiers, one of them accidentally calls him 'Dad'. This leads to the reader teasing them but Jiyan teases back by calling them 'Mom' (or the gender neutral for it?)

(Was reading tv tropes and Jiyan had the 'A Father to his Men' tropes in his character tab lol)

A/n: Anon this request was so sweet, thank you sm for sending it in! Jiyan the father of an army fr.. I do hope I executed it well. Enjoy!

Content: Jiyan x F!Reader, fluff and playful stuff, nothing more

The morning sun had long since shifted its axis towards the center of the sky, blazing down through cotton clouds that sailed the azure skies. Below them, in the open fields, west of the main base cacophony sounded, consisting of commands, groans and other sounds of effort as the Midnight Ranger performed their training. And today Jiyan had come to overlook the session himself, although it wouldn’t be the first time. He was often so preoccupied with tasks at the front lines that he didn’t have the time to be leading drills too frequently, but when he did get the chance to do so he would take it. While it wasn’t a full reprieve from the battle, it was still a stark contrast to the grotesque and twisted fates he’d see daily on the battlefield.

Jiyan was noticeably more disheveled by the end, hair messy and hanging in strands and clinging to his sweaty forehead, hands on his hips as his voice rose to meet all ears present. You have just been passing by, helping carry supplies that just came in, and loading old and empty boxes back to be refilled in the city. For once there was no rush that would make your legs ache or your lungs hurt, allowing you all the precious time to bask in the views, the soft chatter and, of course, your dear lover.

The sun caught his figure and formed a golden aura around him, his skin glistening, and you couldn’t help but take a seat at one of many big boxes at the side of the training grounds after you had finished your task. In passing you caught a few looks, and a few smiles of the soldiers you knew from before. They looked much  more lively, despite the rigorous training they just went through. It made your heart warm seeing them in better spirits, wishing nothing more than to see them prevail and be happy. And just as you had recognized a bunch of familiar faces did Jiyan conclude his small speech, about to dismiss everyone with advice of rest hanging on every word. He had spotted you from the start, when you were going by with supplies in arms and soon he’d have a chance to speak to you too, he thought.

“General Jiyan! General Jiyan, a word or two- if I may?” 

It was a voice of one of the new recruits, Jiyan noted as he gazed at the face of the youth, a boy of twenty or so years by the looks of it, and eyes full of curiosity and admiration. He had come up to Jiyan just as he had turned towards you, prompting him to stay rooted in his spot a little longer. A few more young rangers came up behind the recruit, sharing the same curiosity but also being aware of whatever the recruit had on his mind.

“Yes? Is there something you need?” Jiyan questioned, looking at the young man. From his peripheral vision he spotted you moving down from the boxes and joining his side, staying quiet after a short word of greeting towards his Rangers, but your presence felt like a cool breeze under this sun, and he appreciated it all the more.

“I just wanted to say how great today’s training session was, we learned so much more than we did with our drill sergeant” he praised, smiling up at Jiyan all the while, “And I just wanted to ask whether or not you’ll be leading our training session tomorrow as well? Or any other day that is, we would really benefit from your teaching. I mean, you've seen it all for yourself at the front lines!"

The other few with him nodded along, prompting a small smile of pride to form on your face from seeing their fascination with Jiyan. To them he was everything they aspired to be - strong, enduring, tough but not lacking kindness or knowledge. There were times where they were scared to approach him, not knowing how he’d react to their questions, but from observing his interactions with others they warmed up to the idea and plucked all their courage. 

A polite smile curled up on Jiyan’s face as he regarded the youth with gentle golden eyes. His presence as the drill sergeant today wasn’t due to his availability, but a simple coincidence and necessity to fill the shoes of their drill sergeant that had been injured due to Tacet Discords, and Jiyan just happened to be able to be there. “Ah, you have my thanks, rangers. If a replacement for your drill sergeant does not arrive tomorrow and I am not required to be at the front lines, then I will be leading your training tomorrow as well” he told them, which pleased them greatly to hear.  “Although I’m sure Sargent Jin’xi has much more to teach you, something much more important for your sound development in this profession. You cannot take his method lightly. He has seen everything I have, as well. His knowledge is as valuable to your growth, and even more so than mine. You need the good foundation he can give you” He was aware of how confusing or hard it could be to listen to Jin’xi, as the sergeant had quite the eye for details and slow progress in lessons due to his meticulous nature - but that also made him all the better for his station. He was observant and could pluck out bad behavior and mistakes like weeds, and that is better to be done here, than in the middle of battle.

“We know, general, but sergeant Jin’xi is just so hard on us.. sometimes it really seems like he has no limit” one of the women standing behind voiced, earning a look from Jiyan that spoke of his understanding but also his disagreement with the subtle message they were trying to send - please, replace sergeant Jin’xi, or, save us.

“Yeah! One time I accidentally mixed up the weapons in the storage room and he had me do everything on my own again, saying how such mistakes can’t happen on the front lines, how it all means life or death” the first young man said, brushing his fingers through his hair and sighing. “I understand it, but we just got here..” he added and looked at his comrades. 

What was supposed to be a short chit-chat turned swiftly into a gossip galore about Jin’xi. Had Jiyan been any different from the man he was currently, he would’ve scolded them, taken offense at how they spoke about his colleague, but he was in their shoes once, always on edge around the higher ups, and he wished not to bring that same unease to them. He didn’t fail to remind them to not speak like this in front of everyone, and to respect sergeant Jin’xi when he does eventually return, and they gave him their word.

The first young man that approached looked at Jiyan after their discussion, both hands on his hips and looking more relaxed. “We won’t forget that, I promise on my last name! Still, we appreciate your kindness, and one more thing dad- I MEAN- GENERAL!” His entire face crumbled into a look of terror, and all eyes of the group shot to him, looks of surprise and amusement appearing before several of them erupted into laughter after taking a wary glance at Jiyan - who was not offended.

“General Jiyan! Oh god- I apologize, general, I don’t know where that came from-” he stammered, shaking his head and his hands, face flushed from sheer embarrassment. More choked words tumbled out of his mouth, desperate to excuse himself and forget about this. 

Jiyan can’t help but chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching in a failed attempt to hold back his smile. “At ease, recruit. You have not done any crime” he nods at the other, his eyes softening and not showing any sign that he’s about to dish out some punishment - that’d be ridiculous. 

You can’t help but crack a laugh too, covering your lips with your hand as to stifle the sound, but your mirth was evident in your eyes. “Have I missed a chapter? I didn’t know you had kids, general Jiyan” you teased, earning a few shocked but heavily amused looks from the group. Giggles erupted once more, all stifled as they waited for Jiyan to respond to the quip.

Jiyan turns his head to look at you, his eyes boring into yours and questioning your intentions - you can read the thoughts going through your head and your smile only widens in a silent call to a challenge of wits. He didn’t expect you to say something like that, but he could only huff, hiding his amusement under an abrupt guise of confusion.

“Kids?.. Why, I had hoped you’d recognize your own kids, Miss (L/N)” he shot back instantly, making your jaw drop at his rebuttal, a gasp flying past your mouth. “General” you said, accusations plenty heard in your tone as the atmosphere melted into one of jest and play.

Many eyes flickered between you and him, taking in the easy way you conversed with one another.

“Yes? What’s the surprise for? The recruits look up to you too, if you fail to notice. You can confirm with them right now” he is shifting the spotlight to you, and the recruits are quick to jump in too. “It is right, miss. Personally I haven’t been around you for long, no longer than I interacted with the General, but you two are alike, you treat us new ones with a firm but kind hand” a young woman said, smiling at you, and you feel your heart climb into your throat. 

“Can we really be surprised, they’re always together too-” "Aren't they married?" Whispering is heard amidst the group, and Jiyan looks amidst the faces to catch the one that said that but fails to do so, or refuses to weed out the individuals, and his eyes go back to you to catch your response. It’d be a lie to say your relationship with him was a secret, everyone knew there was something deeper between the two of you, something you didn’t show in public due to the war and status, but it was undeniably there. Still, hearing it loud and clear like this was like a splash of cold water. Despite their chatter, the group remained respectful, sweet in their musings.

“Ah, quiet, I do not want to hear it. This is about you, General”

“Ah, don’t run from it now. You’re the one that started this” he commented, rolling his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest. “Anyway, you’re all dismissed. I have a word with.. mother over here. Off you all go. I will see you all in the morning for another training drill. Get some rest” he speaks to the group, gazing upon their faces, only to see how they looked at him with some sort of childhood wonder, and that’s when he realized he must be flushed too. A sheepish smile bloomed on his face. 

“Alright! Awesome-” “Yes, sir!"

“Have a good day, General! And you too, Miss!” 

He watched them leave, bidding them all farewell, and when he turned to face you again he saw you pinching the bridge of your nose, hiding away the biggest smile of the day, the apples of your cheeks redder than before. The Midnight Rangers were undeniably close in connection, having spent so many nights and days huddled together for warmth or laughs or protection, and this small exchange only warmed Jiyan’s heart, to witness how positively they felt around him - and you. 

“Didn’t think we’d become parents so soon. Have we gotten that old already?” Jiyan commented, tone softer in a way he only addressed you when you were alone, and there was no one near the training grounds to hear you.

“Oh, shut up, Jiyan-” you playfully snapped, biting your lip as you looked up at him, stifling a giggle. “You are unbelievable!”

“Hm? Did you expect me to stay quiet today or ignore your quips?” he smiled bigger and you have to admire the little dimples in his cheeks as the smile reaches his eyes, making them squint at you softly.

“I don’t know what I expected, but your response was certainly the last thing I expected” you replied and shook your head, as if that would shake off the redness tinting your skin, imitating him now by crossing your arms. The two of you were looking at each other, wordlessly admiring your red faces while throwing these little quips at one another. 

“Ah.. you’ll get used to it, dearest wife”

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[bunnysbrainrot]

Discreet

Kinktober Prompt: Dirty Talk

Relationship: Dean Winhester x Reader

Content: Sexual content, implied sex, sexting, Dean has a breeding kink, mentions of cum/creampies, exhibitionism fantasies.

Summary: While trying to focus on research, Dean executes a plan to distract you, shamelessly in front of his brother. Can you hold it together, or will you crack under the pressure?

"Hold on, I think we're looking at the wrong Louisville," Sam speaks up. You whip your head to the brother before opening your laptop to inspect for yourself.

Dean arches an eyebrow, "Sam, there are a million Louisville's, you gotta narrow it down."

In his lap, Dean begins to type into his phone. You shift in your seat, staring at your open laptop, opened to a list of different states that are each home to a different Louisville. In your back pocket your phone vibrates against your chair. You glance at Dean before opening the new notification.

I'm bored.

You stifle a laugh but roll your eyes, replying to Dean.

Another vamp case isn't enough for you?

You see Dean smirk out of your periphery. Sam's brows furrow as he mutters to himself, scrolling through different sites and resources, occasionally asking for your and Dean's input.

"We've checked Kentucky and Georgia already - I think Ohio should be next on our list."

"Since when do Vampires attack cities just based on its name?"

Sam clears his throat. Your phone vibrates in your hand; you swiftly check the message, but instantly forget the start of Sam's explanation.

You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you right now.

A rush of red floods your cheeks before you shove the phone back into your pocket. You snap back to attention for Sam, though your mind is traveling elsewhere.

"The way I see it, vampires can have a pretty twisted sense of humor. It's possible that vamps from all of these different states thought it would be funny to go after their own Louisvilles."

Despite Sam's talking, Dean's attention is set on you as you try to pay attention. He smiles when he watches you falter over Sam's words, and laughs when you have to ask Sam to repeat part of what he said. Of course Sam pays little mind at first and simply reiterates, but still shifts his attention to Dean. You take a break to reply to him.

right now??? Dean we're literally in the middle of our research.

A swift reply from a too-cool Dean: I know.

You put down your phone with a short exhale and school yourself back into a research mindset. A few minutes pass without a disturbance, save for the occasional comment or question from you or Sam, but there was radio silence from Dean. Until he prods further, at least.

"Hey, check the link I sent you," after you perk your head up, you realize that Dean's focus is on you once again.

"Could you send it to me, too, Dean?" Sam requests.

Dean quickly changes the subject, "It's not for the case, it was somethin' we were talking about earlier. But trust me, if I find anymore nerd content, I'll send it your way."

Sam gives his brother a glare before he tends back to his laptop. You comply with Dean and look at your phone, and it takes everything in your willpower to keep yourself collected.

I would fuck you on this table right now, if I could. You're lucky I don't want to scar Sam for life.

You accidentally chuckle, bringing Sam to attention again. You mutter an apology at his confused look and you both look back to your computers. Hiding your phone behind your laptop screen and out of view, you watch the flood of Dean's texts come in.

You would sound so much prettier if I could hear your screams echo off the walls.

Warmth floods between your thighs - you instinctively clench onto nothing but the thought of Dean buried in you, splayed wide on the mahogany table. Your mind rushes to the idea of Dean bending you over onto the wood, holding you firmly at the hips as he juts his hips from behind.

Everything alright, sweetheart?

His teasing leaves you scowling at your phone. Hopefully your expression could be assumed to be directed at your research, which hasn't made any progress, no thanks to Dean. You debate your reply before sending it.

What else would you do?

You see a smile stretch Dean's lips as he prepares his response. You tense as you await, but his text is drawn out, making you wait. Dean was delivering this flawlessly - just enough to watch you squirm and lose yourself to the thoughts.

I would start out slow. Ideally you'd just be in a t-shirt and panties, sitting right here in front of me on the table. I would lean you back, and slowly pull your panties to the side...

It was all he gave you, for the time being. You shift in your seat again, clicking your laptop a few times to build the illusion of intent research.

Your phone buzzes with a new message.

I would start with my fingers. I'd tug your panties to the side, and slip a finger in. You'd sound so much better when you'd try to keep quiet. I would make you come with one finger, then two, then three.

The reply to him is short, but it's all you can muster as you've fallen under his spell, Would we be alone?

Dean clears his throat before he rises from the table. He holds an arm in front of his crotch and quickly turns to leave for the kitchen.

"Want a beer?" he asks generally.

Fuck, you needed more than a beer. To deal with this, he should've offered a handle of vodka for you to drown out the untimely advances.

"Sure," echo you and Sam, smiling at each other that you spoke at the same time. After all these months with the brothers, you all had really begun to mimic behaviors. It was a beautiful sign of the time you've shared and the intricate work you all put into your relationships.

It's a nice way to clear your clouded head. That is, until you see a new reply from Dean. You make a particular effort to watch Sam out of the corner of your eye.

Doesn't matter. If someone was home, they'd have a hell of a show.

You quip, You're feeling pretty bold, huh?

He reminds you, Again, you're lucky I don't want to scar Sam for life.

Dean comes back into the room, meticulously holding three beers in one hand, while he texts with the other. You're intently eyeing your phone as you await his reply.

I'd add my tongue, too. I know exactly what pretty sounds you make when I've got my fingers in your pussy, and your clit in my mouth. You'd look so pretty trying to grip onto the table.

The scowl stitching your brows together softens as you feed into the flirtations. A fresh flow of heat melts between your legs, reminding you immediately of the power Dean could have over your body, even without using his hands.

You'd be shaking by the time I was done. You would be begging like you always do. Begging for my cock, begging me to fill up your needy pussy. Cause my hands just aren't enough to fuck you dumb, are they?

Breath hitches in your throat. Are you seriously about to full-on sext Dean right in front of his brother? Surely, Sam would have to notice at some point, though Dean shows no sign of him regarding it.

No, sir, you admit. You prop your phone back on your laptop and 'continue to research', pathetically at that.

Sweet girl is always needing my big cock to ruin her insides, isn't she?

The image of Dean's length intrudes your thoughts, throbbing and leaking with beads of precum. You can envision its warmth at your entrance, and the way Dean notches the thick head of him into your tight hole before he eases himself inside. Your fingers ache with the effort of not shoving them into your slicked panties to toy with yourself.

Dean's teasing doesn't ease in the slightest. If anything, it seems like he's trying to have you undone. Begging.

You'd ride me in the chair, first. I would have you fuck yourself onto my cock, but you wouldn't be able to come yet. Not until I can watch the way I stretch you open on the table.

Sam's muttering saves you from falling too deep into the rabbit hole Dean's excavated for you. You steady your breath, debating the risk of replying back to Dean. If he's finding amusement in doing this, you can't tell - his expression is cool and collected, to your frustration.

Do you know that your tummy bulges when I'm inside you? I'd make you watch. You'd see how my big cock shoves into that tight pussy, stretching her wide open for me.

You squirm helplessly in your seat, crossing your legs to stifle the dull throbbing radiating from your clit. With your thighs shifting together, you brace yourself to finally issue a reply.

You're mean

Dean audibly chuckles. Sam inspects him and scowls, "Dean, are you even doing your research? We really need to work on this - we're leaving tomorrow."

The eldest Winchester trains his expression back to utter seriousness, "Y'gonna wring my neck for taking a break?"

"This is important-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Dean dismisses, zoning back in on his own laptop and ignoring his glaring brother. You ease slightly now that the heat is pushed to Dean. But, the texts don't stop. Dean assumes a stronger façade, steeling his poker face.

You like it, though. I don't think you understand how wet you get when I'm a little mean. You love being my perfect slut. I wish you knew how tight you feel when I call you a whore.

The answer was evident in your sex. Your walls flutter around the emptiness in your neglected pussy, longing for a proper filling. Lust glazes your eyes as you glance up at Dean, finding him smirking knowingly at you. Fuck him. He knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"Dean, I'm sending you some articles. These are from the Lousiville in Ohio - those deaths look pretty similar."

Sam's words fall on deaf ears. After a few moments, Dean finally opens the links his brother sent him, giving you a bit of a break from his relentless texts.

You direct your attention back to your laptop and ogle at the screen. The thoughts Dean planted in your mind run a rough course, battering you with each thrust and moan that could be happening if you and Dean were alone.

Assuming Dean's read the articles, you stare at his next text, heat rumbling in your gut.

Would you be a good cumslut? Would you take my cock like a needy little whore?

He needs an answer. Dean needs to know that his words are taking effect, and he wants to hear it from you - how eager you are.

You reply, I would. I'll be a good girl.

Because you know what I do with brats, right? Dean's reply shudders through your core.

This time, you don't reply. Ultimately, his question is rhetorical and answered immediately in your subconscious. Any sort of bratty behavior is quickly corrected by either Dean's punishment, or a complete denial of any stimulation until you were begging for Dean's forgiveness. You'd spent countless times on your knees, in front of Dean's cock, begging for him to absolve you, and fuck you senseless.

If you're good, I'll give you what you want. How does it feel when my cum is deep inside of you?

The drenched fabric of your panties rubs against your slick folds. You adjust your sitting position, sitting up to let yourself open onto the material of your underwear. Ever so slightly, you grind yourself in your seat, watching Sam intently out of the corner of your eye, hoping he won't notice the feeble attempt to get yourself off.

The reply is short, It feels good, sir.

Dean clears his throat, and pretends to open a web browser.

I know, sweetheart. Feels good to keep me in your sweet pussy, keeping all of my cum for yourself. It feels so good to breed your cunt.

A deeper strain aches at your arms, urging yourself to take your own break to relieve yourself in the bathroom. Dean can see you squirm in your chair, and intentionally avoid his stare.

He texts you again, trying to earn a visible response to his taunts.

After I'm done, I would hold your legs open and watch my cum leak out of you. One of these days, I want to see how many times I can do it in a day. You'd be messy all day long.

You envision it yourself - the foreign image of white, warm ropes of Dean's cum spilling out of your stretched cunt and onto the floor below, wasted. Tightness pulls your abdomen taught as you think about being bred for an entire day, all to Dean's satisfaction. Your pussy clamps down onto nothing, yet again, at the sheer thought of it.

"I'll send you the same articles I sent to Dean. Let me know what you think," Sam is honing in on you this time. You nod and keep an eye out for the incoming links, and click on them. Eyeing them intentionally, you try to shove aside the persistent fantasies from taking over your senses.

Another text pops up on your screen.

It would be a lazy day. In the morning I would fuck you slow, giving you your first load of the day. We'd make lunch. You'd still be sore, but not as sore as you'd be after we eat.

Your mind travels elsewhere. The computer screen fades out of your attention as your eyes glaze over again.

I would fuck you on the kitchen table. You'd pull your panties up right after I was done and sit in my cum for hours, waiting for more. I wouldn't let you take those panties off. You wouldn't waste anything I gave you.

He was exactly right. It didn't matter how many times Dean had spilled himself into you, you relished the feeling of his cum buried deep inside of your pussy, precisely where it should be.

You want to touch yourself, don't you, sweetheart?

Your fingers twitch at the screen, as if they want to follow Dean's question to provide him a swift answer.

I want you to fuck me.

Dean's smirk grows. Your breath grows strained as he replies.

Needy little slut.

It would've been your undoing if it weren't for Sam's company. You throw a pitiful look toward Dean, but it goes ignored.

You'd let me take you anywhere in this bunker, wouldn't you? I could fill you up in every room of this place.

You reeled over the number of room's in the bunker, listing them off until you lost count. The slick between your folds soaks your panties further as you writhe gently in your chair.

I know you will. You would love knowing that I've stuffed your cunt in every room. And no one else would know, but we would. It would give you plenty to think about.

The mere idea of it gave you more than enough to go off of. How Sam hasn't realized that something's amiss, you don't understand, but are silently thankful that he can't see your unraveling. Dean, however, cannot focus on anything else. The strain of his cock against his jeans is bordering on discomfort, but he intends to keep you under his spell.

He lowers a hand to his lap and slightly grazes the growing bulge. Dean seems to have teased himself just as much as he did you - all thoughts of research dissolved in the presence of his new fantasies.

I'll bet you $10 that Sam is gonna run an errand after this. We should see how well we can use the free time.

A new tension tightens in your tummy. There would be no telling how long Sam would be occupied for, but Dean didn't see any qualms.

Yes, but maybe not in the main hall, for everyone to see us?

Your compromise is accepted. Dean nods slightly across from you, still staring at his laptop screen, then glancing to his phone.

Prude.

Under the table, you kick Dean's shin. He yelps at the new pain in his leg, earning a confused look from his brother. Sam looks between the two of you quizzically.

"Do y'all need a room to yourselves, or something?"

Dean smiles at his brother, avoiding your new glare, "No, no, we're fine. Aren't we, baby?"

The glare doesn't let up, but you don't reveal the truth of your texts with Dean. You look to Sam and jab a thumb toward his brother.

"He's being a dick, can you punch him for me?"

Without question, Sam delivers a firm punch to Dean's arm. Dean's shocked frustration is met with a devilish smirk from you, satisfied that you're now blameless. A moment after the brotherly bickering, a new text lights up your phone.

You're mean

You giggle at the screen and send him a final reply, letting him sit with the thoughts he'd poured into both of your heads.

I know. But, you like it.

Hey everyone! If you enjoyed, please help support my writing by reblogging!

Apologies that this took so long. I appreciate all of your kind messages as I balance how busy life has been lately. Thank you for all of your love and support! Happy reading!

-Bunny

[samulogy]

➴ gojo helping you study for your midterms. fem!reader

you were supposed to be studying, but you felt like you were going to die. not from midterms—though those were definitely a problem—but from this.

from him.

from the way gojo satoru had somehow convinced you that this—being stretched out and utterly wrecked while trying to study—was a legitimate way to retain information.

your notes were everywhere, scattered across the bed, some pages crumpled beneath your knees, others dangerously close to sliding off the mattress. your textbook lay open in front of you, but the words on the page blurred every time gojo moved, each slow, deliberate thrust sending stars to dance in your vision, making you forget what you were even supposed to be reading.

and the worst part?

he was enjoying this.

“come on, sweetheart,” gojo murmured against your ear, his voice thick with amusement, with affection. “I know you can do better than that.”

you shivered.

you wanted to murder him.

or maybe let him keep ruining you a little longer.

one of his hands slid up your waist, fingers warm and firm as they traced the curve of your spine. the other hand dipped lower, squeezing your thigh before spreading you just a little wider, just enough to remind you exactly how deep he was inside you.

exactly how he was in control.

your breath hitched.

“tell me about judicial review,” he prompted again, voice far too calm for someone who was actively distracting you.

you tried.

you really, really tried.

you licked your lips, forcing your eyes to focus on the words in front of you.

“judicial review,” you started, voice shaky, uneven. “is the process by which—ah!—courts determine the constitutionality of—of legislative and executive actions.”

you barely got the words out before gojo rewarded you with a slow, deep thrust, making you gasp, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you like a lifeline. he was just so big, filling you to the point where you feel like your heart’s caught right on your throat.

“good girl,” he praised, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder. “and what case established it?”

you whimpered, fingers curling into the fabric beneath you.

he was evil.

he was actually, physically evil.

you wracked your brain, trying—desperately—to push past the heat coiling in your stomach, to remember what you had spent the last week cramming.

your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come.

gojo tutted softly.

“that’s not an answer, sweetheart.”

and then, to your absolute horror, he stilled completely inside you. the audacity of this man to do just that knowing that you were close.

you whined.

you gave him a glare over your shoulder, face flushed with frustration. “satoru,” you hissed. “you can’t do that.”

he feigned innocence. “I can’t?”

you gritted your teeth, torn between wanting to throttle him and wanting to beg. eventually, you forced the words out in a rush. “marbury v. madison. 1803. established the supreme court’s power of judicial review.”

gojo’s grin widened.

“there’s my smart girl.”

and then he moved again, rolling his hips forward in a slow, perfect rhythm, and you saw stars. you sobbed, half from relief, half from the overwhelming heat building low in your stomach. he knew just what you needed, and honestly, when has gojo ever denied you anything that you deserved?

“that’s it,” gojo huffs a soft laugh—so charming, as if he wasn’t driving you nuts, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, fingers massaging the tense muscles there. “you’re doing so well for me, baby. . .”

your body shuddered at the praise.

your mind was an absolute mess, half-focused on the terminologies you were supposed to be memorizing, half-focused on him, the heat of his skin, the way he filled your aching cunt, the way his breath was growing more uneven, more ragged, like he was barely holding himself together.

like he was just as wrecked as you were.

gojo groaned, voice strained as he pressed his forehead to your shoulder. “one more, sweetheart. the checks and balances.”

you whimpered, nails digging into the sheets. “i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he cut her off, voice firm, sure. “you’re my good girl, right? you can give me one more.”

and you—the stubborn, exhausted, utterly ruined you—were helpless against that tone, against the heat curling in his voice, against the way he believed in you, in ways you didn’t even believe in yourself.

you sucked in a shaky breath.

“the checks and balances system ensures that no branch of government has—has unchecked power,” you gasped out.

gojo cursed, his grip on your hips tightening. “that’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough with something deeper, something heavier.

and then he snapped his hips forward, pushing you over the edge entirely. but he didn’t stop, oh no, how could he when he was entranced by how your cunt kept on pulling him in as if it didn’t want him to let go?

you cried out, pleasure crashing over you in waves, leaving you breathless, boneless, your body trembling beneath him. gojo came a moment later, chanting your name like it was the only thing that mattered, holding you close as spurts of his cum filled you whole—like you were made to take him.

for a long moment, neither of you moved.

the sheets rustled as gojo carefully shifted, adjusting your position so you were tucked against his chest, basking in his warmth as he wrapped his arms around you. you could barely think at this point.

he pressed a soft, lazy kiss to the top of your head.

“see?” he murmured, smiling against your hair. “I told you this would help with retention.”

you grunted, smacking his chest weakly. “i hate you.”

he just chuckled, pulling you closer.