#Dabble

[mintyys-blog]

You should make up your own little drabbles for prisoner mark since people seem to like him least cause hes not conventionally attractive 💔⛓️⛓️⛓️

ok this man is so fine, maybe I’m a little freak but damn!

PRISONER MARK | dabbles

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: smut, pregnancy

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission. © @mintyys-blog

It happens in the hallway.

You’re strutting past the living room in one of his old, worn-down shirts—thin, soft, practically see-through in the light, and just long enough to almost count as decent. You know he likes this one. It still smells like him.

You didn’t expect him home yet.

But then that voice cuts through the air—low, rough, and sharp like a blade dragged across gravel.

“Where do you think you’re going… dressed like that?”

You stop mid-step, spine tingling. That voice—hoarse and frayed from years of screams—always does something to you. Makes you ache in places only he gets to touch.

You glance over your shoulder with a slow, knowing smile. “Just getting some water,” you say sweetly, deliberately bending just enough to show the swell of your ass beneath the hem. “Why? You jealous of the fridge?”

He’s in front of you before you can blink. One hand wraps around your hip, yanking you flush against him. The other slides under the shirt, dragging up your thigh with a heat that makes your breath hitch.

“You think I haven’t seen the way you squirm when I talk like this?” he rasps in your ear, voice like dark silk pulled taut. “You get wet the second I growl.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers trace the edge of your panties, teasing, claiming. “Maybe I like being hunted,” you whisper, voice breathy, coy.

He chuckles, low and predatory, lips grazing your jaw. “Then stop running.”

And just before he lifts you off the ground, before your back hits the wall, you moan softly as he growls: “Then let me give you something to moan for.”

Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, his body caging yours in, heat radiating off him like fire barely restrained. His hand is still under your shirt, sliding up—past the curve of your hip, the swell of your waist, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast, slow and teasing.

You arch into him, shameless, lips parted, eyes locked on his—those molten, dangerous eyes that always see too much. “You gonna keep talking, or are you gonna do something about it?”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile—he doesn’t smile often. It’s darker than that. Something feral. Possessive.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart,” he growls, voice scraping along your skin like rough velvet. His mouth trails along your jaw, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath catch. “You know what I’ve done to men who look at you the wrong way… and you’re out here flaunting yourself like this?”

“Maybe I want to see what you’ll do,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding against the hard length pressed to your core. “Maybe I like when you get mean.”

He groans, deep and guttural, hips rolling forward until you’re pinned between him and the wall, heat flaring between your thighs. “Careful,” he murmurs, sliding your shirt up inch by inch, baring you to him. “Keep talking like that, I’ll ruin you right here.”

“Then ruin me,” you challenge, licking your lips as you lean in and bite his lower lip. “You’ve been gone all day. I missed you.”

That’s all it takes. The last thread of restraint snaps.

He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the nearby table and shoving the clutter aside with one sweep of his arm. You gasp as he lays you out like an offering, spreading your legs with a growl.

“I should fuck you until you forget your own name,” he says, kneeling between your thighs, voice a raspy promise. “Mark you so deep they’ll smell me on you.”

Your back arches, heart pounding. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth claims you first, tongue hot and skilled, dragging obscene sounds from your lips until your thighs shake and you’re gasping his name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

And when he finally rises, eyes wild, lips slick, he leans over you—his scarred body towering, his breath ragged—and growls in that voice you crave: “Mine.”

Sex with Prisoner Mark is never just physical—it’s a war cry, a claim, a silent vow. He doesn’t make love in the way people expect; he devours, he takes, and when he gives, it’s overwhelming. He treats your body like the only thing that ever truly belonged to him, and in his touch there’s a desperation—a lingering panic that one day you’ll vanish like everything else he’s ever cared about.

He starts off rough. Always. It’s in his nature. His hands are heavy, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his mouth finds your neck, he bites down like he needs to taste how real you are. He likes it messy, raw, grounding. The sounds you make—the gasp when he growls in your ear, the moan when his hips slam into yours—those are sacred to him. Proof you’re alive. Proof you’re his.

But beneath all that dominance is something far more intense: reverence. It slips through when his hand cradles the back of your head as he thrusts into you, or when he kisses the inside of your wrist after binding them. He never says it aloud—he doesn’t know how—but the way he moves inside you, the way he stares at you like you’re something holy, it’s louder than any words.

He has a voice like smoke and static—wrecked from pain, deepened by rage—and when he uses it, low and right against your skin, it sends you over the edge. He knows it, too. That’s why he’ll say the filthiest things, slow and deliberate, rasping out every dirty promise until your legs shake. He loves when you beg, not because he needs control, but because it reminds him that you want him. That you’re still choosing him, even when he’s unrelenting and monstrous.

Mark’s favorite moments are right after you’ve come undone—when you’re dazed and panting beneath him, and he’s still buried deep inside you. That’s when his touches soften. That’s when he presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in like he’s terrified you’ll disappear. He may fuck you like a man possessed, but he holds you after like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world.



To him, sex is a claim, a promise, and sometimes—quietly, in the soft afterglow—it’s the only way he knows how to say “I love you.”

Being in a relationship with Prisoner Mark is like loving a loaded gun that only ever aims to protect you. There’s an ever-present tension in him, a coil wound too tight under the surface—aggression, trauma, and the fury of someone who survived hell by becoming something harder than steel. But somehow, with you, there’s softness. A version of him only you get to see. It scares him more than anything else he’s ever faced.

At first, he’s skeptical. Paranoid, even. He’s used to betrayal, manipulation, people pretending to care until they get what they want—or until someone stronger threatens them. When you stay… when you don’t flinch at the scars, the nightmares, the bone-deep anger in his voice… it shakes him. You’re not just some distraction. You’re real. And that terrifies him.

Mark doesn’t know how to love gently. He’s possessive, sometimes dangerously so. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, he’s ready to end it—no threats, no warnings. You’re his. He says it like a fact, not a fantasy. Like gravity, inevitable and absolute. But it’s not because he wants to own you. It’s because, deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves to have you—and he’ll burn the world down before he lets anyone take you away.

He struggles with vulnerability. He won’t say “I love you” often, and when he does, it’s rough and quiet, like it physically hurts to let it out. But he shows it in the way he shields you in a fight without hesitation, in the food he learns to make because he noticed you smiled the last time he cooked, in the way he memorizes your breathing patterns at night just in case something’s wrong.

Physical affection is intense with him. He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, hugs you too tightly sometimes, runs his hand over your back like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every breath. And when he’s gone for too long—on a mission, or just away clearing his head—he comes back like a man starved, devouring you with his eyes, hands, mouth, as if time without you was unbearable.

He watches you sleep. Not in a creepy way, but like he can’t believe you’re real. Sometimes he gets up in the middle of the night just to sit at the edge of the bed, stare at you, and calm the storm still thrumming under his skin. You’re the only thing that quiets it.

Prisoner Mark isn’t vain, but he knows what he looks like. His body’s a battlefield—scarred, brutal, solid muscle wrapped in a history no one dares to ask about. There are burns that never fully healed, jagged slashes from blades that weren’t meant to cut a Viltrumite, and a few places where the skin doesn’t quite feel like it used to. He’s not ashamed of it. But he doesn’t expect you to admire it, either.

Which is why it always catches him off guard when you do.

Like when you come up behind him while he’s fixing something—shirtless, arms flexing, back covered in old wounds—and you wrap your arms around his waist. Or worse, when you jump on him with zero warning, legs locking around his hips, giggling in his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Baby, you’re built like a god,” you murmur, hands boldly sliding down his abs, then further. “Still the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He barks out a surprised laugh, low and raw, the kind that makes his chest shake. He grabs your wrists, pulling them away just before you can grope anything too distracting. “You’re trouble,” he says, voice warm and rasping with amusement, even as he tosses you over his shoulder with playful ease.

You squeal, kicking lightly while hanging upside down. “You love it.”

“I do,” he admits, giving your ass a sharp smack. “You just better be ready to deal with what you start.”

Later, when you’re tracing your fingers along the ridges of a scar that cuts across his ribs, he watches you quietly—eyes shadowed but soft. “You still call me handsome,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t understand it.

“Because you are,” you say simply, pressing a kiss just above his heart. “You always have been.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at you like he’s memorizing you again. Then he grabs your hand, presses it flat to his chest where the beating is hardest.

“I don’t need the compliments,” he says, voice low. “But when they come from you? I believe them.”

And the next time you jump him—hands roaming, lips nipping, giggling like a menace—he doesn’t stop you. He laughs again, full and rare, and lets you feel every inch of him. Because if there’s one person allowed to touch the ruins of him like they’re gold, it’s you.

The sun’s barely up, golden light slanting through the windows when you spot him in the kitchen—shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, steam curling from the coffee mug in his hand. His back is to you, and your grin curves slow and wicked as you take in the wide stretch of muscle across his shoulders, the sharp grooves of his waist tapering down, and the deep, pale scars that map him like ancient runes.

You creep up without a sound. Then pounce. He grunts when you jump on him, arms wrapping around his torso, legs clinging tight around his hips. “Morning, handsome,” you purr into his ear, hands sliding down his abs without a hint of shame. “God, you’re carved. You could crush me and I’d say thank you.”

Mark lets out a rough, startled laugh, setting his mug down with a clink before catching your wrists and yanking you off him.

“Trouble,” he mutters, flipping you with practiced ease onto the counter behind him. “Absolute menace.”

You bite your lip, eyes shining. “You saying you don’t like it when I feel you up like a horny housewife?”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “I’m saying you’re playing a dangerous game.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, dragging him closer until you feel the unmistakable hardness pressing against you. “Good. I like when I lose.”

He growls low in his throat, hands sliding up under your sleep shirt, palms dragging over your thighs, hips, waist—claiming. “One of these days I’m not gonna let you walk after you pull this shit.”

“Who said I want to walk?” you whisper, lips brushing his.

That’s all it takes.

He crushes his mouth to yours, teeth grazing, tongue demanding. One hand grips the back of your neck while the other pushes your shirt up over your chest. He doesn’t stop to undress you properly—he never does. He needs you now. Raw. Real. His fingers find you slick and ready, and his mouth is all over you—neck, chest, the soft underside of your jaw.

“You want handsome?” he growls as he slams into you with one hard thrust that has your head falling back. “I’ll show you what handsome does to a woman like you.”

And he does—relentless, rough, whispering filth in that ruined voice that you feel everywhere. He fucks you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the planet. Every thrust says mine. Every bite, every bruise, every gasped-out moan from his lips is a chain around your soul.

But after—after your legs are jelly and your heartbeat finally slows—he softens. He always does, just for you.

You’re still perched on the counter, his body leaning into yours, your legs loose around him as his hand strokes slow circles on your thigh.

You’re tracing one of the scars across his collarbone, your fingertips gentle, your eyes distant with thought.

“You know,” you murmur, “I don’t call you handsome because I want to flatter you.”

His brow furrows. “No?”

You shake your head. “I call you that because when I look at you… all I see is strength. Survival. Fire. That’s what’s beautiful to me.”

He stares at you, quiet. Too quiet.

Then he leans in, brushing his lips over your temple, over your cheek, until he reaches your mouth. The kiss he gives you isn’t hungry. It’s slow, reverent. It lingers.

“You touch me like I’m not broken,” he whispers. “And when you say things like that… I almost believe I’m whole.”

You cup his face, your thumb running over the sharp edge of his jaw. “You don’t have to be whole. You just have to be here. With me.”

And he is.

In every scar, in every laugh you drag out of him, in every breathless moan and soft kiss after. He is yours.

It’s late—one of those quiet, restless nights where the moon spills cold silver light across the floor and the house is hushed but for the occasional creak of old wood. You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of Mark’s shirts that stretches tight over your belly now. It used to hang loose. Everything used to feel easier.

You brace yourself against the counter, eyes squeezed shut as a dull ache pulses through your lower back. Your hands press into the edge, trying to stretch, to breathe through the pressure sitting heavy on your spine. The baby’s gotten bigger lately. You feel it in every movement, every shift, every slow minute that drags by with gravity working overtime against you.

You don’t hear him approach. You never do—not unless he wants to be heard.

But suddenly, he’s there. Warmth at your back. Big hands settling on your hips, grounding you.

You feel his breath before he speaks. Low and quiet, rough as it always is. “You should’ve woken me.”

You shake your head, keeping your eyes closed. “Didn’t wanna bother you. I just… needed a minute.”

His hands move then—slow, careful—sliding beneath the swell of your belly. He lifts it gently, taking on the weight that’s been pressing into your spine, holding it with such reverence it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

The relief is instant. You groan softly, head tipping back against his shoulder. “God… Mark…”

He says nothing, just keeps holding you like that, breathing steady behind you, letting you lean into him while he takes the burden you’ve been silently carrying.

“You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” he murmurs finally, voice like gravel, like smoke. “I know I can’t carry it all, but let me carry this.”

Your fingers slide over his scarred forearms, gripping them gently. “You already carry so much,” you whisper. “But you always make me feel so light.”

His arms wrap around you fully now, belly and all, his body curving around yours like armor.

“I’d carry the world if it meant you didn’t have to hurt,” he says, lips brushing your temple. “You and the baby… you’re the only good thing I’ve got left. I’ll never let you break. Not while I’m breathing.”

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s feared, scarred, ruined by the world. Because here, holding you like you’re sacred, like you’re life itself— He’s nothing but yours

[nastyc2nt]

Hanta sero being the biggest fuck boy around, and izuku being sensitive and inexperienced leads to many things

Like izuku begging sero to teach him to fuck you. And trust me he’s writhing. Red faced, maybe teary. He’s so embarrassed. And sero just drinks it up. “Yeah? You want me to teach you to fuck your girl?” Or something slightly condescending.

Of course hanta agrees cause you’re hot. So he’s sitting behind you, against the headboard. While he shows izuku how to make you cum in every way.

First lesson was fingers, second was tongue, third was his dick. And after was toys he lended you both. Fingers started out tricky, but sero was fairly hands on, resulting in four fingers in you rather than two. Izukus personal favourite was the vibrators. Something about being as desperate and pathetic as him, turned him on.

Something about the condescending attitude plus the whiny pathetic behaviour goes crazy. (Side note. If you want it to be even more freaky. Make izuku the fuckboy and bakugo the pathetic one. “I guess you’ll always be second place to me kacchan.’ Or something even more diva-ish.)

🫀

I’m literally going crazy, i wouldn’t have thought of this on my own and i’m so grateful you brought this to my attention—

Sero is a very good choice because he’s so experienced!! Poor Izuku wouldn’t know what to do, he’s never had a girlfriend before!!

She/Her and Born at birth anatomy.

{idk where katsuki came in from, but I literally breath for cocky izuku. Will make a small dabble if you send in something about cocky izuku and katsuki}

{Also saw chubby reader for some reason- BUT EVERYTHINH WORKS}

✦ ──────── ᖭི༏ᖫྀ ──────── ✦

“Don’t just whine,” sero sternly shouted at the green haired man that was too lost in your pussy to think of anything else. Izuku has been trying so hard to learn everything, and has been getting so turned on with how pathetic you looked when you’ve been overstimulated.

“M’sorry,” he opened his eyes and focused on fucking you just right instead of his own needs, he tries to reach deep and use his cock with the tips sero gave him! And he listened to how you like it as well.

Sero rolls his eyes and grabs izukus hand from behind you, his other hand still grabbing your waist and you lean back onto his chest. “Play with her clit like a man! I thought the number one hero could please his girlfriend,” he looks down at you, your eyes half open as you look at your boyfriend. He recalled your defenses against izuku being a bad lover throughout the evening but never once said no, or that what sero did wasn’t right.

You moan and whimper when izuku started to play with your overused clit and started to squirm underneath both their holds, but sero made sure to keep you still. “See? Ain’t that a precious sight,” he hated to admit, if you were to find yourself single — he’d fuck you so good. But he has more respect for izuku then to pull you away from him.

Izuku had enough of the hunger in Seros eyes, he knew it was strange to get jealous when he literally asked for this.

You yelped when izuku pressed your leg up higher and inched his body closer, his legs almost crushing you, “Gonna cum?” Izuku egged on. sero watches him start to pump your guts, and the sound from your lips and pussy is so good it makes him hard. Izuku was rough now to, his hand making a imprint on your leg that he held closer to your head, and his hand still playing with your clit.

Sero smirks, proud of Izuku gaining confidence and fucking like a man. “Damn, fuckin’ her rough? I knew you were like a rabbit.”

¡!Don’t repost my posts on other websites, don’t translate them, theses are for me to publish on my own!!

Taglist: @sparklylanddetective @fvitos

[lady-ashfade]

Can i request reader comforting Rhaenyra after she comes back from finding Luke ☹️☹️

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Mother!Rhaenyra Targaryen x Fem!Reader (dabble)

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 376

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: Angst/comfort, mourning, short fic, we mourn with you my queen.

-`｡ﾟ˘: ﾟ⋆ ––✷☽ ᱬ ☽✷––⋆ ﾟ: ˘ ﾟ｡.`-

Dragonstone was empty without your brother.

his death provoked the real war and mourning, a mother without her child is ruthless and cruel. And your mother had been lost and looking for any sign it was true, that her son has dead and he will never been in her arms again.

the womb you once shared together, the air you breathed together, and the laughs you had with him could never be shared again. lucaerys was your twin flame even hatched dragons together and both of them had died.

so you did all you could do and distract yourself from the anger inside and watched over the barricade with rhaenys. the throne had been taken by your uncle and more then one sibling lost.

“I want Aemond Targaryen.” hearing her trembling voice and the look in her eyes was hard for the whole council to hear. Rhaenyra walked away quietly, the only words you heard from her in weeks. it pained you to see the state she was in.

you followed immediately after her to give her something, anything to help. even if you needed to fly to kingsland yourself for her command.

“Mother,” your hand rested on the open door to her chambers wondering if you should be there. you had no idea that pain she felt, “I wish to speak to you.” with teary eyes she looked at you and welcomed you in, no noise leaving her lips. walking forward the words disappeared from your mind and anxiety filled you. taking a seat in front of her you played with your hands to ground yourself from breaking in front of her.

she looked at you and you could tell it was hard to do so. you had close similarities to your brother, the same once’s you stare at every night to see him. however maybe the right words aren’t spoken at all.

You reached forward to hug her but gave her time to pull away from you if she needed but she grabbed ahold of you as fast as she could. wrapping you up in her arms she broken down in tears. her cries broke you and made you sink into her touch.

“We’ll make them pay,” you lean your head against hers.

“For Lucaerys.”

[youryanderedaddy]

Tw: nsfw, murder

Imagine you're a messed up detective with a thing for serial killers. The more brutal, the better. As you tie them down and ride them to oblivion, eyes wet with sadistic satisfaction at the thought they can look but not touch, you know that in less than a week you'll be the one to send them to the electric chair. And even as they shake and cry for mercy, it's your name written on desperate cold lips.

Except this time, you've left the rope a touch too loose.

[xxikstimloverxx]

"Why is it so cold in here?" you quietly ask yourself. You've just woken up from a nap, and you feel like you've just stepped into the Antarctic. You know there's only one explanation, Toji. He always has the AC set to high, even when it's 40 degrees outside. He always runs hot, and you don't mind it when it means he's walking around the house shirtless, but at times like these, you wish he would just crack a window and turn on a fan.

You walk into your shared room, where Toji is lounging on your bed. You walk past him and to your closet to find yourself a sweater and some pants because the shorts you were wearing weren't cutting it. Finding an old hoodie of his and some fluffy sweatpants. "Why do you have the ac on in the winter?" you ask, walking out of your closet and to your shared bed.

"Why is my girl cold?" he asked. A sweet smile one his face as he turns to look at you "Very," you say, crawling on top of him, pulling your blanket atop of you in the process, and snuggling up to him, head nuzzled under his chin, and face smooched into his chest. "But you can make it up to me by warming me up you say, your voice sounding drowsy and half asleep. "Of course, baby,"  he says warping his arms around your waist. He feels your breathing leveling out and your heartbeat slowing down as you drift off to sleep. Toji would never admit this to anyone, but he enjoys these quiet Sunday mornings, even if he’s burning up from all the body heat you're producing.

[pollie-pockets]

Purple gen 1 pony transparents

[crimsonred-hi]

Week of Dabbles: day 6

Too Fuckin Early

Andrew only fell asleep a couple of hours ago, after spending a night working on music of sorts. In the end not much work was done by the time he lay himself beside her.

Just to be awakened by the sunlight filtering through his window; he turned to his lover's pillow to check whether she was still asleep. To his amusement, she was now missing, her side of their bed is stone cold.

He turned around, and there he saw her on the balcony looking over the landscape: a vast green, misted valley that lays close to his home can be seen from his balcony.

It’s truly gorgeous.

She’s waiting patiently for the day's first rays, in awe at how the world comes to life. She didn't even notice he was up and awake when he approached her, only when he put his arms around her and held her tight. Gentle kisses pressed to the back of her neck. They both silently enjoyed the first moments of the day together.

“It’s too fuckin early…”

[echostalker]

Dazai: *says a pick up-line that so bad and cringe worth. Something no one would ever give a second chance to*

Atsushi: *Looks horrified, right eye twitching*

Dazai: *looks at Atsushi, completely proud of himself* Swooning yet?

Atsushi: *Smacks Dazai’s face with both hands, clutching his cheeks tightly. Proceeds to kiss his face aggressively* Of all the stupid! Moronic! How would anyone fall-?!

Dazai: You’re kissing me though?!

Atsushi: I have brain damage!

[hyunniesgirl]

Okay but like...soft sex with lee know? He would totally be the type to hold hands you and whisper the most softest of praises in your ear.

Yes, absolutely yes!!!!! Lee know would absolutely worship you during sex and that's the moment you know how much he loves you. Of course, he does little gesture in your everyday life, but Lee Know doesn't show you much of his feelings, except when you're having sex.

The way he kisses every part of your body while chuckling to the reactions you make. The way he licks his fingers after fucking you with them saying how good you taste. The way he smiles and tells you how beautiful you look gagging around his cock, removing your hair out of your face so he can have a good view of you sucking him.

Pinning your hands by the side of your head, he'd interlace his fingers with yours trying to show you his feelings with his touch, he always holds your hands while entering you, closing his eyes to the feeling of you squeezing him.

Lee know is a sucker for eye contact, so the moment he starts thrusting he'll stare at you and dare you to break it, he'll slowly go in and out of you making you whimper and beg him to go faster.

He'll smile fondly, giving a little peck on your lips and saying "my kitten is so needy" while going faster, kissing your jaw, your neck, your chest and your breasts. Just hearing your little whimpers and moans it's everything he needs to get him going.

When he bites your lower lip, you cum clenching around him and making him cum too. He falls by your side, hugging you and holding you closer to him, resting your head on his chest and kissing the top of your head, whispering "I love you" while hearing your low exhausted snores.

[imreadydollparts]

This Pretty Mane Dabble has more color left in her stripes than the other one I've worked on.

[mintyys-blog]

GOODNIGHT— batfam x reader

WARNINGS: none

The sound of Gotham’s rain pounding against the windows was a familiar comfort as you sat in the Batcave, a book in hand, feet tucked beneath you. It had been a long day, and all you wanted was a moment of peace, but when you had the Batfam around, peace was a rare commodity.

“Hey, you’re still awake?” Dick’s voice broke the silence, and you glanced up to see him leaning against the Batcomputer, his grin wide as always.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, raising an eyebrow at him, though the smile you couldn’t suppress betrayed your teasing tone.

He chuckled, pushing off the desk. “The night’s still young. Gotta keep an eye on the streets, you know? Gotham’s full of surprises.”

“Right,” you murmured, though you knew what that really meant—he was never fully off-duty. With Dick, it was always about finding balance between the vigilante and the man you knew beneath the mask. He was a master of it, but you could see the exhaustion hidden behind his bright eyes.

As if on cue, Jason appeared, still in his gear, looking like he had just returned from a patrol of his own. “You two planning to stay up all night, or can we get some sleep around here?” he grumbled, sitting down on one of the chairs, his usual attitude softened by the late hour.

“Sleep?” Dick asked incredulously. “In the Batcave? Come on, man, you know better.”

“Don’t even start.” Jason rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “I’m gonna pass out here, whether you like it or not. You know, you’re not even the most annoying one.”

“Who is, then?” you asked, genuinely curious. You already had your suspicions.

“Tim,” Jason said with a grunt. “He’s been talking about algorithms for the last half hour, and I swear I’m about to lose it.”

“Algorithms are important, Jay,” Tim’s voice came from the shadows as he stepped into view, his gaze immediately locking with yours. “We’re trying to streamline operations here. Efficiency is key.”

“I’m with you, Tim,” you said, smiling at him. “But I think Jason’s point is, maybe we all need a little break from being so…efficient.”

Jason snorted, leaning back. “Finally, someone gets it.”

Dick laughed and took a seat next to you, stretching his legs out. “Alright, alright, I’ll give it to you. Maybe we should all take a breather.”

It was rare for the Batfam to ever fully stop. Between Bruce’s endless crusade and the others balancing their roles as protectors of Gotham and their personal lives, the concept of downtime didn’t come often. But tonight, with the rain still falling softly outside, the usual tension seemed to melt into a rare moment of peace.

The four of you sat there in comfortable silence for a while, the soft hum of the Batcomputer and the distant sounds of the city outside creating an oddly soothing atmosphere. And, for a moment, just a brief one, you allowed yourself to relax, knowing that no matter how chaotic things got, you were surrounded by the family you’d come to care about so deeply.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Tim finally said, breaking the silence. “But I’ll still be working from there, just so you know.”

“Of course you will,” Jason muttered under his breath. “Take your gadgets with you.”

“Goodnight, everyone,” you said softly, but your eyes met Dick’s, and you shared a smile that spoke volumes—a silent promise that, despite everything, there would always be time for the small moments.

“Sleep well,” Dick replied, his voice soft. “And, hey, don’t let the Batcave get too quiet. It’s… better with everyone around.”

You nodded. Gotham was a dark city, but it was also one where, even in the quietest moments, you felt like you belonged.

[im-just-echo]

The hum of fluorescent lights filled the empty hallway as Ratchet approached the observation bay. His boots echoed sharply against the tile, a rhythm that felt too loud in the sterile quiet of the recovery wing. He hesitated at the doorway, hand hovering over the keypad. It had been months since Orion’s death—months since Shockwave had dragged himself out of the wreckage, barely alive, refusing to let go.

Ratchet inhaled sharply, bracing himself, before stepping inside.

Faint hum of machinery filled the bay, punctuated by the quiet, precise clinks of metal on metal. Shockwave sat at a workbench in the corner of the room, his posture rigid and his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, as he adjusted the servos of his biomechanical arm. The arm, sleek but utilitarian, hung lifelessly at his side while its internal components lay exposed on the table before him. A yellow visor lay discarded on the table beside him, catching the faint light. Without it, his exposed eyes glinted faintly with an artificial sheen, their unnatural precision unsettling against the pale, hollow face they belonged to.

Ratchet stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. Finally, he spoke softly as to not startle the young man. “You know, most people at least pretend to get some rest when they’re supposed to be recovering.”

Shockwave didn’t turn. “Doctor Ratchet,” he replied, his voice low, clipped, devoid of the warmth Ratchet once associated with him. “I didn’t expect a visit.”

Shockwave turned fully now, and Ratchet could see him clearly for the first time. The changes were stark. His left arm, sleek and efficient, moved with mechanical precision. His face was pale, gaunt, his features sharpened by the toll of the past months. But it was his eyes—replaced with biomechanical implants—that held Ratchet’s attention. They were too steady, too focused, and completely devoid of the warmth Shockwave once carried.

Ratchet’s chest tightened. The voice was precise, the diction perfect—yet it felt wrong. This wasn’t the Shockwave who used to debate philosophy with Orion late into the night, his face alight with youthful curiosity.

"I’m here to check on you," Ratchet said, stepping a bit closer to shockwave, His gaze flicked over the arm, the cold, mechanical design. "Your repairs look… thorough. How are you adjusting?"

Shockwave’s optics narrowed faintly. "Efficiently. The augmentations allow for greater precision and durability. Adaptation was inevitable."

"Inevitable?" Ratchet echoed, his brows knitting in anger. "Shockwave, you almost died out there. Don't listen to Pharma! You had four major surgeries to keep you alive and so soon after losing Orion—"

Shockwave finally glanced over his shoulder, his gaze cold and calculating. “Physically, I am functional. My Emotions are irrelevant. There is nothing else to discuss.”

The bluntness of the statement cut deeper than Ratchet anticipated. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m not here as your doctor, Shockwave. I’m here as someone who—” His voice broke for a moment, and he swallowed hard. “Someone who still cares.”

"Caring is inefficient,” Shockwave said after a long pause, his gaze unwavering. “It clouds judgment. It impedes progress. You, of all people, should understand this. I do not require pity, Doctor," His tone was sharp. "My survival ensures the efficiency of the program. That is all that matters."

Ratchet flinched. The words were clinical, stripped of any personal weight. He shook his head, his fists clenching. “Don’t give me that crap,” he snapped. “This isn’t you, kid. The Shockwave I knew wouldn’t spout this emotionless drivel. He cared—deeply. About Orion, about the pilots, about everyone. What happened to that man?”

Shockwave’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his artificial eyes—a faint, fleeting shadow of something deeper. “That man was... inefficient,” he said quietly. “And he is gone, as Orion is gone.”

Shockwave’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away. He stared at the table, at the visor resting there, as if searching for answers in its polished surface.

“Existing is all that is required,” he said finally, though his voice was weary.

Ratchet exhaled heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his grief. “Orion wouldn’t have wanted this for you,” he said softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

At the mention of Orion’s name, Shockwave flinched. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Ratchet caught it. For a brief moment, the mask of indifference cracked, and the man underneath—the one who once laughed with Orion, debated philosophy, and dreamed of a brighter future—seemed to surface.

But the moment passed quickly. Shockwave straightened, his biomechanical eyes locking onto Ratchet with unsettling precision. “What Orion wanted is irrelevant,” he said, though his voice trembled ever so slightly. “He is gone. And sentimentality will not bring him back.”

The rawness of the admission hit Ratchet like a punch to the gut. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s not true,” he said firmly. “Just because you lost Orion doesn’t mean you’ve lost yourself.”

Ratchet swallowed hard, his chest tightening at the despair he could hear in Shockwave’s voice. “I know it feels that way now,” he continued softly. “God knows, I’ve seen this happen more times than I care to count. But you’re still here, Shockwave. And as long as you’re here, there’s still a chance to heal.”

Shockwave’s gaze hardened at he looked at ratchet, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Heal?” he echoed bitterly. “Do you truly believe there is healing from this, Ratchet? Orion is dead. I felt him die. There is no rebuilding from that.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Orion believed in you. He believed in your strength, your heart. And I still believe in you, even if you don’t.”

Ratchet stepped closer, his heart breaking as he looked at the young man before him—the kid he had once mentored, once cared for like a son. “Shockwave,” he said softly, almost pleading. “Please. Talk to me. Let me help you.”

Shockwave didn’t respond, his focus unwavering as he reattached a digit to his arm. His silence was louder than any words could have been.

Ratchet sighed, his voice thick with sorrow. “You’re not the same kid who walked into that hangar all those years ago,” he said. “And maybe... maybe that kid’s gone for good. But I hope someday, you find whatever it is you’re looking for. Because God knows you can’t keep going like this.”

Shockwave’s hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge Ratchet’s words.

Ratchet felt his throat tighten, his words catching in his chest.“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m so damn sorry.”

He left the room without looking back, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the sterile hum of the recovery wing. Behind him, the faint hum of machinery continued, the sound of a man desperately holding himself together with bolts and wires, piece by broken piece.

Sorry 😐 I've been writing this for two days, lmk if you see mistakes! 🙏

For @keferons amazing Mecha Pilot AU

[lady-ashfade]

Good day! I wish to acquire a Blueberry Roll 🫐 with a side of Aegon Targaryen! Extra blueberries if you please! 💖 I love this concept so so much!

Skipping Supper?

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Aegon Targaryen x Wife!Reader

╰･ﾟ✧☽ Strawberry rolls: Drabble/fluff. I checked with the requester to change a few things

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 252

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: Happy Aegon au, Reader marries Aegon instead of Helaena, Smitten Aegon, Good husband au, rhaenrya always the heir.

⤻ I don’t support Aegon, nor really liked him- only time I supported him in was taking revenge for his son even if it wasn’t smart- because grief makes us do things. But I support it- because I would burn that whole city down.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ 🫐 ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

His warmth pressed against your torso, while his hands wrapped around your waist to hold you closer. You and your husband sit in bed after a much needed relaxation from his duties, so he came rushing to you. Aegons head lays in your lap and you brush fingers throughout it while humming a tone.

“Tell me,” he mumbled in the fabric of your dress.

“Could we skip family dinner and have it in here? I’d much prefer being only with you.”

You smile and sigh at the proposal,though you didn’t want to go, you couldn’t decline knowing his mother is already bearing over you to have her grandchildren. “Apologies, my love. But we mustn’t miss supper, your mother will be asking questions in the morning, wondering if i was feeling ill.” he hums in disappointment and nestles his head closer.

A knock at the door startles you but not Aegon, as he rests peacefully in your hold. Raising your voice you call out to the person on the other side to state their business. A squier looking for the prince, to remind him of his studies. Aegon groans and sits up, hating the feeling without your warmth.

“I Love you, my dearest. I shall see you tonight then?” While he speaks he leans closer with a handsome smile. You nod and seal the kiss yourself with flushed cheeks.

As you watch him drag his feet to the door, you chuckle at the mopping, he’s never thrilled about leaving your side.

[nanowrimo]

How to Set Realistic NaNoWriMo Goals

Every year, we’re lucky to have great sponsors for our nonprofit events. Dabble, a 2023 NaNoWriMo sponsor, is a tool specifically designed for fiction novelists. Today, Dabbler Robert Smith shares a few tips to help you set daily writing goals that will work for you:

November looms, and with it the thrilling, harrowing, and sometimes carb-loaded journey of National Novel Writing Month. As we tie our writer's capes and ready ourselves for a month of intense creation, there's a small matter we need to address: our writing goals.

The Weight of 50,000 Words

Setting goals for NaNoWriMo is like setting a pace for a marathon. You wouldn't expect to sprint a marathon. The same goes for writing. If you try to sprint through, chances are you'll burn out faster than a candle in a windstorm.

However, only doing the minimum can leave you in a precarious position. Because if something comes up—and something always comes up—you’re suddenly behind on your goal, and that can really hurt morale.

So here are some goal setting tips to crush NaNoWriMo this year:

1. Start off strong, so you can end strong.

There is a simple fact about motivation. It starts strong and wanes with time. 

Now to be honest, you won’t be able to write a book with motivation alone. It requires a lot of discipline, and you’ll have to write even when you don’t feel like it.

But a great way to get the most out of that early motivation is to channel it into higher early output.

We all know that 50,000 words split over 30 days is 1667 words a day. But authors who win NaNoWriMo often don’t start there. They shoot for 2,500-3,000 words a day in the first week. That way they build up a buffer for the later weeks where motivation isn’t as high.

Plus, it gives them great forward momentum on their project. So consider setting higher goals early and taking advantage of your early NaNo fervor.

2. Account for daily life.

Even if you've cleared your calendar for November, life has a knack for throwing curveballs. 

Kids get sick. Work projects pop up. You know what I mean. If your word count goal is teetering on the edge of feasibility, any small disturbance can throw it off. 

To combat this, make plans and backup plans. Schedule your writing time around family gatherings. Plan what happens if you miss a day. Set yourself up for success before those situations arise.

3. Use the buddy system.

Find a writing buddy to be accountable to. It could be a friend participating in NaNoWriMo, or even someone you connect with in the NaNo community. 

Check in with each other daily. Celebrate your wins, commiserate over the tricky bits, and hold each other accountable. 

Sometimes, knowing someone else is in the trenches with you can be incredibly motivating.

4. Have weekly check-ins.

Instead of focusing solely on daily targets, also have a weekly goal. This gives you a broader view and allows for some flexibility. If you have a slower day, you can make up for it later in the week without feeling like you've thrown the entire month off course.

5. Actually track your goals.

Obviously, you need to track your goals, but there are multiple ways to do it.

Dabble integrates with NaNoWriMo, so you don’t have to manually submit your word count. And if you fall behind a bit, Dabble will automatically adjust your daily goal accordingly to keep you on track.

But even if you’re just marking off your goals on a napkin at your desk, tracking your progress will help you stay the course to victory.

Now go forth, share your stories, and remember: it's not all about the word count; it's about the words that count.

All NaNoWriMo participants can use the discount code  NANOWRI2023 for 20% off 1 year of Dabble! Offer expires January 31, 2024.

Robert Smith is a Dabbling Writer, and a Writing Dabbler. He likes playing board games with his wife, and deconstructing plots from movies in his spare time.

Top Photo by Isaac Smith on Unsplash.

[tr34sure]

Good Girl || Bangchan

☆ Just a little dabble something light ☆

✩ Warnings: Smut with no plot, just plain smut.

A/n: I know that it’s been awhile since I posted so I wanted to post a little something.

You take Chan's big dick into your mouth and start bobbing your head up and down. You can feel the warmth of his cock against your tongue as you suck on it. You look up at him and see him closing his eyes in pleasure. His hands run through your hair gently as he moans.

Chan moans softly, “Such a good girl for me yeah?...”

He leans back against the wall, letting you take control of the situation. His hips start to move with yours, pushing his cock deeper into your mouth.

“Mmmm... don't stop...” You continue to suck on Chan's dick, taking it as deep into your throat as you can. You feel his warm cum building up in his cock, and you know it won't be long before he cums. You start moving your hand up and down his shaft, stroking him in rhythm with your bobbing head.

Chan moans louder “... yes... right there baby...”

His hips buck against you, pushing his cock deeper into your throat. You can feel the first spurt of his cum hit the back of your throat, and you swallow it down eagerly.

“That’s my good girl” Chan said calming down from his high gently stroking my hair.