#god I needed to write this

[aaron-m-geist-ff]

“Kuna, p-please slow down!”

You had your face buried in the pillow, your ass in the air as the king of curses thrusted into you steadily. You could feel every inch of him sliding along your sensitive walls. It felt super intense from the angle.

Sukuna scoffed at your pathetic whines.

“Calm down, woman. I’m going slow enough as it is.”

He grabbed a handful of your ass, groping you as he continued to rock his hips back and forth. You sniffled into the pillow, desperately trying to hold back tears. You knew that Sukuna wouldn’t hurt you, but it still felt extremely overwhelming. You just weren’t used to a size like his. He was fucking huge. To think that this was considered ‘slow’ to Sukuna. Your cheeks flushed as you tried to imagine what something rougher would feel like.

Sukuna gave an experimentally harsh thrust. The tip of his cock slammed into your cervix.

You squeaked from the sensation, the air getting knocked out of your lungs as your whole body swayed from the movement.

“A-ah!” You let out a pathetic sob as a tear slipped down your cheek. You hid your face into the pillow, holding onto it with your hands. Your knees were dipping into the mattress firmly.

“Are you crying down there, witch?”

Sukuna didn’t sound amused at all. He actually stopped inside of you, slowing to a pause as he awaited your response with a shocking amount of patience.

You let out a huge breath of air which you didn’t realize you had been holding in. Your smaller body was trapped underneath Sukuna’s. You desperately tried to regain some composure while the break lasted.

“S-sorry!” You stuttered. “I can take you…Promise-“

You really wanted to please the king of curses. Ever since you had accidentally summoned him, he made it clear that he wanted to have sex with you. The submissive part of your brain found the idea very appealing. You wanted Sukuna to fuck you into oblivion. You didn’t care if there would be some pain involved along the way.

You gasped into the pillow instantly when Sukuna’s cock twitched inside of you.

He sighed.

“Such a dramatic little thing you are,” he scolded. “You can’t even handle it when my cock twitches.”

Sukuna pulled back nearly half way, before pressing back into your tight pussy. You could physically feel the way that your walls parted for him. Your legs were shaking as you tried to hold the position. Luckily, Sukuna was being rather gentle with his movements.

“Take it, woman.”

Sukuna’s voice was gruff and low. He sounded like he was threatening you. You whined from the tone of his voice, pushing your ass back against him in an effort to take more inside obediently.

Sukuna smacked your ass roughly, before squeezing it once more. He chuckled as he began to pick up the pace.

You gasped from the intensity, your poor pussy struggling to keep up. You kept involuntarily clenching around Sukuna’s throbbing erection.

“Kunaaa,” you whined into the pillow. You couldn’t think of anything else to say, you didn’t even know what to beg for.

Sukuna growled out of frustration, putting one foot up on the bed so that he could thrust into you even deeper. You yelped loudly from the new depth, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head.

Sukuna grabbed a handful of your hair and pushed your face into the pillow.

“Shut up and squirt for me, little girl.”

His voice sounded dark and menacing. It made your gut twist with arousal. You could practically feel him in your stomach from how deep he was thrusting. And that name he called you triggered your daddy issues. You gasped and cried as your body betrayed you, convulsing around Sukuna’s cock. Your juices coated his erection just like he asked. Your walls kept convulsing and spasming as you achieved your orgasm. Your juices even began to drip onto the sheets.

Sukuna smirked.

“Such a dirty little whore, huh?”

Read more Sukuna here

[stoopidstapler]

SO IVE BEEN GOIN INSANE SINCE THIS TRAILER DROPPED. JUST. SIMON. SIMON. SIMON.

[mumblesplash]

in honor of last season’s poem being called “”end poem”” (all quotes mandatory) this season i made one out of pieces of the actual end poem

[latimeria-fell-from-heaven]

Okay look, I know people are gonna characterize Aventurine as the kind of yandere that manipulates everything behind the scenes and is always coming up with ways to try and make his darling unable to rely on anyone but him. But honestly? I can see him as the desperate needy type who needs to have your attention on him, he NEEDS to be the only man you'll ever want and look at, and GOD, he just desperately needs you to own him in his entirety.

He'll do anything to keep your attention on him and make sure that you at least will keep him around long enough for him to enact his plans of keeping you by his side. You want a dog who does whatever you say and will crawl on hands and knees for your amusement? You want a pretty little toy that you can break over and over? You want him to take the lead and make you unable to think or walk anymore? He'll do it, he'll do whatever you want, he'll do anything to keep your attention on him until he can make you his.

[pentacass]

[glo-shroom]

yes & no by Natalie Wee | Trigun Ultimate Overhaul

[demigods-posts]

as far as everyone was concerned. percy had a year left to live in tbotl. and i know that we didn't see what that like for him because it didn't matter plot-wise. but i would have loved to read it. give me percy who is hardly speaking up at the dinner table. half-asleep and behind on last week's homework. give me percy who is clearly losing the will to live and trudging around the apartment like he doesn't care where his feet takes him. give me percy who is sneaking out of the house and visiting montauk. sitting along the beachside shore. wondering why his only purpose in life is that of a soldier and not of a kid.

[vagueconfusion]

Feeling real ridiculous for not having realized that Baron's "stark father" was the Nightmare King until now

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[ihatebrainstorm]

Someone save Isami... please

I almost choked and died watching the first two episodes of Bang Brave Bang Bravern holy crap- If the Lost Light crew was a headache to Megs, Bravern would single-handedly cause him to have 2 spark failures and put him into 4 year long coma

[shawtuzi]

thinking about nerd!eren with the biggest, thickest dick you ever laid eyes on and yet he has no idea how to use it. you can imagine his anxiety the first time you got intimate, dreading that you wouldn’t be satisfied with what he had to offer but boy was he mistaken. the sight of his pretty tan dick had your mind racing with all the positions he could fold you into once you taught him how to properly handle a woman. you figured missionary was the perfect beginner position for him to start with and it would give you a chance to adjust to his massive size, but nerd!eren was a goner as soon as he pushed his tip in your warm, wet pussy. you were so soft and so warm he couldn’t help but completely sheath himself fully inside you to feel that warmth cover him completely <//3 his arms were shaking terribly and his thrusts were completely offbeat but in the end it was all worth it to hear his whines that went straight into your ear. “can feel you in my stomach ‘ren,” you sighed dreamily bringing his trembling hand to the lower part of your stomach to feel the bulge that kept reappearing every time he thrusted into you. eren adjusted his glasses that were almost completely fogged up to get a look at the bulge in your tummy and baby boy just couldn’t help but lightly press down on it, his eyes widening when he heard you squeal. and after four rounds, stuffing you with his cum each time, eren collapsed on your chest the wispy hairs from his disheveled bun tickling your neck.

“do you think i could take my glasses off next time?”

“let me think…..no.”

[melodicwriter]

When you read a fic so good that you’re beside yourself and don’t even know how to function

[ivy-and-ivory]

Dick’s early years as Robin are just. You are ten years old. Tomorrow you have a math test. Last night you saved ten lives. You could not save the two that mattered most. Neither could he, which is why you are here. A year ago you spent your days in a trailer and your nights beneath the big top, and you were never more than 10 feet away from someone who loved you. Now you are adrift in a mansion full of ghosts. You want to go home. You climb up to the highest attic and scream as loud as you can just to see if anyone will hear you. For the crime of losing your parents, they put you in a cell. At night you leap from skyscrapers and remember how to fly. You go to bed and watch them fall. Sometimes you wake up and you are so full of anger you don’t know how you can survive it. You are trying to survive it. You want to kill a man. You rescue a baby from a burning building and his mother calls you an angel. You eat an ice cream cone on top of a gargoyle. You do not want another father. You need a friend. There is a secret only four people in the whole world know. You are one of them.

[bread-that-draws]

Flowey’s so funny and has me so fucked up like he’s a talking flower. He tries to kill you upon your first interaction. He is ten years old. He is damaged beyond repair. He’s a flower named Flowey. He’s become friends with every single character. He’s killed all of them countless times. He knows everything about everyone. He doesn’t care anymore. He takes care of his mom when she can’t take care of herself. He’s killed her before. He doesn’t care if you kill her. He thinks she’s trying to replace him. He just wants to be himself again. He wants to destroy everything. He hates you. You’re the only one who understands him. He wants his best friend back. He’s terrified of them. He believes in kill or be killed because he died by giving mercy to the wrong person. He believes himself to be the wrong person. He doesn’t understand when you show him that kindness he showed others, even when you know he could kill you for it. He’s tried every route. He asks you if you have anything better to do when you try to do the same. He’s a direct reflection of the player. He’s a fucking talking flower named flowey and his only voice line is by Ronald McDonald and his officially licensed plush does a little dance for you

[shower-phantom-ideas]

Bruh emotional support ghost kid? Well thats what they are calling him

Suicide cases in gothem are about to fucking plummet boiz cause this one weird blue eyes, black haired boy is now heading to your location.

How does he know where to be? Having a bad day and are all alone? No the fuck your not cause don’t turn around now but theres some shiny blue eyes coming at you from that dark ally. Oh shit hes here to drop some information about you and your lost loved ones that he should know. Oh god the closure. How could you have been afraid on this sweet, creepy, boy who just helped you find your way.

Meanwhile Danny is chillin in Gothem cause the GIW hate it there (none of they equipment actually functions in Gothem so it’s either super haunted or actually not haunted at all). Then all of a sudden he gets approached by a random ghost begging for his help because their sweet baby girl is about to do something horrible. Oops now all the ghosts are following their most loved ones around just to make sure they are there to rush to Danny for help when all else fails. Now hes getting to fulfil his protection obsession double time because one hes helping protect people from themselves and two hes protecting everyone in Gothem by stopping people from becoming villains for revenge. Plus he gets to see first hand how hes making a difference because all those people he saved are sending him some good vibes from all across Gothem.

Thank god he followed Jazz around so much to slightly absorb some of her phycology knowledge over the years. Plus it was actually pretty interesting so she gave him her old text books. Shes also helping him deal with the rare events where he can’t save someone. Just a moment too late or he stops them but they later succeeded in the hospital. Neither are his fault. Now only if he could convince his core of that.

Anyway why Gothem you ask? Amity Park would have been just as good tbh but imagine Batmans face when he finally gets to be face to face with the emotional support ghost boy. Why is he here? Bruce is fine. Batman is fine. Hes not gonna do anything crazy. It’s just a hard time of year. Around their death always gives him grief. But hes an adult and can manage it.

“You know they are so proud of you.” The boy states. As if it’s clear as day, even though it’s Gothem and never a clear day. Batman blinks at him, stunned for a moment. “What?” This boy can’t possibly know that. No one will ever know that, Bruce can only hope. “They see their home, full of such life. That big house that felt so empty, so cold, to them as well for years. Then you filled it with Family and Love like they had always wanted for you. They are so proud of what you have turned it into. Somewhere full of life and warmth.” A small smile graces his face as finally “you have made your parents so proud” and its all he can do to contain himself. Emotions are running high and sue him because he really did need to hear that ok. The boy suddenly looks to Bruces right with a confused face “aren’t all basements like that though?” Before Bruce can even get a word in hes gone. Just vanished before his eyes.

[theminecraftbee]

my other favorite slightly-less-stupid technoblade headcanon that i hold to dearly despite the march of fandom is that he is NOT A PIGLIN. he is a PIGMAN. there is a DIFFERENCE. this is entirely based on the fact that, like, okay he's a hypixel and pvp guy, so he basically always played 1.8. so when he got to dsmp and saw the new nether he was like. what the fuck are those. where are the zombie pigmen. those things have weird ears??? those aren't my brothers??? and combined with the fact he frequently would find out something about modern minecraft and go "what the heck when did that happen" i think he's like. one of the last of the original pigmen. the ones that became zombie pigmen before the whole piglin thing happened. he's not a zombie simply because he's built differently. he's sort of trapped in a different era. he's just chillin' though. because he's technoblade and he's built differently.