#C writes

[enbyaceslut]

It’s Christmas party season. My favorite time of year to take you out looking so damn gorgeous and making you act completely normal around all of our friends and family. They don’t know about the vibrator pushed deep inside you that I just keep changing the settings on. You’re across the room, talking to that one ex that somehow melted right into the family and never left. I’m not usually a jealous person, but I don’t like the way they’re smiling at you, nodding towards me, and then turning back. I turn it up just enough to make sure you really feel it, feel me. I watch you subtly clench, the way you take a deep breath as you try to control yourself. They ask if you’re okay and you excuse yourself and come back to me. I’m smirking and drag you off to a corner, “Do you need to cum?” Your whimpers tell me everything, you can barely even say it. “Beg me,” I whisper in your ear as I turn down the vibrations, keeping you right on edge. “Please, please,” you gasp. I reach under your dress and push your panties aside to find your clit. “You better be quiet.” I love the sound of you. Then I quickly pull my fingers away, “If you want to cum, you’ll do it out there.” I drag you away from our little secluded spot, pick up another drink for us both and pull you to the couch with our friends. They don’t pay much mind, the party’s been going on awhile and everyone’s a little drunk. I tuck you next to me, “You have five minutes or you won’t cum for a week,” I whisper in your ear as I turn the vibrator back up. I start talking with our friends, ignoring the flush in your cheeks, the way your fingers go white knuckled as you grip my hand. Our friends barely notice, but I notice how you cum. I’m not so cruel, I turn down the vibrations low enough to keep it from becoming too much. For now.

#sapphic kink #sapphic nsft #wlw nsft #c writes

[sonofthedunes]

as promised, the first one-shot i’ve written for this blog! let me know what you think. minors dni, etc.

Set just after the end of The Empire Strikes Back.

who says you cannot hold the moon in your hand?

~~~~~~

He won’t tell you what happened, exactly. No one will. All you know is that the Princess and Governor Calrissian found him clinging for dear life to the antenna at the bottom of Cloud City: bruised, bleeding, soaked in sweat…and missing his right hand.

It had been promptly replaced, of course, on the Alliance’s medical frigate. An Antilles BioGen L-980, one of the finest cybernetics on the market, now occupies the end of his wrist. To the average observer it looks no different than his remaining flesh hand; it serves all the same functions as the appendage he’s lost, thanks to the implanted neurochip. But every time he gazes on it when he thinks you aren’t looking, flexes the fingers and frowns, you know he feels it. The phantom pain, the sense of “othering,” the clear demarcation of his life into before and after. You know of course that he’s still Luke Skywalker, the Rebellion hero and the man you love-but something in him has changed fundamentally since that rescue, and that cybernetic hand is a constant reminder.

You can’t magically heal his anger or sadness. You can’t force him to tell you everything he’s done since you parted on Hoth. If the Force is with the Rebellion, there will be plenty of time for that in the future. But what you can do is help him forget for a few precious hours. To remind him that he is loved, no matter what scars or wounds he bears.

And where better to start than the hand?

You begin very slowly, there in the privacy of his quarters: it seems the most natural thing in the galaxy to pick up his artificial hand and methodically kiss every fingertip. The palm follows the fingers, right over his lifeline. You kiss just hard enough to be felt, but softly enough to entice. Under your lips whirr machinery where once was bone and muscle, and the synth skin isn’t quite as warm as real flesh…but you find you don’t really care.

If Luke’s face is any indication, though, he certainly does. He watches your motions apprehensively, brows knit over those clear blue eyes. “You don’t have to do this,” he protests.

“But I want to,” you reply, already moving on to his wrist.

“Love…” he cuts himself off and sighs-partly out of frustration, partly because your lips are resting on the tattooing pulse of his forearm. “I just…I’d rather not think about it.”

“But you do. I know you do.” Pausing in your ministrations, you sit back on the bed and regard him thoughtfully-as thoughtfully as two people in their military undergarments (tank tops and briefs) can hold eye contact. “Luke, I promise you I’m not repulsed by your hand. Oh, it upset me at first, knowing how much pain you were in. But now it’s…just a hand.” You massage it gently. “It’s part of you. And I don’t pick and choose the parts I love.”

He sighs again, curling his cybernetic fingers around yours. “I know. And sometimes I almost believe it. But when I catch myself looking at it for too long, or my grip is too tight, it all comes flooding back.”

“…Will you ever tell me? How it happened, I mean?”

Luke’s eyes are trained on you, but in that moment he’s looking beyond you to somewhere dark. Cold. “Someday. But not now,” he murmurs. His left hand sweeps a few tendrils of hair from your face. “I don’t want to think about it now.”

You smile and lift his right hand to your lips again, a motion that causes pink to bloom in his cheeks. “Well, what do you want, Luke?” you ask, as if the desire wasn’t already swimming in your veins.

Swallowing in a dry throat, muscles tensing, he responds in a low voice: “I want to touch you.”

There’s another part to that request which remains unspoken, but you understand it nonetheless. Keeping a sure grip on the mechno-hand, you press it to your cheek. “Like this?” you inquire. He dips his chin in a nod.

Thus encouraged, you guide the hand from your face to your collarbone. “And this?” you prompt. Another nod, accompanied by a rather breathy “yes.”

And Maker, the shuddering exhale that leaves him when the synth flesh meets your clothed breast. “Is this all right?” you manage, voice wavering as he hesitantly squeezes.

Luke dispenses with words then, leaning forward and kissing you with a measured, smoldering hunger. You groan a little in surprise, pressing your mouth eagerly to his and throwing your arms around his toned shoulders. In doing so, of course, you let go of his cybernetic…and almost of its own accord, it wanders lower.

A feather light touch swipes across your underwear, and you break the kiss with a squeak. Two pairs of eyes blown to black meet, two pairs of lips slightly parted pant, and Luke jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned. “Sorry,” he mutters. “ ‘M sorry. I thought…”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” you repeat, nuzzling him briefly. Flesh fingers find mechno, intertwine in reassurance.

His shoulders visibly relax. “Please, let me take care of you,” he entreats.

“With this hand?”

“Yeah. Wanna fuck you with it. Wanna watch you come on it,” he breathes, the faint blush now vivid twin firespots.

“Oh, starboy…” you coo, knowing how much effort those words demanded from him. “I want your beautiful fingers in me so, so much.”

It’s always a clumsy affair, wriggling out of standard-issue Alliance briefs (the least sexy garment in this or any galaxy). Yet you manage, and Luke can’t hold back a moan when you recline and part your legs to show him how wet you already are. “Fuck, is that all for me?” he says in wonder, crawling closer.

“Only for you,” you promise, taking his mechno-hand in yours once more. With patience and affection you clasp it for a heartbeat or two; then, at long last, you lead him to the valley of your cunt, the tips of his middle and index rubbing the dew before they slip inside.

This hand has never explored you before, but it knows just what to do. Those long thick fingers crook against your walls, caressing the warm gripping heat as they pump in a steady rhythm. You throw your head back on the pillow and whine, fire already building in your lower belly. “Yes, yes, darling boy, fuck me just like that,” you beg. “Oh Luke, I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he groans, completely devoted to his task. He huffs your name, followed by a curse you think may be Huttese. “You’re so tight for me, fuck. Are you sure I’m not-“

“No! N-no, you’re fine.” Far from the cybernetics battering you, they apply just the right amount of pressure, of intensity. You lift your head then to look at him, your gorgeous boy, thrusting his fingers into your pussy with a furrowed brow and teeth set into his bottom lip. His flesh hand steadies him, his nostrils flare, a thin sheen of sweat glimmers. And-ah, there it is, his cock straining and leaving a damp stain on his own briefs. The very idea that this foreign intruder to his body is bringing you such pleasure shocks and arouses him all at once. He knows you mean it, these exclamations of joy, your eyes rolling back, your hips bucking to meet the busily working machine with truly obscene squelching noises. It’s not enough to fully eradicate the darkness preying on the edges of his mind, but it lights a tiny candle of hope. And he’s more than willing to accept it.

“Luke! Oh Luke, don’t stop,” you whimper as he twists his wrist, searching for that special spot.

He grins then, genuinely, for the first time in Force knows how long. “Is that good, baby?” he questions rhetorically.

“Ah-aah, you feel so…” Your caravan of thought derails as he locates the spongy patch high up in your secret place and deftly presses. Uttering a thin, pitchy cry, your back arches and your own hands grip the sheets. “Fuck! Oh Maker, oh…”

He grunts with the exertion and in satisfaction too, teeth gritted now, fully hard in his briefs like an overexcited teenager. “A-are you close?” he asks hoarsely.

“Uh-huh” is all you can manage as you rapidly ascend the dizzying heights, your world shrinking to the motion of his hand and the sound of his voice.

“Let go,” Luke urges, his order trembling beyond his control. Control is about to leave this room entirely. “Come for me, sweet girl. Soak my fuckin’ hand, I want to see it.”

And those words might have been sufficient on their own, but when he brings his thumb to your swollen clit and forms the tiny rapid-fire circles that never fail to light up every synapse…that’s it. You can’t hold out any longer, and with a choked sob you break, spiraling off into a void where no feeling exists but bliss, and no Galactic Empire can ever harm you.

You’re only faintly aware of Luke withdrawing his fingers as you sprawl across the mattress, heart pounding and breathing harsh. The sheets rustle as he lays himself next to you, a lightness in his face that hadn’t been there before. “Look,” he remarks, holding up his cybernetic for your inspection. Gleaming on the two fingers he’d just used, trickling down his wrist and forearm all the way to the bend of his elbow, your spend proves you heeded him well. A half-smile quirks one corner of his mouth. “So I guess you don’t mind it after all. My hand, I mean.”

Chuckling tiredly, you roll onto your side and kiss his cheek. “I told you! You just didn’t believe me,” you counter. “I love you, Luke-all of you.”

“And I love you, more than anything.” This time he seeks your mouth, and you happily surrender it. In the course of your kiss he shifts closer to you, craving the silk of your hair and the velvet of your bare arms-but accidentally brushes the bulge in his briefs against your thigh. A slightly pained “mmph!” vibrates through your teeth, and your lips curve amusedly.

“You want to me to take care of that?” you posit as the two of you slowly pull apart. “One good turn deserves another.”

Luke shakes his head as he flops onto his back, golden hair fanned against the pillow. “In a minute. I think we could both use a break.”

You follow him and settle your head on his chest, hand coming to rest over his strong, blessedly beating heart. “I think you’re right,” you agree quietly. Hell, the entire damn universe could use a break. And one day it would arrive-but until then, you think as your lover slings his arm over your back and pecks the crown of your scalp, already anticipating the pleasure to come, this isn’t so bad.

#luke skywalker #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker smut #c writes #god i haven’t published any writing in years i’m nervous af

[cheerynoir]

I know there’s like four of you that followed me for ASOIAF/throbb content, and so I ask you:

How do we feel about some modern AU, gender-flipped throbb?

It came to me in a dream and will not let me go. So. Any takers?

#asoiaf #otp: now and always #theon baejoy #c writes #throbb

[gingerpeachtea]

MODS ARE ASLEEP. POST TRIAL BY FIRE

#FINALLY FINISHED THIS FUCKING FIC!!!!!!!!!! #HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIKE. HAVE SOME PSYCHOLOGICAL TORTURE <3 LUV U #c writes #ao3 #fanfiction #graceland #mike warren #paul briggs #paige arkin #graceland fanfiction

[cdelphiki]

A Hero Lost

Bruce doesn’t remember making the decision.

He remembers speeding to the warehouse, watching it explode, seeing it turn to rubble.

He remembers the crunch of gravel under his feet—but not gravel. Steel and concrete and tiny pieces of wood.

He remembers feeling frantic at the sound of Sheila Haywood. The raspy words, spoken in a hush.

“He saved me,” she’d said.

“He’s a hero.”

Bruce doesn’t remember everything from that day, but he will always remember the weight in his arms. The still warm feel of Jason’s skin. The unnatural stillness of his chest.

Sometimes, Bruce wishes there was more he didn’t remember.

If anyone tried to talk him out of his decision, Bruce doesn’t remember that, either.

So there Bruce stood—Batman stood, a whole slew of press spread in front of him, the entire Justice League behind, standing on the steps of the Hall of Justice.

“On Tuesday,” Batman began. He paused, and re-centered himself before Bruce’s emotions could take over.

He’d yet to… talk about it. With anyone, really.

Except Alfred.

Alfred had been a steady rock in all this.

Like on Saturday, when Bruce spent the entire day going through Jason’s mask cam footage, trying to figure out what had happened.

Why had Jason gone inside. How had he been overpowered by the Joker and so badly injured.

When he realized— when he saw Shelia convince Jason everything was safe, and Joker was gone, only to turn around and hand Jason over to him.

And then.

When Jason—when he only had seconds of life yet and knew it. He still—

He still shielded Haywood with his body, and assured her everything was going to be okay.

Bruce broke his hand, slamming his fist into the cave’s rock wall.

And Alfred came over to him, and dutifully dragged him over to the medbay, where he quietly cleaned him up and wrapped his hand, even though Bruce couldn’t bring himself to lift his face out of his other hand.

But Alfred was not with him, at the moment.

Bruce had written out his speech. He had it scrawled out on the paper in front of him, sitting on the podium.

He didn’t need it, though. Because even if he didn’t remember agreeing to this, he did remember every word he wrote.

Batman took a deep breath, and looked straight ahead, well above the heads of the press in front of him.

“On Tuesday,” he repeated, “the world lost a hero.”

Bruce swallowed, and tried to ignore the hushed tension that settled over everyone in attendance. The eyes of the press, quickly scanning the ranks of the League, trying to find the missing member.

Only there was no missing member.

And even if Robin hadn’t been League, he might as well have been. He was one of them, regardless of his age.

“He went by Robin,” Batman continued, “and he was among the greatest. I had the honor of calling him my son for the past three years, and he was one of the best people I’ve ever known.”

The press all scribbled down notes, and several shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

“He was fifteen years old, and already had accomplished more in his life than most do in 80 years. He was kind, compassionate, and had a heart of gold I envied,” he said, his voice thick. Jason had been the best. Far too good for this world.

“And on Tuesday,” Batman rasped, but he paused to let the roll of emotion settle back down. He couldn’t let himself think about anything until he finished his speech.

Jason deserved to have the world know about him.

He cleared his throat, and after a breath, he continued, “On Tuesday, he gave his life while protecting others. While protecting the one person who was directly responsible for him being there.”

That was information Bruce didn’t feel he could deliver impassionately.

Instead, he’d cleaned up his report on the incident, and had copies ready to be distributed to the press, once his speech was over.

Then, the press—the world—would know Jason’s character, and understand the tragedy that was that day.

“Robin,” Batman said, his voice amplified by speaker to all of the press, and all around the world, live on every news channel out there, “Jason was one of the best people I’ve ever met and the world is a darker place without him here.”

The sun hadn’t shown a single day since Tuesday, just as it wasn’t shining that day.

Jason was buried quietly on rainy Friday evening. No press, no fanfare. There were attendees to the service, of course. Alfred had spread the word to invite people. Had Bruce had his way, it would have just been them.

They all talked to Bruce, spoke empty words of condolences and praise for the kid Jason was. Bruce barely listened, and he didn’t talk back to any of them.

Instead, he spent the whole service staring at the casket. That was all he could do. Stare. At the far too small casket, closed up, so no one had to see how bad off Jason was.

His son. His little boy had been inside that box. And he was never coming out.

Bruce asked himself a million times why had he left such a small child alone.

Batman shifted in his stance, letting his cape swish behind him before he slowly reached up and undid the clasps on his cowl. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, staring out at the sky even as he could see the press all sit forward, no one daring to look away to even take notes.

With one last breath, Bruce pulled his cowl back and dropped it. The cool spring air hit his sweaty face and hair in an instant. He felt… clammy.

Hot and cold all at once, just like he’d felt when he’d found—

“Mr. Wayne,” one of the reporters said, her voice loud, but somehow still gentle. It was enough to make Bruce shake his head and refocus.

“The world lost a hero last week,” he said, with a strained voice, “Jason Todd will be sorely missed by all of us.”

Bruce turned around, blinking back his tears as he ascended the steps, completely ignoring all the questions being shouted by the press behind him.

Clark and Diana had been in the center of the League, standing directly behind him. Both stepped to the side, allowing Bruce to pass between them before they fell in line behind him, the entire Justice League following along inside the Hall of Justice.

The press continued its shouting, a cacophony of “Batman” and “Mr. Wayne” coming from behind him, before a new voice came on over the speakers. The voice of one of their PR people, telling the press about the packets they were about to be handed with information about “the death of one of our own.”

Whatever else she said, Bruce didn’t care.

He’d said his piece. Now, he was going home.

What home could possibly look like now… Bruce didn’t want to think about.

It most certainly could not be the Manor, that much they knew. He and Alfred had already packed up everything they needed for themselves and Ace, with the help of Clark and Barry. The security system was set to high, so no one would be able to break in and loot it, but as far as Bruce was concerned, he was never returning.

If not because the press knew he lived there, but because the halls were filled with Jason. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was his son, and Bruce—

“Would you like some company today, Bruce,” Clark asked, settling a hand down on his shoulder once they were inside. Bruce had been headed directly for the zeta, ready to simply leave.

The League dispersed, as soon as everyone was inside, but Bruce was keenly aware of their presence. Everyone hovering, just far enough away and mingled together enough to claim they weren’t, but Bruce knew.

“Not today,” Bruce rasped. For the first time all week, Bruce needed to be alone.

Alfred was at Titan’s Tower, waiting anxiously for Dick to return from space. He wasn’t due back for at least a month, last Bruce had heard, but Alfred had insisted.

And Bruce… he couldn’t go to Titans Tower, either. For the exact same reason he couldn’t go to the Manor.

So Bruce stepped forward, into the light of the zeta, and found himself looking at the empty cellar in the basement of his Montana lake house. The house he’d bought 15 years ago with cash, under the name Benjamin Payne.

The first thing he did was deactivate and unplug the zeta, so no one could follow him.

And the second thing he did was collapse down against the wall and finally let himself feel the pain he’d been burying all week.

- - -

Time was a cruel thing. It moved both excruciatingly slow, but way too fast at the same time.

Bruce spent most of his time inside, either in his bed sleeping, or in his chair in the living room, staring out the window at the trees outside.

Clark visited often. Most days, in the beginning. He brought food from Ma Kent a lot, and always made sure Ace had plenty of food to eat.

At first, he would try to make Bruce get up and do things, but after Bruce had thrown his glass of scotch at him, he’d quit trying. Instead, he talked constantly as he washed Bruce’s dishes and messed around in the fridge, doing whatever it was he did there.

All Bruce ever did was sit there, in his living room, a glass of scotch in hand.

But eventually… eventually Bruce ran out of scotch. And Clark refused to get him more.

Dick came once. Only once. Three weeks and two days… after.

He punched Bruce, as soon as Bruce got up and finally let him inside.

Bruce had deserved it.

“I cannot believe you,” Dick had snarled, “You just—you just gave up? Is this what Jason would have wanted?? What about the mission, Bruce.”

Bruce didn’t have the energy to respond.

- - -

Five weeks… into Bruce’s life at the lake house, it was Ace of all people that finally made him get up and do something.

Ace was perfectly capable of leaving the house as he pleased. And he did please, quite often. He reveled in the nature around them, and spent most his day chasing squirrels and splashing around in the lake.

But five weeks into their living in Montana, Ace found Bruce’s sneakers, and brought them to Bruce, sitting in his chair in the living room, as he picked at the plate of food he’d found in the fridge.

“Ace,” he said, pushing the dog away and knocking the shoes out of his mouth in the process.

Ace was not deterred, because he picked up Bruce’s shoes one at a time and dropped them into Bruce’s lap, then sat down and huffed.

“The door is unlocked,” Bruce said, turning his gaze down to Ace, “You can go outside yourself.”

Ace sat up taller, bouncing his front paws as he huffed again.

“Fine,” Bruce sighed. He sat his plate down on the side table, on top of the other two plates he’d not finished eating.

Thus far, Ace had been helping him with keeping food from sitting out too long.

With fumbling fingers, Bruce forced his sneakers on his unsocked feet and tied the laces the best he could.

His fingers felt stiff, just like the rest of his body when he stood up.

Ace scooted back, but sat back down, looking at Bruce.

“Well, show me what it is,” he said, motioning for the dog to go.

With a thump of his tail, Ace turned around and shot off for the back door and forced it open with his head, turning only to ensure Bruce was following.

The warm June air was no where near as warm as Bruce expected. Montana was much further north than he was used to living, so the air had a distinct chill to it. He stepped out to the edge of the deck and watched with a sigh as Ace hurried down the stairs and into the woods.

He barked, when Bruce didn’t follow, so Bruce sighed harder and slowly made his way down the steps.

They walked through the woods, over rocks and around large trees, for half a mile before Ace finally sprinted out of the woods into a large opening where there was a grassy and rocky beach along the lake.

Happily, Ace picked up an old, flat tennis ball off the ground and trounced over to Bruce to deposit it in his hand.

So Bruce took a deep breath and threw it.

Again and again Ace fetched the ball and brought it back, his tail wagging furiously the entire time.

And despite everything. After all the weeks of basically ignoring the dog, Ace didn’t seem any different. Didn’t seem mad at Bruce.

On the contrary. He was elated to be playing with Bruce again.

Because.

Because life continued to move forward.

Bruce wasn’t sure how he could continue on without Jason.

But instead of thinking about it, Bruce focused his attention on throwing the ball once more. Over and over, for as long as Ace wanted.

That was where Clark found him twenty minutes later, standing on the beach and tossing the ball for Ace into the tree line, making Ace have to hunt for it each time.

Clark landed slowly next to Bruce, letting himself basically float down until his feet touched the ground.

“You’re out and about,” he said after a moment, while both of them watched Ace sniff around a pile of leaves for the missing ball.

Bruce grunted. “Ace made me,” he added after a beat.

“Ace deserves extra treats for that,” Clark said, a smile evident in his voice. Bruce didn’t turn to look at it.

He wasn’t even sure what to say.

With a happy bark, Ace finally found the ball and eagerly bounced back to Bruce. This time, he gave the ball to Clark and stood back, ready for Clark to throw it.

Clark threw it far, causing Ace to shoot off as fast as he could to try and catch it.

Comfortable silence washed over them, while Bruce contemplated if there was anything he needed to say.

“Is there anything you need?” Clark asked, “I’m going to the store tomorrow.”

“I’m out of scotch,” he said easily.

But of course, Clark’s response was just as quick. “You don’t need scotch.”

“I disagree.”

With a half amused, half exasperated huff, Clark said, “If you want it, maybe you should go to the store yourself and get it.”

Bruce merely hummed.

With a roll of his eyes, Clark said, “You should probably shower first, though.”

Probably, Bruce thought mildly. His hygiene was definitely something he’d been neglecting, as of late. Without Alfred there to tell him off, like he used to always do.

Or Jason. With his exaggerated, “Gross did you sleep in a dumpster last night, B?”

Bruce took a deep breath, and completely ignored how it hitched, as he did.

“How’s Dick doing?” he asked Clark. He’d been meaning to ask for at least a week, but he’d never really found the words to do so.

Dick was furious with him, and he had every right to be. Alfred was with him, though. Helping him be Nightwing there in Bludhaven, so he wasn’t too worried.

Just.

He wanted to know.

“Better than you,” Clark replied bluntly, “He could really use his dad, though. He just lost his brother—don’t take his dad from him, too.”

Bruce swallowed, and somehow that was what broke the dam he’d felt trapped behind for weeks.

It was nothing dramatic, no loud wailing or collapsing in on himself, but Bruce felt the tears drip down his face, down his nose. Could taste the thin salty water on his lips.

When he lifted his sleeve to wipe them away, Clark placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Jason would want you to keep living, Bruce,” Clark said softly.

And Bruce couldn’t disagree. Clark was right.

There wasn’t much Bruce could do for Jason now, but perhaps he could manage that.

How he was going to do that, though… Bruce wasn’t sure.

The thought of living life without his son was—

It felt like a mountain too steep to climb.

All he could do was try, he supposed.

It took four more days, but Bruce did shower and go to town, per Clark’s suggestion.

He brought Ace with him, just because when he finally forced himself to the front door, Ace eagerly followed along and Bruce didn’t have the energy to tell him to stay.

The drive to town took half an hour. Five minutes into the drive, he punched the radio off with a huff, because all he could hear was Jason’s voice as he sung along to every single song that came on in the car.

Bruce had always been convinced Jason did it merely to annoy Bruce, since he most certainly did not know the words to every song. Or the tune, sometimes…

Shaking his head, Bruce refocused on driving.

He stopped at a little farmer’s market just on the outskirts of town, though. It reminded him of the local nurseries Alfred would drag him to as a child, where they could get homemade jams and pastries.

Ace hopped out of the car before Bruce could shut the door, so he sighed and grabbed the leash from the passenger seat, where he’d tossed it. He knew Ace wouldn’t stray from his side, but he figured he’d be less likely kicked out if Ace had a leash.

Once he had Ace hooked to it, he made his way into the large outdoor building.

They wandered for a few minutes, while Bruce looked over all the various produce available. He picked up a basket by the door, and placed a few potatoes in it. He could probably bake those, right?

How hard was it to bake potatoes?

It couldn’t be that difficult.

No one seemed to mind Ace, as he continued to wander. When he walked inside the actual building, the cashier’s face absolutely lit up when she saw him. “Oh what a beautiful dog,” she said.

Bruce merely nodded as he walked on.

Inside there was a lot. The homemade candy section drew him over immediately, but it was only while he was looking through, looking for the chocolate covered marshmallows Jason always loved did he realize why.

Scotch, he told himself. He’d come for scotch.

The local alcohol section was massive, filled with basically anything he could imagine.

He grabbed a bottle at random and placed it in his basket. Then considered if he really wanted to come back anytime soon, and grabbed three more.

Jason hates alcohol, he thought fleetingly, as he looked at the whisky he’d picked last.

Hated.

Bruce… Bruce had quit drinking entirely around Jason. He’d always hated how tense Jason got when he saw the adults in his life drinking. How he always seemed to keep one eye on them, if he didn’t outright leave the room to hide in his own.

Swallowing thickly, Bruce put all four bottles back, his stomach all twisted up into a thousand knots.

If Jason were there with him, he’d be wary just watching Bruce look at the alcohol. Even though he’d never given Jason reason to think he’d get violent toward him regardless of how much he’d consumed.

At least… Bruce hoped he never had…

Ace tugged at his leash, causing Bruce to look over at the dog. Mostly because Ace never pulled at his leash. Alfred had trained him well.

“What is it?” he asked, when Ace made a noise at him and tried to get Bruce to follow after him, over to a table with a ton of baked goods on it.

Closer inspection told Bruce they were ‘doggy’ baked goods.

“I suppose,” Bruce mumbled, as he picked up the largest packet of the cookie-looking things.

Clark had said Ace deserved extra treats.

On the way to check out, loathing himself over not getting what he’d even ventured out for, Bruce got distracted by the nursery plants, sitting just beyond the little store in a greenhouse.

There were tons and they were extremely green and healthy looking.

Jason would have loved this store. He loved Alfred’s garden from just about his first day in the Manor, and had always been glad to spend a day outside with Alfred, weeding and watering everything. Weeding had been a punishment for Dick, but Jason had volunteered every time Alfred said he was to spend the day doing it.

This year Jason was going to plant a garden of his own, right in the middle of Alfred’s. He’d planned it all out already, layout and all. He even had a few seeds germinating in the mud room, waiting for them to be big enough, and the weather to be warm enough, to transfer them outside.

Those plants… those plants were probably dead, now. Unless Alfred took them with him to Bludhaven.

Bruce swallowed and walked deeper into the greenhouse to look around. He really didn’t know a ton about plants, in all honesty. He knew what to look for if he ever got stranded. How to identify edible plants, how to identify deadly ones.

Gardening, on the other hand…

Alfred had always done that.

He grabbed a plant at random and looked down at the tag stuck into the dirt. Easy it said right on top. Bruce could handle something easy, right?

Maybe.

It wasn’t until Bruce was home, his small collection of potatoes, homemade dog biscuits, and his one little plant did he realize he had no clue what to do with a—he had to look at the tag to read what it even was—cucumber plant.

Jason had wanted to grow cucumbers, Bruce remembered with a pang. He’d wanted to grow the cucumbers, pickle them, and can them. Learning how to grow and store food for the future had been something Jason was extremely excited to learn.

Knowing it was born from his childhood going without made Bruce’s heart hurt even more.

And now…

Clenching his teeth, Bruce shook himself of everything and went to get his phone, where it’d been left plugged in for weeks in the living room. Bruce knew the only reason it was even plugged in was because Clark did that.

Clark… Clark had been doing a lot for him, as of late. And he didn’t even know what to say to him…

His phone’s lock screen was covered over in notifications. Hundreds of texts, emails, and missed calls were the least of his worries. He’d deal with them all…

Well. He wasn’t sure. Maybe never.

Bruce navigated to Alfred’s contact page and hit call for the first time since… since.

He had to take a deep breath when Alfred’s voice answered after only two rings. “Bruce,” he said warmly.

“Hi,” Bruce said. He swallowed, as he blanked for a brief second. But then he saw his plant sitting on the dining table behind the living room and said, “I bought a cucumber plant.”

“Did you now?” Alfred replied.

With a nod, Bruce sat down on the couch and said, “I don’t know how to plant it.”

“Hm,” Alfred said. Bruce could hear him sit down, settling into a chair just as Bruce had as he continued, “Well, I suppose the question is, where do you want to plant it? Inside or out?”

They talked for well over an hour as Alfred walked Bruce through creating a garden outside. In addition to the cucumber plant, Alfred suggested he get a whole list more of various vegetables, to make his efforts more worth it. He gave Bruce a long list of supplies he’d need, too, since obviously Bruce couldn’t just… plant something in the ground with his bare hands.

Clark probably could, he thought fleetingly. Clark was a farmer. Did he use tools like hoes and shovels?

Maybe he should ask Clark to get him all the supplies…

- - - 

Instead, Clark went with him to the store.

- - - 

Bruce spent the following weeks fussing over his plants. He’d set the garden up just beyond the steps from his back deck, and had three rows of various plants, all requiring slightly different things.

He had to get up in the morning to water the garden every day, to take advantage of the cooler morning hours. Alfred and Clark both told him watering at the peak of the afternoon just meant the water would evaporate off faster, and wouldn’t benefit the plants as much as watering in the morning and evening.

So he got up every single morning to check on everything.

- - - 

Two weeks into the garden, he woke up to find a rabbit got into his lettuce. Fixing that took doing extensive research on how to keep small animals out.

A fence was the answer, so he spent a couple days building a nice one with no holes for small rabbits to slip under. Clark offered to help, but Bruce had shrugged him off.

It… it maybe felt good to be working, again. His muscles felt so weak without his normal training routine.

- - - 

Ace started taking him for walks, too. Which Bruce idly thought was the opposite of how that relationship was meant to work.

But every day, after Bruce finished watering his plants, Ace insisted Bruce follow him out into the woods, leading him all over the property. He constantly looked back at Bruce, as if saying, ‘Are you coming? Do you see that squirrel? Look at this stick.’

“Good boy, Ace,” Bruce found himself saying, a lot.

- - -

Two months since that day, Bruce composed an email to Dick.

He didn’t acknowledge… anything. He wasn’t really sure what he could say to make anything better.

Dick was still mad about Bruce quitting, he knew. Still furious Bruce made the decision to go public without consulting him.

Bruce didn’t remember consulting himself in that decision, so he didn’t have much of a defense against that grievance.

So Bruce took some pictures of his garden and Ace, and sent them to Dick with a short note about how much Dick would enjoy the area. It was quiet, and the weather was usually agreeable.

Dick responded that evening with some pictures of his own, showing Bruce the garden Alfred had created on the roof of his building. There were dozens of planters, and an entire section dedicated to the plants Jason had started.

Bruce thought he might want to go see those plants, himself.

The email went on to update Bruce on all the changes in Dick’s life. Everything had changed for him, apparently. He’d been let go from the police department as a result of his once being Robin, but he was teaching gymnastics now to kids. The gym was excited to have the former Robin teaching at it. They’d had dozens of children sign up just to learn with him, leaving him with nearly 150 students presently.

What Dick didn’t include in his email was no one had connected him to Nightwing, somehow. He’d managed to convince the world he quit the hero business when he moved away for college.

So while Dick’s day life had changed drastically, at least he still had his anonymity at night. Bruce was glad he hadn’t ruined everything.

- - -

Two months and two weeks after Jason, Dick texted Bruce an article.

The Joker is Dead, its headline read.

Bruce’s hands shook as he tapped the link, then read with trepidation the entirety of the article.

On Friday, the Joker, a supervillain located in Gotham City, was lynched by a large mob at a park inside Gotham. The mob chanted, ‘Justice for Jason,’ as the Joker was hanged in front of hundreds of onlookers.

Jason Todd, also known as Robin, was murdered in April by the Joker. In the months since, the Joker’s location has been unknown, but he resurfaced Friday afternoon and was quickly overwhelmed by a large mob formed by Gotham Citizens. Dozens of videos online show the event in full. When questioned, Commissioner Gordon said, “The GCPD is conducting an investigation, though it is unclear who is responsible.” As of this writing, no charges had been filed.

Bruce stared at the words for several long minutes. ‘Justice for Jason,’ the crowd had chanted.

He never thought he’d see his city actually rise up and protect itself.

“He’s gone, Bruce,” Dick texted, “Gotham never has to deal with him again.”

- - -

The weeks continued to pass. Dick and Bruce kept exchanging texts and emails, and eventually Dick asked Bruce to plug his zeta back in, so he could visit.

‘I don't want the press to find you through my flying out to you all the time,’ he’d said.

‘Okay,’ was all Bruce had said in return, but he’d gone downstairs immediately and turned the zeta back on. He did, however, mess with the coding some to hide it from the zeta network. Only someone with the exact address of it could port to it.

He knew Dick had the address memorized.

And he did, because the following day Dick came over for lunch. His work schedule had him working evenings and weekends, and made it easy for him to sleep in every day. And have a leisurely lunch either with Alfred or Barbara over in Gotham.

Or now Bruce, since he promised to make their lunch date a weekly occurrence.

“I brought Chipotle,” was the first thing Dick said, once he materialized in the cellar-turned-zeta-room.

Bruce hesitated in the doorway, and looked between the bag of food in Dick’s hands and Dick himself, a little caught on what to say.

“I’ve never had Chipotle,” he finally managed.

“Figures,” Dick scoffed as he stepped out of the zeta and toward Bruce, “I’m going to introduce you to all the chains, do you hear me?”

As soon as he got near enough, Dick wrapped his free arm around Bruce, and Bruce’s arms returned the hug before he could even think about it.

“It’s good to see you,” Bruce mumbled, trying, and failing, to keep himself completely steady.

Dick either didn’t notice, or did and only kept holding on for Bruce’s sake. Either way, Bruce appreciated the chance to hold his son in his arms for a few moments as he focused on his breathing.

“Come on, lumberjack,” Dick said, patting Bruce on the back and finally breaking free, “your burrito is getting cold.”

Reluctantly, Bruce stepped aside, then led Dick up the stairs and to the little dinning area. “Lumberjack?” he questioned.

“The beard looks good on you,” Dick said, as he sat the bag of food down and started unpacking it, “But it plus the flannel just screams lumberjack. Did Clark get you that shirt?”

Bruce looked down at his shirt and shrugged. He actually had no clue where it’d come from, but he did like the sun protection it provided, when he was working outside.

As for the beard… he’d just simply neglected shaving for too long. He could probably use a trim, at that point. He’d never done that, though, and wasn’t too keen on visiting a barber over it.

Having small talk with strangers was just… not something he wanted to do.

“Behold,” Dick said, finally unwrapping a burrito and setting it down in front of Bruce, “Chipotle. Prepare for the amazing.”

“It just looks like a burrito,” Bruce said, but he took his seat, regardless.

If it made Dick happy, Bruce would eat whatever. He didn’t care if it was good or not.

- - -

Bruce’s garden did well. As the summer paraded on, he was able to pick a ton of tomatoes and cucumbers, and quite a few carrots and peppers as well.

Alfred started visiting him weekly, too, usually several days after Dick’s weekly visits, and spent the day with Bruce outside, weeding the garden and teaching him how to preserve his food.

On one of Clark’s still plentiful visits, he taught Bruce how to fish, so one afternoon Alfred taught Bruce how to clean and cook the fish he managed to catch.

Bruce… burned a lot of food.

A lot of food.

But he was getting better, he thought.

‘Jason would be proud,’ he thought, the first time he pan fried a fish without burning it.

- - -

And time continued to move.

Not being Batman was strange, even months after he’d stopped.

Bruce had lost a lot of muscle mass, but he’d started working out more to try and counteract it.

Ace loved jumping around and ‘helping’ him as he trained outside, on the deck.

The real workout was all the clearing Bruce was doing beside the house, so he could build a greenhouse. For that he had to lock Ace inside, just to be sure the rambunctious dog didn’t get in the way of his axe or chainsaw.

Felling trees by hand was quite the task, and it took weeks for him to get the area clear enough, but Bruce felt a touch of pride once he finally had it ready.

- - -

Every single day, Bruce thought about Jason.

It had been four months since Jason’s passing, and it was still hard most mornings, waking up and having his first thought be about who he wouldn’t be seeing that day.

As he went about his day, he constantly thought about what comment Jason would make about everything. Sometimes, sometimes it made him smile. Usually immediately followed by his vision blurring up.

He’d gotten better about continuing on.

But Jason’s birthday was particularly hard.

Alfred and Dick had spent the whole week in Montana with him, Dick’s work giving him the week off without question.

“My boss asked me if I wanted this week off,” Dick had told him, “before I could even ask.”

Even with both of them there, Bruce spent most the day on his little boat in the middle of the lake, trying his best to fish and not think.

For Jason’s birthday, Bruce was going to let Jason pick out any car he wanted, provided he passed his driver’s test.

But with all the practice on the Batmobile Jason had had, Bruce was positive failing it wasn’t even a possibility.

They probably would have been picking the car up, Bruce thought that afternoon. They would have been at whatever dealership Jason wanted, probably Ferrari, signing the papers and getting the keys.

Jason wouldn’t have stopped smiling all day. “My cheeks hurt,” he would have complained, ‘I can’t believe this is real.’

It was called secondary losses, the book he’d read said.

…one of the books.

Someone had brought him a whole stack on grief and loss and left them on his coffee table one day. Bruce suspected it was Clark, but it could have also been Alfred. Bruce honestly didn’t know, and he hadn’t bothered to find out.

He didn’t want to talk about it.

There would always be secondary losses, the book had said, as he saw the life Jason would have had, and had to realize on a daily basis it would never happen.

After he’d read that chapter, he’d barely been able to get out of bed that evening to water his plants.

- - -

But life continued to press on, and no matter what, plants still had to be watered, his texts had to be answered, and Ace still had to be walked, so Bruce pushed himself to try.

Jason was never one to give up, if his incredible life proved anything about him. He hadn’t given up even at the very end, so the least Bruce could do was keep moving.

And maybe he wasn’t Batman anymore, but that was okay, too. Gotham still had Batgirl and Batwoman, and Nightwing sometimes. And Gotham had the people of Gotham, who had been inspired by the spunky street-kid-turned-hero who had given his life protecting people who didn’t deserve it. Jason would be proud of his city, Bruce just knew it.

The Justice League called on Bruce sometimes, though. The first time it had happened, Bruce had nearly told Clark to leave him alone, but Clark had cut him off with a sharp, “Look, Bruce, we aren’t asking you to go out into the field, just attend the strategy meeting. We need your knowledge and expertise, no one can plan a mission like you.”

Bruce had seen what Clark was doing, stroking his ego like that, but he’d acquiesced anyway, and followed Clark up to the Watchtower where he attended a League meeting in civilian attire for the first time in his life.

He hadn’t allowed their PR to post a photo of it to their social media.

They had anyway, though only his back was visible in the photo.

- - -

Then one evening, six months and three weeks after Jason’s death, the absolutely unexpected happened.

The doorbell rang.

Bruce furrowed his brow and looked across the table at Dick and Alfred, where the three of them were playing a card game on that sunny Sunday afternoon. Clark never was polite enough to ring the bell, and no one else not already there ever visited him.

“I’ll come with you,” Dick said, as Bruce scooted his chair back and slowly got to his feet.

“Perhaps it’s just a lost tourist,” Alfred said, though he stayed firmly sitting in his seat, right where Bruce would prefer him, should the visitor be of the less-than-well-meaning variety.

At the front door, Bruce looked through the peep hole and couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.

“Who is it?” Dick whispered, but Bruce couldn’t find the words.

Hastily, he undid the chain and deadbolt, then swung the door open.

And the boy on the other side startled, but stayed planted in his spot, looking at Bruce with wide eyes.

If Dick hadn’t been there, Bruce might have thought he was going crazy.

“Jason?” Dick asked, his voice a half whisper.

Bruce had seen Jason many, many times since his death. But it was always as if Jason hadn’t aged a single day.

Or… sometimes, as if Jason was twelve again. Small and scrawny and so full of mistrust as he accused Bruce of being the reason he died. ‘Had you just turned me over to social services, I would be alive today,’ he always taunted.

This Jason… was older. Bigger. He had to have grown seven inches since Bruce last saw him.

But… it couldn’t be Jason.

Jason was dead.

“Yeah,” not-Jason exhaled. He shifted from one foot to the other, clutching tightly to the beat up backpack slung over his shoulder. All the same anxiety and nerves Bruce had seen a hundred times before.

“How?” Dick asked, shouldering his way into the doorway, right next to Bruce.

“I don’t know,” the person replied, “I don’t remember much before waking up under a bright green water, and Talia yanking me up by my shirt and handing me this bag. I-I don’t know how I’m back. I just know that I am.”

“Talia?” Bruce whispered, stumbling forward a step. Talia al Ghul? The one with access to the Lazarus Pits?

The Lazarus Pit couldn’t bring people back from death. Only save them from it.

At a very steep cost.

Right??

“Yeah,” Jason exhaled, “I don’t know why I was there. I don’t—I don’t remember much. Just. Just being in the dark, and having to dig, and fight, and—“ he choked off, then took a steadying breath, “I saw what you said about me. To the world. About—“

His words cut off with a grunt, because Bruce stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Jason tightly, squeezing just to make sure this was real.

This was real and Jason was there.

“Loosen up,” Jason said, but he wrapped his arms around Bruce in return, and didn’t seem to even care Bruce started sobbing into his hair.

Because everything about this person was right. The fleck of green in his right eye, the way he shifted from one foot to the other, even the feel of how he tensed, then immediately relaxed in Bruce’s hold.

He was seven inches taller, and six months older, but he was Jason, Bruce knew it in his core.

There was no other explanation.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” Jason whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Bruce pushed Jason back quickly, shaking his head aggressively.

How could Jason even think that? It wasn’t Jason that had hurt him. It was—it was Bruce. It was Bruce’s love for Jason that had hurt him.

And Bruce. Bruce wouldn’t regret that. He couldn’t.

He was so happy for the time he’d had with Jason, even if it’d been far too short.

“No,” he said thickly, “No Jason. I’m sorry for failing you.”

Jason’s face crumpled, and he wrapped his arms around Bruce’s chest again, burying his face into Bruce’s shoulder as he cried, “You didn’t.”

- - - 

Six months, three weeks, and five days after that horrible April day, Jason came home, and Bruce would never take him for granted again.

#cross posted on ao3 #inspired by batman 125 #batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #clark kent #dick grayson #Alfred Pennyworth #grief tw #death tw #jason get better as he always does #theres an epilogue summary on ao3 for those interested in that #c writes

[comphy-and-cozy]

What do you have in the works for us? Love your work!

aww, thank you so much! I’m so glad you enjoy it here ☺️

next on the docket includes:

→ the guy on the team (coming friday!) - another view into a dream come true, set in october 2023 at the wings home opener. I’ll let you look up the stats from that game and take a guess at what this is about 😋

→ gaslight - toxic, messy ex bf andrei. nightclub. college au-ish. she’s filthy.

→ the after party part 2 - bc their birthdays are coming up in march and that is a national holiday here on tumblr dot com (+bc it’s a built in bday gift for @smileysvech)

→ (unnamed) andrei fic - just more pwp with cnc whoops

#asks #c writes

[natsu-scarf]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: Fairy Tail Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Natsu Dragneel/Lucy Heartfilia, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Gray Fullbuster/Lucy Heartfilia, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster/Lucy Heartfilia Characters: Natsu Dragneel, Lucy Heartfilia, Gray Fullbuster, Erza Scarlet, Juvia Lockser, Wendy Marvell, Happy (Fairy Tail), Gajeel Redfox, Levy McGarden Additional Tags: Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster/Lucy Heartfilia - Freeform, but also kind of all of Team Natsu being wholesome, Fairy Tail Guild Found Family, Dai Matou Enbu | Grand Magic Games Arc, Post GMG Arc though, almost everyone from the guild makes an appearance, Found Family, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Dragon Slayer Magic (Fairy Tail), Crack, this kind of takes from one specific episode and tries to use the idea in a non-abusive way, i think it becomes aware pretty early on which episode that is, team natsu, Team Natsu As Found Family, Or Maybe more than that?

  Summary:

The one time Gray, Natsu, and Lucy eat too much cake and strange events start to unfold...

#this has been in my drafts for a while as i had to pause it for another project that had a deadline #but now i have time to finish this #fairy tail #fairy tail 100 years quest #fairy tail 100 yq #gratsulu #gratsu #gralu #nalu #ft #wholesome team natsu #they eat too much cake #erza also makes an appearance later #this is literally just domestic fluff and crack mixed together #idk i just like it when ft is chill and wholesome #non-abusive juvia lockser #everyone is single #my own works #c writes

[whitenikes]

in honor of mo's birthday, here's chapter one of my mojoe fic <3 (no chapter two is not finished yet shush I got excited during the game and wanted to post this)

#im having a lot of motions some of which is a lil bit of insecurity because. idk. #i think it's just I Need To Sleep brain making me doubt myself #c writes #i dont remember if that's my tag for fic writing but whatever #idk. fuck it we ball i guess

[crembrulees]

i personally think it's a crime that we never get a drunk neil josten in canon so i took matters into my own hands (it's a tiny baby of a fic pls enjoy)

#andriel #i will do ANYTHING for someone to talk to me about andrew and neil PL*ASE GOD IM DESPERATE #aftg #foxhole court #the foxhole court #neil josten #andrew minyard #all for the game #c speaks #c writes #me

[rubyleaf]

You know, when I see fictional characters who repress all their emotions, they're usually aloof and very blunt about keeping people at a distance, sometimes to an edgy degree—but what I don't see nearly enough are the emotionally repressed characters who are just…mellow.

Think about it. In real life, the person that's bottling up all their emotions is not the one that's brooding in the corner and snaps at you for trying to befriend them. More often than not, it's that friendly person in your circle who makes easy conversation with you, laughs with you, and listens and gives advice whenever you're upset. But you never see them upset, in fact they seem to have endless patience for you and everything around them—and so you call them their friend, you trust them. And only after months of telling them all your secrets do you realize…

…they've never actually told you anything about themselves.

#i just see it explored so rarely and i think there's a whole bunch of untapped potential here #or else i've been reading the wrong books i dunno #writeblr #writing #character writing #tropes #c: clara hightower #c: elise jamieson #I'm just sayin' #time for ruby's opinion

[enbyaceslut]

I'm working on the psych unit and watching a patient shave when suddenly they push me against the wall and say if I scream for help they'll cut me. My coworker just did a round so my patient knows they have fifteen minutes to do whatever they want to me. They start by shoving their hand down my scrub pants, keeping the razor at my neck, whispering that they'll kill me if I make a sound. They spin me around and push me into the wall and bear my ass. It's only a second before they're pushing into me. Tears are slowly trailing down my face. They only last a few minutes but they stay there making sure nothing drips out, fingers finding my clit. "You're going to cum on my cock whether you want to or not." They start pumping into me again. "I can feel how much you want this," they murmur as I clench around them. It's only minutes before they're coming again and taking me with them. They pull out and put my pants back in place, "I think I'm going to like it here for a bit. Tell anyone and I'll find you and make you my pet when they let me go home."

#rough kink #rough cnc #c writes #medical kink

[magnusbae]

To illustrate this post by @mayahawkse I would like to visualize to you the difference:

A post in 2023:

A post in 2014:

A zoom out of the same post:

This is what a community looks like.

See how in 2023 almost all of the reblogs come from the OP, from their few hours/days in the tag search. Meanwhile in 2014 the % of reblogs from OP is insignificant, because most of the reblogs come from the reblogs within the fandom, within the micro-communities formed there. You didn't need to rely on tags, or search, or being featured. Because the community took care of you, made sure to pass the work between themselves and onto their blog and exposed their followers to it. It kept works alive for years.

It's not JUST the reblog/like ratio that causing this issue, it's the type of interaction people have. They're content with scrolling and liking the search engine, instead of actually having a reblogging relationship with other blogs in their community.

Anyways, if you want to see more content you like, the only true way to make it happen is to reblog it. Likes do not forward content in no way but making OP feel nice. Reblogs on the other hand make content eternal. They make it relevant, they make it exist outside of a fickle tumblr search that hardly works on the best of days.

If you want more of something, reblog it.

#i said i wont ever rant about this bc it's unseemly but HONESTLY. #you simply cannot complain about not having enough of A or B or C and then never reblog / interact with the content you love. #If you LOVE something you cannot just leave a like and silently wait for more to happen #I know countless of content creators that simply stopped doing art/writing fic/making edits #You need to understand that fandom content is made FOR the fandom FOR the engagement FOR the entertainment and fun it makes. #If a content creator does not have fun IN the fandom-- why would they spend the scares free time they have on making this content? #And we're not talking about things that you don't like-- no one expects you to reblog things you don't like. #However I think it's safe to say that when a post has more than 5k it's not some random shitpost with no value. #tumblr issues #tumblr #content creators #buns.txt #something something please don't starve your local clowns

[cheerynoir]

Pity the Children: Ch. 1

A Fragment. What do you get when you cross a grungy neo-noir sci fi with the gay agenda and a truckload of trauma? Mostly, this. Enjoy!

Jon sat in the Nite Owl diner and considered throwing himself off the wagon. His empty stomach chewed on itself, but it was a distant thing. He hadn’t been himself for a while. Stubble burned his palm when he rubbed at his chapped mouth, and his shaggy black hair hung in limp curls across his brow. His dark eyes burned from lack of sleep, and his skin—a freckled, burnished bronze on his best days—was wan and dry. He needed a hot shower, ten hours of sleep, and a fresh tub of shea butter. Even the synthetic stuff would be better than nothing. He had a bad idea and a flask. It was heavy as a dying star in his palm, cut in blue and violet from the neon sign shining out front. Anniversaries were always hard. Another one of his loomed, dragging itself closer with every hour. With it came the same old gang: dread and grief and remembrance. The cold, helpless anger that stuck in his windpipe like a knife. Guilt. Always, always guilt. Years ago, before this planet was terraformed and the many-Ringed city of Centralia and her mines were dug deep into its crust, before the scattered Generation ships touched down at all, before ice and fire swallowed the first Earth, Jon’s ancestors were Catholics in Mexico City. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Passed down from parent to child in a language people rarely spoke anymore. These days English was the new Standard. “English has always been the standard,” Jon’s Abuelita had told him once, before the air rotted her lungs and they’d had to burn her. “Al diablo con eso, nieto.” To Hell with that, she’d declared, time and again. She’d taught them Español along with God, same as her mother before her, and didn’t give a lick whether or not the government approved. Maybe that was where the guilt came from. Maybe his grandmother had planted that seed good and deep, when Jon was still young enough to sprout it. Or maybe you’ve just got a lot to be sorry for, Jonny. Do you even remember Tommy’s voice? That was Roan’s gravelled rasp in his ear making him flinch, though the man was three years dead. Dead, and the only one who’d ever called him that. Guilty and ghost-ridden, that was Jonny Wilde. With the flask still in his hand, standing at the crossroads and waiting for the devil. Three years alone, one year sober. Fourteen years a failure. Lord, anniversaries were hard. His fiancée, his best friend, and at the root of it all— He derailed that train of thought. Some graves were best left untouched. Christ, Mother Mary, turn your eyes away. I’m a sorry sight tonight. His throat was parched. Bone dry. His thumb worked at the cap of his flask with a soft metallic scraping— A mug thumped down onto the table, and coffee splashed down into it.

#pityverse #c writes #original fiction #authors of tumblr #jon wilde #look 2024 is gonna be the year i'm insufferable about my original content #block the pityverse tag if you don't wanna see it #reblog and send asks if you want to see MORE #[please want to see more] #jon's such a sad wet cat of a man

[willowcrowned]

semicolons are not only for formal essays and anyone who tells you otherwise wants to deprive you of the second most satisfying punctuation mark; do NOT believe them. i promise they get no bitches

#also. semicolons are one of my favorite fiction writing shortcuts #for getting across to the reader in a single sentence #that the character talking is (a) full of themselves with (b) diction so crisp you can tell where the semicolons are #and also (c) is probably some sort of obsessive little freak #writing #punctuation #semicolon

[gingerpeachtea]

yesterday was my four year anniversary of posting on ao3, so here’s a fun lil list of my works from most to least recent as a mini celebration :)

somewhere in the haze — 3.1k

graceland • mike warren sickfic ft. childhood trauma

your hands are gravity (while my hands are tied) — 1.5k

braindead • laurel has a panic attack ft. laureth

pillow — 0.5k

graceland • mikejohnny fluff

wrap it in gauze and light the way home — 0.9k

graceland • mike whump ft. a stab wound to the leg & mikejohnny

lose your faith in me — 4.3k

agents of shield • exploration of daisy’s trauma post-hive ft. staticquake ; lincoln lives au

sweet words and fevers — 1.7k

agents of shield • daisy whump ; daisy working w shield again after lincoln’s death ft. quakerider

#c writes #fanfiction #ao3 #agents of shield #quakerider #graceland #braindead

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I know this transformation is painful but you’re not falling apart; you’re just falling into something different, with a new capacity to be beautiful.

William C. Hannan

#William C. Hannan #motivation #quotes #poetry #literature #relationship quotes #writing #original #words #love #relationship #thoughts #lit #prose #spilled ink #inspiring quotes #life quotes #quoteoftheday #love quotes #poem #aesthetic