#gahhhh

[oliveespineapples]

rainbow byler for the soul

[bellsiecakes]

soldier boy teaching you how to shoot his gun. ⌖𖦏

/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ⠀.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⌖  ₊    minors do not interact, u will be blocked.

cw: gunz, sb teaching u and not keeping his hands off you, some explicit content. not proofread ahhh. wc: 2.4k~

— ᨳଓ⋆˚࿔.

he’d driven you out to a private forest clearing, with a lake nearby. a little spot he knew. the two of you sat with the roof of his vintage black classic down, the breeze brushing through the trees and against your hair.

beside you in the driver’s seat, ben licked the edge of a small, cherry-flavored rolling paper. he focused on securing the joint he was fashioning for the two of you. he was nearly finished, already packed the weed in snug. you couldn’t help but smirk at his posture: his back hunched over as he zeroed in on his task. his aviator sunglasses rested atop his head, pushing his hair back and out of the way, nearly a headband. the lenses reflected the sun. a meteor could strike and he wouldn’t notice until he was done.

feeling bored, you tapped your nails against the door armrest. you looked around at the trees. you sat up to see the lake in the near distance, the sun glistening off the ripples. you poked the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. you rummaged through his glove compartment…

… and your brows shot up upon seeing a black pistol buried under documents and condoms.

you glanced over to see if he’d caught you snooping. his brows were still furrowed as he rolled the joint over the steering wheel. utterly enraptured by his weed. you smirked, feeling suddenly mischievous. with great care, you gently retrieved the firearm.

“put it down.” his voice rang beside you.

you tensed, suddenly feeling like a scolded child, then smiled faintly. you didn’t put it down. you treated it delicately, of course, purposely avoiding the trigger as you examined it. the metal was cool and heavy in your hand. “why is it in here?”

“needs to be,” he said simply. then, he took the gun from you, grabbing it by the barrel. he set it muzzle down in the empty cup holder between you before focusing his attention back to the blunt.

you tilted your head, unsatisfied, and stated matter-of-factly, “you’re indestructible.”

“you’re not.”

you raised a brow again, intrigued. “so it’s for me.”

“for assholes.”

“my hero.”

ben looked over at you then, sizing you up, half impressed, half perpetually annoyed.

“have you ever even been this close to a roscoe?”

you looked through your lashes. “… once or twice.”

that got his attention. he lowered the unfinished joint in his lap, looking you over again, his keen green eyes following a steady path down your figure. ben paused for a long moment, as if he was assessing you.

“when?”

“fourth of july.”

“what’d you shoot?” he sounded nearly fascinated. never in a million years would ben have guessed you did something like that. you were always such a sissy.

“the ground,” you confessed timidly.

the sharp sound of his laughter broke the peacefulness of nature surrounding you. his shoulders bounced, he tipped his head back against the headrest, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. he licked his lips and muttered something like jesus christ as he settled down, shaking his head and bringing the joint back up to work on again.

“you’re a card.” he stated. he gave the joint a final lick, pressing the paper down flush with the pads of his thumbs. he inspected it carefully before tucking it in his shirt pocket. he pushed his aviators back down, wearing them properly, hiding his eyes. “get out.”

you blinked, watching him open his door, grab the pistol, and step out of the car all in one motion. after a moment of hesitation, you followed.

he beckoned you over with a finger, his gun in his back pocket. ben’s hand snaked around your waist when you were close enough and he leaned against the hood of his car. he thumbed your hip and raised his hand, moving it to follow the horizon.

your eyes followed. the lake’s shore lapped at the dirt a few respectable paces away, the water slightly murky. surrounding you, conifers and hardwood cast sparse shadows. their leaves occasionally swayed with the soft breeze, and the unmistakable smell of sap comforted you in a strange way.

his voice recaptured your attention. “pick a tree.”

you looked over at him, a surge of disbelief passing through you. he really trusted you enough to do this?

you shook your head. “i don’t wanna shoot a tree.”

ben rolled his eyes. “hippie,” he muttered, reaching into another pocket of his. he pulled out his cherry rolling papers and ripped two out- then crumpled them into little balls. you blinked in surprise at the sacrifice of two perfectly good rolling papers.

“put these in your ears,” he commanded. and so you did. the sounds of the lake’s waves, the chirping of the birds, the swish of tree branches brushing against each other muffled.

without warning, he grabbed your waist in both hands, and yanked you in front of him. with his chest flush against your back, he wrapped an arm around your middle and fished his pistol out of his pocket. he brought it out to show off.

you knew not to reach for it. he turned it in his hands. his chin brushing against the back of your head. “this bitch’s no joke, you hear me, doll?”

you nodded. he grunted in approval, then flipped the gun back, left side up. he flicked the safety off, keeping the nose pointed to the ground.

gently, ben’s hand smoothed across your stomach, to your hip, and up your side. he trailed his palm over your forearm and down to your hand. being this close to him, you could hear each little inhale and exhale of his. you could feel his breath brush against your ear. you fought the urge to shiver, especially when his hand found yours. he lifted it and guided it to hold the grip of the gun, adjusting your fingers to stay clear of the trigger.

his hand wrapped firmly around yours, keeping your fingers temporarily disabled, the gun still pointed to the dirt. he squeezed your hand, and you felt something click beneath your palm. your heart raced.

“that was the grip safety,” he said, his voice calm. you nodded once, relaxing.

his other hand gestured in front of you, to a dead tree stump about sixty feet away, maybe four feet tall. it sat unimposing at the opposite shore of the lake, gray and peeling bark, surrounded by its living kin.

“see that stump?”

you nodded.

“aim for that.”

“… okay.”

his grip around your hand on the gun remained. you felt the grainy surface of the grip on your skin. his other hand moved, guiding your left hand to the gun in the same fashion he did the other. ben hummed in approval as he fixed your hands over the grip.

wordlessly, he guided your arms up, the gun still snug inside your fingers. he straightened your arms outright, then maneuvered your right index finger to rest gently on the trigger guard.

“don’t move your finger yet,” he said, his voice in your ear. you swallowed.

his hands left yours, leaving the breeze to brush over them, the coldness emphasizing the loss. he ran his hands slowly up your wrists, to the sensitive skin of the inside of your elbows, and he stopped to hold your biceps. he kept his feet planted firmly outside yours, his broad chest flush against your back.

you pressed your thighs together, his touch molding, and you avoided exhaling too shakily. though, you were almost certain he could hear your pounding heart. just the thought of his awareness made your cheeks flush.

“now…” he let go of one of your arms, his chin by your ear. he gently tapped the small, triangular-shaped bump on top of the pistol once, the one closest to your eye; then the bump further away, on the very tip of the barrel.

“sights. front and rear. as you can see, front is a post, rear is a notch. you line ‘em up both horizontally and vertically, at the center of that stump… and you’ve got your aim.”

you squeezed one eye shut to line the sights up, doing your best to center them as he instructed on the awaiting stump. he shifted, leaning over to look at your face, assessing briefly. he smiled faintly.

“now, i know that might feel right, sweets, but it’s better to keep both those pretty eyes open.”

his voice was cogent. you quickly reopened your eye, exhaling. you could hear the faintest of chuckles leave him.

he licked his lips and slid his hands up back to yours on the gun. one held both of yours in place securely, and the other reached to grab his gun by the barrel, between the sights. he slid the slide back, exposing the metal barrel underneath, and it made a clicking noise that made your brows furrow. he let it go, covering the barrel once again.

“she’s cocked. don’t you move a muscle till i tell you to.”

he found his place behind you again, his chest against you. he squeezed your shoulders gently before he smoothed his rough hands down your upper back, over the ridge of your bra, down to the dip of your waist. you blinked slowly, your eyes darting momentarily to the ground, then back up. you knew you needed to focus, not let his carnal touch divert your attention.

he ran his thumbs back and forth over your waist. his hands were warm and unmoving, and you couldn’t help but notice he kept your ass pressed firm against his hips, the print of his dick faint but felt. it made your breath hitch, but you remained planted against him. and when you heard a rough, faint groan leave his lips right in your ear? you wanted to ditch this whole shooting lesson.

when he spoke again, his voice was considerably softened. but it still made your heart skip. it pulled you back into what this was supposed to be. “you can put your finger on the trigger now, but do not put pressure on it.”

you swallowed again, nodding, regrouping, and you moved your finger carefully off the guard and onto the cool trigger. it was a strange sense of power. one pull and a killing stone would come out at 800 feet per second.

“atta girl. don’t pull yet. take your time, give yourself at least half a minute to aim. then you fire.”

you held the gun pointed where you wanted, taking slow, shuddering breaths, heeding his words. he trusted your judgment, the good head on your shoulders. you’re not so reckless to fire when you’re not confident. and you’re listening so well to each of his instructions.

you lined up the sights, acquiring yourself a good shot, but damn if his closeness didn’t make you blush. as if sensing your temperament at the moment, ben nuzzled his half hard cock against your ass with a slow exhale, causing you to gasp faintly.

your chest sank, about to lower the gun. but he spoke again, this time whispering gravelly. “now… shoot when you want. it’s gonna recoil, and it’s gonna recoil pretty fuckin hard, so be prepared for that.”

he lowered his hands from your waist to grip your hips. the feeling made you breathe uneven, just one short breath that didn’t escape his notice. he smiled, but for once didn’t point it out. not now. he held you tight, not letting you move even an inch away. having your precious self this close was too good to not take advantage of. just feeling your body heat seep into his sent blood straight down. he breathed heavy through his nose, right in your ear, and he gave your hips a gentle squeeze.

you pulled, and a loud bang- one you didn’t anticipate to be so booming because of the rolling papers- rang out when you applied pressure to the trigger. and not even half a second later, the sound of the bullet hitting the stump met your ears. just as he said, the recoil shoved you back. right into him.

tree branches shook as birds fled from them, and you gasped loud. his arm came around you immediately, and ben snatched the gun from your hands harshly by the barrel, quickly flicking something on it down with a click. you heard his laughter in your ear, your heart pounding.

“ha-ha! fuck, baby, you hear that? you hit that shit dead fuckin’ center. that’s my girl.”

he tucked the gun away, adjusting you forcefully to face him. his grin was unmoving, plastered on his face shamelessly. he gave you a shake as he laughed, and after getting your bearings, you finally sighed in relief. you smiled coyly, your hand bracing against his chest. and when you saw your stunned reflection in his sunglasses lenses, you finally laughed alongside him.

“i hit it?”

“did you hit it? yeah, you fuckin’ hit it,” he rubbed your arm, ruffling your clothes. he pointed to the stump. “see for yourself.”

you looked over, narrowing your eyes to see better. sure enough, near the center of the trunk, a hole from the bullet was marked. you picked the balled up rolling papers out of your ears. you let out a disbelieving laugh, grinning, feeling a twinge of pride for yourself. you just shot a gun and hit your target.

you were pulled out of your thoughts by a large hand smacking your ass, the slap causing you to freeze. his laugh deepened by your ear, his arm around you caging. he adjusted you in front of him, practically manhandling you, your hair catching in the wind.

your face fell at the proximity. your chest pressed flush against his made eye contact difficult. but ben hooked his finger under your chin, his other hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you even closer. that’s when you registered it. him, the hard bulge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your hip. your eyes widened.

“my little sharpshooter,” he said fondly. he leaned in to kiss you roughly, his teeth knocking against yours. it was as brief as it was aggressive, and it left you breathless and squirming.

he grinned, plucking the joint he rolled out of his shirt pocket, taking it between his lips. his other hand found your ass again, and with half lidded eyes, ben rutted his cock against you, just once. enough to make you gasp.

“now, why don’t you be a good girl and bend over this hood for me?”

a/n: can u tell i’ve missed the shooting range. if sb was my instructor id never miss a lesson. ugh this is soooooo dialogue heavy i don’t usually write like this i hope it lands well. as i said in a previous post, fighting through my feeling of un-motivation. this was fun to write tho. more content to come, ily guys~~~

[sapridart]

Lost Lace🖤🤍

[soulsforsales]

hold me like you love me

// hold me like you love me, baby, it’s all i need. your arms are my cage and your heartbeat the only balm to my chaos. // Part I //

Jason Todd x f!reader

notes: this is like sooooooo bad guys im sorry idk what this is i just needed to get it out of my system. bye. there’s a part 2 to this btw. let’s hope it’s better than this one.

warnings: none. just Jason having self doubts and hating himself. yk the usual. some fluff. mostly angst.

Jason never imagined he could have a life like this.

Even now, as he rests his head in your lap and your fingers rake though his hair and the only sound in the room is your breathing and the pages of your book turning one after another—he cannot believe it.

Jason Todd is made of filth. He’s made of anger and pain and horrors—he’s made of all the awful things that grow in the darkest corners of Gotham.

He doesn’t deserve this. How could he?

He has hands dipped in blood soaking from the bodies he’s dropped in his path, in his revenge, in his anger. He’s a terrible man. He’s a murderer—full of guilt and confusion and regret. He cannot change that. He cannot rewrite his history or trauma and he most definitely cannot replace the choices he has made.

His hands are soiled in the blood of others, it cannot simply be wiped off. It won’t disappear, it won’t be licked clean with love. He will stay how he was born—stained and unworthy.

Yet here you are—not refusing to see those parts of him, but choosing to see the man he is past them. Jason doesn’t understand you. He doesn’t understand how you look at him and not see a monster. Or a mistake—that’s all his family sees, at least they make it easier.

But you? You stand beyond his understanding. He cannot comprehend what goes through your mind when he walks into your house, covered in Gotham’s dirt and crime, covered in blood that he doesn’t have in him to wipe off.

He can’t comprehend what you see when you sit him on the closed toilet lid and deal with his torn skin and blood soaked knuckles. He doesn’t know why you kiss his forehead afterwards, why you tell him to take a bath and heat up the water for him and hold his hand to your chest because you know exactly what grounds him. Because you care enough to notice.

He doesn’t understand why you love him.

Because Jason Todd is a lot of things but loveable is not one of them. Or that’s what his unshakeable belief was before he met you.

Jason can’t even ask you why. It feels too… stupid. Too childish. Too dumb.

“Why do you love me?” He’d say, probably at a moment like this one, when every demon in his head seems to quiet down simply because you’re near.

“Why not?” You’d probably reply, smiling in the way that almost makes him think that he’s not as doomed as he believes himself to be.

But Jason doesn’t ask. Not when it comes to you. He just listens—after a long time in his life, he wants to follow someone and it’s you. It’s always you. He follows your words, your ideas, even your orders.

Like he did the first day he met you. It was raining too hard and both of you were waiting on the bus stop—except the bus never came. And you decided to take matters into your own hands. You’d laughed when you stepped into the rain, “cmon, stranger!” you’d yelled, waving your hand at him. And he’d followed. Like an awe-struck, hypnotised man. It was at that moment a part of him realised he’d do about anything you asked him to. He never knew it was that easy to want to follow someone’s lead and never look back again.

But there are ghosts clinging to Jason’s skin, ghosts that whisper in his ear when things get too good, too easy, too calm.

Like right now.

You inhale deeply, turning another page and he can feel your heart beating near his ear, he can feel the movement of your chest with every breath, the little—almost unnoticeable noises you make when you’re just existing, the sound of your hands soothing through his hair.

And he loves it. He loves every part of it, he notices every little thing and he melts a bit more every-time you do them. And that terrifies him in a way bullets and wounds and bombs never could and never will.

So Jason just holds on tighter, buries his face into your stomach. The soft fabric of your clothes tickles his skin and he closes his eyes against the smell of you.

He could die right here and he would die happy.

With you, he feels something dangerously close to peace—the kind of peace people like him cannot have, the kind of peace people like him do not deserve.

His life with you is a dream he never let himself have. You’re a dream. He is a nightmare.

If there’s anything that scares Jason more than his love for you, it’s his fear of staining you with his past, his mistakes, with him.

Even touching you is a mercy and a gift. Being with you feels like god’s apology for everything he has been through. You bring him every good thing this world has to offer—but can he ever be good enough for you?

You give him life. You’re the air he breathes. You’re the feeling in his chest, reminding him that he has left the grave behind and has a beating, human heart sitting inside of him. That maybe, just maybe there’s still hope, even for someone like him.

You make him feel alive. You—

“Jay?” Your voice reaches him through a fog. Jason lifts his head to look at you, eyes heavy lidded and tired.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough from being silent too long. You’re smiling at him—you’re smiling at him in that way you do when you think he’s looking adorable. Jason almost rolls his eyes. It’s bizarre to him that you could find him adorable—that you could even look at him and not be disgusted.

He notices that you’ve put your book aside and now both your hands are in his hair, rubbing slow circles against his scalp. God, you’re too good to him.

“I’m sleepy now,” you mumble, taking off your glasses to rub your eyes.

And Jason smiles—despite every ghost, every bad memory, every uninvited, terrible thought—you always make him smile.

“Alright, princess,” he mutters, “we should sleep then.”

You nod, but you don’t move. You just stare at him; as if committing every little detail to memory. As if you could look at him forever. It makes Jason’s heart beat painfully in his chest.

How can you love him? How can you look at him and not see all the terrible things—

“Are you okay?”

Jason blinks, caught off guard once again. Something sharp and spiky rises in his throat. The obvious reply sitting heavy on his tongue. “I’m fine” or “of course” or “why won’t I be?”

But he can’t bring himself to say any of those words. Instead, he moves his hands up and down your sides—grounding himself, reminding his undead heart that you’re still here, letting him hold you. “Just… feels like I don’t appreciate you enough.” There’s a quiet scoff attached to his words to make them sound less vulnerable than they feel.

You stare at him for a beat before smiling wide. Jason’s throat dries up—is this when you finally realise how pathetic he truly is? How dumb he is? Is this when you laugh at him? He tenses up like he could somehow pull the words back in his mouth. And then—you giggle.

You lean down and nudge his nose with yours. “You appreciate me too much already.” You say, still giggling. He swallows. Jesus, what’s wrong with him?

Jason nods, trying to muster up a smile despite the knot that tightens itself in his chest every single time his emotions threaten to take over. He’s going to cry. He can feel the lodging in his throat, the sting in his eyes.

He doesn’t want to cry. Not over something like this. Not now.

“Let’s sleep now, okay?” You say, shifting to lay down with him. Jason nods again, not trusting his voice.

You lay down beside him and you let him rest his head on your chest. You hold him—the infamous red hood, the violent antihero with a kill count, the man with an unsteady conscience and too much guilt in his bones—you run your fingers through his hair and you fall asleep next to him without a care in the world.

You trust him. You treat him like he’s something special. Like he’s not just a replaceable soldier or a ghost mourned by no one.

And Jason holds onto that. He presses himself against you, craving the warmth that was stolen from him along with life. He wraps his calloused palm over your softer, smaller one and closes his eyes, letting a single tear fall free.

He loves you.

Nothing else in the world has scared him more.

[lmanburgseulogy]

thought this screenshot was cool

[randomnessfangirl]

Is this anything

[lorasx]

the first time someone says “mr. moreau?” and jeremy looks up

[thearunadragon]

Eragon explaining his species like—

Eragon: Legally, I’m a dwarf-

Eragon: By birth, I’m a human-

Eragon: By magic tree dragon magic celebration night, I’m an elf mutt

Eragon: ✨Magic✨

And then literally all three races have rejected him in some way at some point