#I didn't know what to write | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inkskinned · 10 months

Text

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!!#my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her)#hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet.#i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!!#i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art.#i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

18K notes · View notes

confessedlyfannish · 23 days

Text

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!"

#i feel like I'm going to reread this and want to add other stuff #but I also just want to post it and get it out there #fun fact i scribbled a bunch of lines down at 2am bc i didn't want to forget them #im bad at multiple drafts #my writing #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc prompt #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #batman #i live to make everybody dramatic #but also i subscribe to a world where clockwork doesn't know how NOT to be dramatic #lol he's a ghost from all of time he doesn't know how to speak to humans and tailor it to the century let alone the decade #and his favorite little girl who calls him clocky loves how he speaks so #he doesn't need to change for nobody #nor feels inclined to #also I feel like as god he's way more inclined to threaten to get what he wants than like...be vulnerable #jazz: let's unpack that #clockwork: we never do #jazz: are you saying that because it's true or because that's what you want to be true?#clockwork: ...#also I cannot take credit for BITCH I MIGHTWING #wish i could #that is cash money right there #shoutout to 11thsense

1K notes · View notes

egophiliac · 8 months

Text

so on the subject of the "Crowley is secretly Revaan/Laverne/Levin/please Twst give us his name" theory, I think my feelings are best summed up as "I don't really buy it, but it's funny". like, in all seriousness, I'm not opposed to it; I have enjoyed the writing in Twst so far and I'm willing to trust that whatever happens will, you know, make sense and not be terrible. but I'm just not really convinced by the current evidence! maybe that'll change once we learn more, we'll see!

with that said, may I propose a few alternate theories about the possible Crowley/Revaan connection:

#art #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland spoilers #twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers #twisted wonderland book 7 spoilers #on this installment of things nobody asked but i'm going to talk about anyway #disclaimer that this is mostly a joke please don't get mad at me #(legit no shade to anyone) (speculation is one of the fun things about an ongoing fandom and you never know what'll turn out to be true!)#more seriously i do think there may be some connection that just isn't clear yet #but the more little breadcrumbs we get about what revaan was like the more i think crowley just doesn't act like him #i adore crowley don't get me wrong #(yes he's a dipshit. this is a feature not a bug.)#but like.#not to harp on the scene about lilia's nrc invitation (i am absolutely going to harp on it)#i do not believe that crowley would go through the trash to fish out the pieces and put them back together and save them #just because it was lilia's. just because lilia might want it again someday.#crowley can ✨yasashii✨ all he wants but we know what he's like #and i REALLY do not believe that lilia wouldn't recognize him. i didn't believe it before and i extra don't believe it now.#then again i do tend to be incredibly off about speculation so! who knows! i will trust the writing for now!#i do 100% believe that meleanor would fall in love with the world's biggest dumbass and then double down super hard. that part tracks.#that said i have decided that ambrose being revaan is actually the funnier option just because it would make crowley SO mad #it wouldn't make sense for him to be mad about it and that would just make him madder

3K notes · View notes

kevindavidday · 2 months

Text

as shifty as they were when they were younger, at the actual age that andreil are at do you think they've got the potential to be friendly strangers? like not overly friendly but the kind of people who understand what being human is

think about it, the experience of living a sheltered life and neil is standing behind someone in the grocery line, watching them unable to scour up money for ramen and water so he pays for it to help things along

andrew watching a little kid peer into his mega expensive car of the year and the kid gets scared of him and moves aside but andrew opens the door moves back, tells the kid he can have a look its fine

do you think they would interfere by force if they ever saw something bad happening in front of them? neil on his runs stopping to help someone cross the road, feeding stray cats in alleyways, yk the people who know what struggle is and don't want it for anyone else?

idk if they're the type to shrug off injustice so easily, i feel like whatever they learnt as children is buried deep inside the caution and fear of strangers and all but maybe what wymack taught them would rise to the surface too cuz if wymack hadn't chosen to help them they wouldn't be alive either

#sometimes i think about how neil cried when wymack passed away #and nora said in the EC thats one of the times andrew actively held him cuz he didn't know what else to do #yeah idk im in a mood #ofc this isn't just for andreil it applies to like kevin and aaron and nicky and all the upperclassmen too #might write more abt them too #aftg #tfc #neil josten #andrew minyard #andreil

558 notes · View notes

i-die-for-alastair-carstairs · 2 years

Note

🌻 If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not! Let's get to know the person behind the blog 🌻

Omg I love these, it's so cute. Sooooo let's see

1) I never dye my hair (I'm blonde)

2) when I was young I'd like to study astronomy

3) I like to make people feel loved by baking

#mutuals #answered ask #I didn't know what to write #i feel like an idiot #but it was pretty funny

0 notes

leclerced · 6 months

Text

good morning | mv1

summary: Max's flight is delayed so he gets home in the middle of the night and wakes his girlfriend up for some fun after being apart for two months.

warnings: somnophilia. rough, unprotected sex. do not read if you are under 18+ this is not meant for you.

author's note: i think about this all the time, but i haven't written about this because i didn't think many people were into it? i dunno, maybe you'll like it.

Max was almost disappointed to find his girlfriend asleep when he arrived home from his late flight, he hadn’t asked her to wait up, but he could tell by the lingerie on her body she planned on it. He quietly stashed his bag in the closet and took his shirt and shoes off as he crawled on the bed as nimbly as possible to avoid jostling her. His hands found her thighs instinctively and his fingers trailed up her skin until they met the orange lace. She hated the color, had obviously bought it specifically for tonight, so he didn’t feel bad as he gripped the fabric and ripped. It tore easily, and he let it fall around her to reveal her dripping cunt. The sight in front of him pleased him greatly, and he parted her thighs then settled on his stomach between them.

Max went right in, licking from her hole to her clit to lap up the wetness she had accumulated in the hours she had been waiting for him. Despite having a private jet, he couldn’t control the weather and they were delayed when it started storming in Monaco. She had been texting him weather updates as the time passed, as it started drizzling, then raining, then full on storming. He wasn’t surprised she had fallen asleep, a storm was like a lullaby for her, as soon as it started thundering her eyes would glaze over and the yawning would start. He licked at her a few more times, eyes locked on her face to watch for a reaction.

She was having a weird dream. It started off at a shopping mall full of grocery stores with one store for every item she needed, and she had to go through the entire store to find the brand she liked. It went on for infinity, just one long endless hallway full of infinite single product stores. Then, suddenly, Max was calling her begging her to come home and she was stuck in traffic trying to get to him as he detailed all the things he wanted to do to her when she got home. She could feel the heat growing between her thighs, and she was aching to reach down to touch herself as she could hear the sound as he stroked his own cock and moaned between describing his fantasies to her.

She was hot all over, sweat forming on her back and she reached to turn off the heater and she suddenly jolted awake just as she turned the knob. A moan immediately left her lips and the sudden dream change made sense as she felt the familiar feeling of her boyfriend's mouth between her legs. She gasped his name as her hands drifted between her thighs to tangle in the head of hair between them. She couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes and look down, scared she would wake up again and be all alone this time.

Max moaned between her legs, and her legs twitched around his lead as he sucked at her clit. He pulled away for a moment to mutter, good morning before he wrapped his lips around her clit again. Now that she was finally awake, he focused on making her cum on his tongue. The tugs on his hair were motivating as he sucked and flicked at her clit, the whines and moans that fell from her lips made his cock twitch and leak in his sweats and he suddenly felt dizzy at the thought of fucking her after months of waiting.

She felt the all too familiar knot tighten in her stomach as he eased two fingers inside of her and curled them. She loved waking up like this, it didn’t happen often, just when he had been gone for too long and she fell asleep during his flight home. She briefly wondered what time it was, when the weather had cleared up enough for his flight to depart, but the thought immediately left her when his fingers curled into her gspot again and rubbed against the spot and she came moaning his name.

He crawled up her body and kissed her as his fingers worked her through her orgasm. She could taste him on his mouth, feel her juices on his lips and chin as they kissed, and it made her stomach twist as he licked into her mouth. As soon as the peak of her orgasm faded, a satisfied sigh left her lips and her hands left his hair in favor of exploring his body, one hand immediately sought out the waistband of his pants to push them off. Luckily, he had worn sweatpants for comfort on the flight instead of his ridiculous skinny jeans, and they easily slipped from his hips. She whined into his mouth when he pulled his fingers from her cunt and broke the kiss, her body followed his momentarily before dropping limply back into the duvet. The complaint vanished at the tip of her tongue as he removed his pants fully and stroked his cock with the hand that was still wet with her orgasm. The sight in front of her was worthy of being admired for a lifetime, she thought. He stroked himself a few more times before he grabbed her hips with both hands and flipped her over.

She giggled in shock at the sudden movement as Max man handled her. She thought he was going to have her on her hands and knees, or at least knees, but he seemed to have different plans as he shuffled them around the bed until he was satisfied. He held her hips up with a firm hand on one hip as he stacked two pillows underneath before he gently pushed her forward with the hand on her hip and patted her left butt cheek lovingly with the other. “Now I don’t have to hold you up while I fuck you stupid.” Her breath hitched in her throat at his words, despite the teasing voice he said it in, she knew he wasn't joking as he lined up with her entrance.

Max gave her no time to adjust as he snapped his hips into her, and she immediately found herself biting the duvet to quiet her moans as her body shifted forward with the force. He noticed her muffled moans as soon as she buried her face in the covers and reached forward to grasp her hair and pulled her head back sharply. “Don’t,” was all he said before he released her and dropped her face back to the bed, and she pressed her cheek into the covers, sleepy eyes looking back at him as she followed his order. The roughness in his voice made her clench around him and he grinned as she moaned his name loudly. He grinned, "That's it, schatje, let everyone know whose making you feel this good." She was so sensitive from her orgasm moments before and she could feel the second one burning in her lower stomach at his words, she couldn't stop moaning to retort as much as she wanted to.

She could barely breathe with the intensity of his pace, she couldn’t stop the moans falling from her lips as he fucked her true to his words. His grip on her hips was tight, she knew she would be bruised tomorrow, and depending on how long he fucked her in this position, she imagined there would be bruises where his hips were slapping into hers harshly and the thought sent a shiver up her spine. She wished he would flip her over so she could touch him, she couldn’t reach him like this and was left to grip the sheets as she moaned into them. The load moans had shifted into breathy ah-ahs as she gasped for air between moans.

Max could feel her clenching around him, her second orgasm around the corner and he suddenly stopped, pressing his cock all the way into her as he pressed his chest to her back. His left hand left her hip to grip her chin, "Open." Her eyes fluttered shut before she her lips parted and she stuck her tongue out for him. He spit into her waiting mouth and she immediately pulled her tongue back in and swallowed, and he pressed himself closer so he could press his lips to hers in a chaste kiss before he righted himself and went back to fucking her with no warning. "God, you're so fucking good to me, schatje, taking me so well." He watched as her eyes flew open and her mouth widened in a silent moan, then he felt her cumming around his cock and he nearly came from the shock of it, but clenched his jaw and fucked her through it.

Max didn't slow his movements as she whined and pulled her arms up under her head and buried her face in them. He could feel the oversensitivity coursing through her body, see it in the way she arched her back and tried to pull away from him even as his grip held her in place. Her voice sounded broken as she gasped, "I can't, Maxie." It sounded like she tried to say something else, but it was cut off by a moan.

His left hand rubbed lovingly at her hip as he slowly his pace and asked,"You really can't, or it feels so good you can't take it? I think you can take it like the good girl I know you are." She whined and didn't reply, so he rephrased the question, "Can you be good for me? Come with me one more time, schatje?" He's sure he would have cum just then if he hadn't stopped his bruising pace as she whimpered, "I can be good." He grinned and slid a hand up to unclasp her bra, and she immediately lifted herself with what little energy she had to pull it completely off her arms and toss it to the side before collapsing back on the bed. His hand traced her ribcage around to her chest until it found her breast, squeezing the flesh before he pinched and twisted at her nipple. It earned a whimper from her lips and her cunt fluttered around him, and he felt his cock twitch inside of her.

He kept his slow steady pace as he tried to calm himself until didn't feel like he was going to burst inside of her in a moments notice. He didn't want to be done yet, he knew he wouldn't have anything left in him once he came, he already felt like collapsing on top of her without finishing, but he hadn't touched her in nearly two months and he was catching up on lost time. If his flight hadn't been delayed, they could have gone at it for hours before either of them were this tired. The slow pace let her recover from her back to back orgasms and catch her breath, and she enjoyed the teasing way his head would catch on her entrance when he nearly pulled all the way out before sliding back in. She hadn't even done anything but lay there and take it, and her body was already feeling a bit sore, she could feel every muscle and nerve ending in her body. Everything felt amazing right now, in the moment, but she knew when she woke up tomorrow her body would regret it.

Max admired her as he slowly rolled his hips into her, eyes trailing from where their bodies met all the way up to where her hair was clumping together with the sweat on her back and he reached forward to gather the locks in one of his hands and brush it to one side so he could kiss the open expanse of her shoulders. She sighed at the feeling of his lips on her hot skin and tilted her head to the side expectantly. His lips found hers immediately despite the awkward angle and they shared a slow languid kiss until he pulled back and kissed her shoulder again, "Ready?" She nodded mutely and he peeled back from her, slowly building back up to the pace he had set earlier. Neither of them were going to last much longer, she was clenching around him with every thrust and he was fighting off his orgasm with every move he made. Max reveled in the whimpers and moans that fell from her lips as she pressed her face into the crook of her elbow. HHe moaned her name as she clenched around him, "Fuck, that feels so good, pretty. Gonna make me cum in you if you keep that up." He heard her say something between moans, but couldn't make it out. "What's that?"

She twisted her head back and pouted at him, "Please?" She blinked prettily as he grinned at the way her voice cracked as she begged, her cunt fluttering around him as she teetered on the edge of her third orgasm. The single word felt like a punch to the gut, and he squeezed her hip as he said, "Make me cum then, angel. Cum all over my cock." She whimpered and buried her face into her arms again as the tension in her body released and she came around him for a third time, and the feel of her clenching around him had him stilling inside her as the shock of his orgasm hit him and he nealry shouted her name. He let himself collapse on top of her, sloppily kissing her back as he panted against her skin. He didn't want to move away from her, loving the way she continued to clench around him even after his orgasm had faded, but he knew she couldn't be comfortable under his weight, especially after he just wrecked her the way he did.

Max felt bad as he pulled away and she whined as his cock left her. He sat back on his knees and watched his cum drip out of her, and didn;t even think as he leaned down and licked it up. She squealed and rolled away, nearly kicking him in the process and he jerked away laughing. She grabbed a pillow and hit him, "I'm too sensitive for that."

He groaned as he grabbed the pillow from her and crawled on top of her, "Tomorrow then?"

She pushed him away as he leaned down for a kiss, "You're disgusting. Go get me a rag like a normal man, you freak."

Max laughed again as he retreated to the bathroom and wetted a rag with hot water. He threw it at her as he walked to the closet and pulled out a clean blanket and teased, "You know you love it." She didn't bother denying it, they both knew it was true despite her previous claims. Max turned and watched as she finished wiping herself up, then tossed the two soiled pillows he had fucked her on and the duvet off the bed, his cum had dripped out of her while she sat waiting, and she wasn't going to sleep on something soaked in cum. He had known she would do both, and he shook out the new blanket on the bed before joining her under it.

#i don't know what got into me that made me write this #i didn't proofread it.#max verstappen #max verstappen smut #mv1 #mv1 imagine #mv1 smut #f1 #f1 smut #f1 imagine #max verstappen imagine

933 notes · View notes

yuno-karei · 20 days

Text

Misfits water gun fight! Who will emerge victorious? Only one way to find out

I did this piece for one of the @mairumadevizine prints! It was also done long before the beach chapters in the manga and I really just... balled with their designs

368 notes · View notes

teenytraveler · 4 months

Text

i missed you (and they kiss)

#spy x family #twiyor #loidyor #loid forger #yor forger #fanart #my art #help i didn't know what to write in description #so i just used what i named the file #this is a soft “i missed you” kiss #i miss u my ass they haven't seen each other since morning #it hasn't even been that long

423 notes · View notes

actual-changeling · 5 months

Text

hey.

do you ever think about the fact that they had four years together? four years during which the bookshop became their bookshop? crowley's glasses found a place to stay and so did he, comfortably vulnerable and content, safe and protected by their home, by his angel.

do you ever think about crowley sleeping on a sofa in the back while aziraphale watches over him? do you think he covers him with the warmest blanket he can find and closes his shop to make sure he won't be disturbed? do you think he sat in an armchair beside him, reading book after book and occasionally glancing up to look at him?

do you think whenever he saw him sleeping—peaceful and safe and his—he smiled, soft and smitten and so, so in love?

do you think he learned to read the signs of nightmares approaching? a twitch here, a low noise there, pain carving a path down his face, and he responded every single time, kneeling on the floor and gently pressing a palm to his cheek. do you think he brushed his thumb over his cheekbone and whispered you're with me, it's just a dream, waiting until he calmed before returning to his chair?

crowley woke from paralysing nightmares sometimes, and without the signs, aziraphale did not know, couldn't stop it in time, but he was there when he shot upright fast enough to make himself dizzy. he would drop his book and cross the distance separating them, allowing crowley to grab his hands and look at him with tears in his eyes.

just a dream, aziraphale would say, we're okay.

breath after shuddering breath, eyes darting around the room, hands shaking around his own.

you're here, crowley would respond, and finally, finally he could relax.

i'm here.

they do not talk about it, but afterwards aziraphale would settle down next to him and read out-loud until crowley fell asleep again, until the sun rose or set, until crowley woke with a tiny smile on his lips and his nightmares gone.

do you think after four years of having a home crowley snaps awake in the middle of the night with a scream in his throat and tears streaming down his face, frantically looking and reaching for a person that is no longer there?

"where are you?" he asks, quiet and pleading even though he knows. damn it all, he knows.

crowley still dreams of fire and ash, but there is aziraphale's voice now, smooth and steady and gone. nothing lasts forever—only his nightmares will, even once he returns, and he has to return. he has to.

he has to come back because crowley cannot spend an eternity praying, over and over and over:

"where are you?"

"i'm right here," crowley whispers to himself, closing his eyes and lying to himself, his voice shifting to sound like his. the room is empty, cold, abandoned. his chest is hollow, aziraphale's presence gone, intangible, imperceptible. gonegonegone.

i'm right here.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #i had you in the first half didn't i :)#it's all about contrast besties #hurts worse if you know what he lost

413 notes · View notes

scificrows · 8 months

Text

Okay, my brain refuses to think about anything other than Murderbot, so I looked at every use of the word "friend[s]" in TMBD and... created some pie charts. Normal human activities.

Some Thoughts™ I had while putting this together (under the cut):

In All Systems Red, Murderbot notes that the PresAux crew are all close friends (twice! and goes on to explain their internal relationships which I think is very cute). This is pretty much the only use of 'friends' in ASR, except for when Murderbot says that SecUnits can't be friends with each other.

It seems that this may be one of the first times Murderbot has ever really been around a group of friends before? Murderbot notes that this is not the norm for its contracts and admits that the fact that they are all friends and the way they interact with each other make it actually enjoy that contract (before!!!! the hostile attack, so it already enjoys this contract before they start seeing it as a person etc ghghhhh). [Inference: Friendship seems enjoyable.]

The first character that calls Murderbot its friend is ART in Artificial Condition. Murderbot immediately refutes this (and then goes on to call ART its friend to its clients for the rest of the book). [Inference: Maybe ART is Murderbot's friend. And maybe that is... agreeable]

Rogue Protocol has more than twice as many instances of the word 'friend' as any of the other novellas. Why? Miki. Friendship and its implications for non-humans are a central theme because Miki is friends with everyone. Murderbot initially scoffs at the notion that Miki and Miki's humans are friends. At the end of the book, after witnessing how desperately Don Abene tried to stop Miki from trying to save them, and her grief after its death, Murderbot has to admit that she had in fact been Miki's friend. [Inference: Humans can be friends with bots and can sincerely care about them]

In Exit Strategy, Murderbot tentatively uses the word "friends" for its humans for the first time (several times actually). It questions whether it can actually call them its friends or not and later realizes that it had been afraid what admitting that the humans are its friends would do to it. At the end of the book, Mensah tells Murderbot the PresAux crew are its friends, which is the first time a human has directly said that to it (at least on-page). [Inference: Humans can and want to be Murderbot's friends]

In Network Effect, Murderbot seems to be more habituated to the word 'friend', confidently calling ART and Ratthi its friends, like it is no longer just trying the concept on unsure if it fits. There are many instances in which other characters refer to MB as ART's friend or the other way around and Murderbot's humans refer to Murderbot as their friend several times. Generally, there seems to be less hesitancy, because yes, all of them are Murderbot's friends, why wouldn't they be. [Inference: SecUnits can have friends. This SecUnit has friends. They care about it a lot.]

Conclusion: The Murderbot Diaries tell the story of a construct that does not seem to consider the possibility of friendship for itself and is fine with that - until it accidentally starts caring a little too much and suddenly more and more people annex it as a friend (ew) to the point where it can no longer deny that this is happening and has to begrudgingly admit that yes, it has friends now and maybe that is actually not a bad thing.

#the murderbot diaries #murderbot #𓄿 #hi i'm READY to write a thesis about murderbot i am having way too much fun with this #i created a pretty excel spreadsheet and everything #i don't know why i did this but now i can look at them while i think about this more! so i figured i'd share them haha #i didn't count uses of 'friendly' but special shoutout to when MB is all alone in its cold cubicle missing 20% of its body mass #and starts putting on a show because 'the friendly noise would keep it company' 😭😭#i feel sick thinking about murderbot all alone on its own not knowing what its like to have friends watching media for 'the friendly noise'#also YES okay i wanted to make a point about miki there but i just #couldn't bring myself to talk about that more so... yeah #also uhhh this data is very subjective #i didn't count particularly ironic uses of 'friend' and generally did not count every instance of friend and sometimes it was a hard call #also i probably shouldn't have counted the times murderbot refered to drones or secsystems as its friends (often after hacking them)#but murderbot does seem to care about them and shows kindness and respect and sometimes points out that a system is friendly #so while i don't think MB means “friend” in the same way referring to them as when it refers to ART for instance #i still think its CUTE and also kinda funny how many times that happened so i decided to keep those!!!#but yeah take my data with a grain of salt lol

743 notes · View notes