#from the incomplete snips

[serevena]

Are you entertained?

Ellie Williams x fem!reader

a.n - *ahem*..joker & rainbow brainrot rn and I needed to make a fic..no happy ending because I’m a monster! Rainbow will be out soon, which, yes, is a happy fic..feel free to read these in any order you please. Enjoy! <3

warnings - Provocative language, angst, Ellie self sabotages (?), potential spoilers to TLOU II, I make u feel bad in this fic oops don’t hate me

Can’t play your game, so take me away..

But without me, you're incomplete..

I'm the missing piece, trick or treat.

“I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Her words echoed through your mind on replay, day in and day out. Your body had chills the second she said that, your heart dropping as your vision went blurry. She wasn’t saying what you thought she was, right?

You guessed your question had been answered when you laid away at..what time was it again? You’d lost track.

Your eyes felt heavy but you just couldn’t sleep. Too scared you’d have another dream about Ellie just like you did yesterday. You’d only been getting around 3-5 hours of sleep, dreading the moment the sun started to set. Those hours were absolutely excruciating considering you had to see her in your dreams..You somehow found yourself wanting them to be bad dreams because at least that’s your reality now, right?

But, no, they were happy. Almost like, memories.

Smile on my face, laughing and joking, usually lonely, and if you hold me, I’ll make you stronger, I wanna do that..

Oh, it’s drivin’ me mad.

“That’s not how you do it.” You snatched the paper from Ellie’s hands, smiling at her dramatic reaction. “I was working on that!” She yelled out in complete disbelief, a gust of wind causing that one goddamn strand to fall into her face, one side of her hair tucked behind her ear. She rarely ever wore it down like that.

You were teaching her how to make crowns out of paper, a hobby you learned while bonding with the kids in Jackson, but Ellie..well, she sucked..and that’s putting it lightly.

“This is like—wonky.” You mumbled out, snipping at her crown..if you could even call it that, to make it even. She rolled her eyes and rubbed her neck. “I had it..

you’re making it worse.”

Are the words she mumbled to you before walking out the door, ouch. Had all your efforts gone to waste? You tried to take care of her, help her cope, be there for her..and it just wasn’t enough.

It was never enough for her. For you. From you. From anyone.

And now you stand alone, like a fool.

Can’t play your game, I tried to change, painted my face, made a new name..

Are you entertained?

#serevena #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us 2 #ellie williams angst #tlou part 2 #tlou2 x reader #ellie williams tlou2 #ellie williams #the last of us 2 #the last of us part two #tlou ii #tlou #joker

[fatale-distraction]

I am pleased to regret to inform you all that I have joined the legion of spiderfuckers

This is Qilué (Key-lew-ay) and she can and WILL MAKE HIM WORSE FIX HIM

Here’s an incomplete unedited excerpt from some writing I did today for them.

~~~~

"Can you remove Lolth's influence from one of her creatures?" The priestess drew herself up to her full height. "Of course we can, child. It is one of Eilistrae'e's greatest joys and blessings to relieve the oppressed of that dark mantle." "Save your flowery language. This one might be a bit more of a challenge than you anticipate," she warned. "Astarion, would you...?" "Oh, gladly," he smirked. "I can't wait to see the looks on your faces," he said in a loud aside to the clerics clustered nearby, who scoffed and rolled their eyes and muttered amongst themselves. "I'm certain we're up to the task, my dear," the priestess condescended gently. "We--" The room fell entirely silent as the sound of long, sharp talons clacked and scraped against the marble floors. Confused and wary glances were exchanged, and hands moved in the quick drow sign language. Astarion shouldered the door open and stood aside with a flourish to permit Kar'niss to claw his way into the temple. A long cloak of indistinguishable color covered his head and body, but it was impossible to hide the eight massive, spiked arachnid legs or the bulbous abdomen and armored thorax they supported. Silence continued as he settled himself behind Qilué and cast a curious glance around, his secondary eyes blinking out of sync. An acolyte near the effigy in the back of the temple let a copper offering plate slip from his fingers. It crashed to the floor and rolled noisily across the room. Kar'niss' seven eyes followed its path with vague interest. The painfully long journey that culiminated in an agonizing clatter as it took its time settling, stretching on and on until at last Astarion huffed in exasperation and stomped on it to silence the tinny metal cacophony. After another beat a cleric passed dead out and hit the floor with a heavy thud. The priestess was all but gaping, her eyes wide.

"That's a drider," she wheezed. "Yes, most of us have reached that conclusion," snipped Astarion. "His name is Kar'niss," Qilué bit out. "Can you do it?" She placed a loving hand on Kar'niss' pale arm. His head slowly turned toward her, every eye unblinking and focused tenderly on her presence. The priestess flicked her gaze between the two and swallowed. She pushed her sleeves up and fixed a game expression on her face. "We can certainly try," she said, a slight tremble in her throat belying her confidence. "I've never done it before, nor have I heard of it being performed, but Eilistrae'e’s mercy is vast...I can't undo what has already been done," she added softly after a pause. "My powers cannot reform him into the man he once was, but it may be possible to at least free him of that which binds him to the Spider Queen." "That's all I can ask for," Qilué replied, not removing her gaze from his. The urge to kiss him was powerful, but they already had one unconcious drow in the room. Kissing a drider might take several more down, and they needed all the help they could get. Kar'niss, unfortunately had other ideas and bent to nuzzle at her nape, that affectionate purr rumbling in his throat, his arms and two legs circling her waist to draw her close. "Not now, Kar'niss," she hissed, pushing feebly back at him. That only caused him to begin dragging his teeth down her neck, his hands cupping at her waist and hips as two more legs surrounded her. Astarion burst out laughing as another cleric fainted and Qilué pushed back harder, scolding the drider three times her size. The priestess mopped her brow. "Yes, well," she cleared her throat. "That's...quite interesting. I...need a moment--WE need a moment, to prepare, that is." "You mean recover," guffawed Astarion as Qilué finally won her struggle against the over-affectionate drider, who hissed moodily and mumbled something violent under his breath.

#karniss #kar’niss #drider #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur’s gate 3 fanfiction

[mochiwrites]

Hello mochimoch my favourite mochicat. A polytechs prompt for you: the three of them going on a long distance date while Mumbo is travelling off server and Iskall is doing on Vault Hunters

ueueueue ty void, my favorite void 🥺

reminder that reblogs do more than likes <3

——————————

“Scar is doing what?!”

Iskall’s laugh comes through Grian’s communicator a bit choppy, too echoey and a bit robotic. The call does little in favor of the laugh, but Grian has heard it so much that the sound is forever ingrained in his ears. He can hear it quite clearly.

“He’s certainly more of a menace than a superhero,” Grian chuckles himself, shaking his head. “I think we’re all living in fear of being snipped from behind.”

“Gosh,” Mumbo sighs with a little amused huff, shaking his head. “I guess we got off server at the right time then.” He’s moving something around on camera, hands just out of frame. His sleeves are rolled up, and Grian can see bits of redstone dust on his shirt and face.

“Come on Mumbo,” Iskall says, “knowing your luck Scar’ll keep this up until you get back.” There’s something teasing in his voice, and it makes Grian smile softly, fond.

“I hate that you’re right,” Mumbo grumbles.

“How’s your Vaulting going, Iskall?” Grian inquires, looking at his camera.

With the way the camera is set up, Grian and Mumbo have a good view of the other’s storage set up. They’ve been rummaging through a bunch of their chests for a good portion of the call, crafting things. There’s some kind of altar set up that he’s been setting items down on.

“Oh, just great! Omega success!” Iskall answers, fiddling around with something in his hands. “Haven’t died once.”

There’s something about their tone that makes Grian and Mumbo share a look through the screen. “You totally did, didn’t you?” Grian questions.

“They definitely did.” Mumbo nods sagely in agreement.

“I— gah! Menaces, the two of you,” Iskall grumbles, making them both laugh. Iskall joins in a second later, and warm laughter echoes in the room of Mumbo’s vault. It almost sounds like they’re here with him.

Yearning burns in Grian’s chest as he looks at his partners, his smile softening at the edges. He’s wearing one of Iskall’s green hoodies over his jumper, and each time he breathes in he gets a soft whiff of spruce. Except the smell is beginning to fade. He watches both of them, and he aches.

“Everything alright over there, Gri?” Mumbo asks, looking at him. His camera is mostly clear, allowing Grian to clearly see the concerned look in his eyes.

“Huh?” Grian looks at him. “I’m fine.”

Iskall looks at him with a small frown. “You look like you’re seconds away from crying,” he pauses, “you’re also wearing my hoodie again, Birdie.”

Grian pauses, realizing very easily that he’s been caught. “I’m fine, really,” he says, because he is. He then hesitates, glancing around Mumbo’s unfinished vault. He sighs, wings drooping behind him slightly.

Mumbo had been the first to go off server, saying he needed to rediscover his spark. Grian could see the break was something he needed, and was the first to encourage him to take said break. Iskall was right behind him, and Grian thought he’d be just fine with Iskall around, that it’d make missing Mumbo easier.

But then Iskall had taken a break as well, and Grian was alone. They have their ways of staying in touch, in keeping each other in the loop and making sure they all know how loved they are. If Grian is being honest though, it isn’t the same as being able to fly to Mumbo or Iskall’s bases and flop into their arms. It isn’t the same as being in the same room as they are and laughing along, leaning against them when he can’t hold himself up.

His flock feels incomplete.

“I miss you both,” he admits, fidgeting with his hands.

“Oh Gri,” Mumbo murmurs, “I miss you too.”

Iskall nods, “It’s weird being able to do redstone without worrying about a pesky bird dropping a potato in there.”

“Hey!” Grian squawks, “I didn’t know it’d do that!”

Warm laughter spills from Iskall as they grin at Grian, “And I’ll never let you live it down.” Their grin softens at the edges as their voice goes a bit softer, “I miss you both very much.”

Just hearing them say that makes his chest swell, and rather than diving any further into his emotions, Grian eyes them both, “I’m going to cover both of your bases in chickens. For a welcome home present.”

Mumbo goes pale and mutters something about leaving Grian unsupervised while Iskall laughs. But the important thing is Grian sees his feathers on both their persons (an earring in Mumbo’s ear, a bracelet around Iskall’s wrist), and he melts.

His flock has parts of him, too.

#mochi speaks #polytechs #grumbo #griskall #mumskall #hermitshipping #mochi writes #IM SORRY ABOUT THE ROUGH ENDING AAAAAAAAA

[lakesbian]

one thing about me is i'm the ideal person to receive spoilers on a liveblog because i will simply let them flow in one ear and out through the other. i am aware of them but they're not being used to compute anything they're just sitting in the corner. i knew that demons Eat Shit + cannot be used without Someone losing out big & i was informed from a spoiler that mr cellar demon created rose & blake & i knew that blake and rose have a Thing going with being incomplete/two halves but did i extrapolate from that fact that mr cellar demon created rose + blake by snipping an original thorburn? no. not to say the least of my having seen the url "trans-rusty-thorburn" before and simply going Hmm none of my business. because the puzzle pieces were sitting on the floor and i wasn't touching them. yes i knew blake was borned yesterday before reading no i didn't remember that this meant he was specifically a vestige. got spoilered? Just Don't Be: Simply Don't Think About It. ilove reading stories like. i will NOT be theorizing and/or connecting obvious dots we fucking get there when we get there. which i imagine has had everyone standing by the liveblog checking their watches for the entire book like "damn when is she going to get it" but that's not a me problem. i am sitting in the metaphorical backseat of this book and we'll get there when we get there.

#pact time #pact lb

[yanderedbdimagines]

Can you do something for yandere quentin who's obsession is afraid to sleep at night so they'll come to awkwardly ask if they can sleep with him bc they're scared and tired from being pulled into more trials than usual? Love your blog btw and I hope you're taking care of yourself :)

---------------

Thank you for liking my blog! And I’m lucky to inform that I’m doing well. 😊 So no worries on that part! I really like this idea, so I made it a short scenario at the very least.

-----------------

Quentin Smith

The survivor encampment was silent and still, the only sound coming from the occasional rustling of the leaves in the surrounding trees. Most of the survivors were huddled inside their tents, either trying to catch some sleep or preparing offerings for the trials that were sure to come. Quentin, however, had found a spot by a lonesome tree a little ways away from the center of the camp where he could read in peace. The bonfire's light didn't reach that far, but the Entity had provided unextinguishable torches that cast a warm glow over the area.

As he read, Quentin couldn't help but notice how thick the fog had become, obscuring even the eternal moon from view.

The Entity’s pleased.

Quentin bites the inside of his lip in anger and frustration.

The trials had been more frequent and intense lately, and the negative energy from the survivors was palpable. Some had even been forced to run trials back-to-back with no time to rest in between. Quentin knew the toll this took on the mind and body; it was an experience he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. Let alone upon the person he currently loves most.

Just then, he saw a familiar figure approaching him.

You drew nearer and Quentin could see the fear and lack of sleep etched onto your face. He felt his jaw clench for but a second.

He put down his book and waited patiently as you gathered your thoughts after you’d stopped in front of him, looking more so at his hands than at his face.

"Quentin, I-I-," you began, hesitating. Quentin remained silent, sensing that you needed time to find the right words.

Finally, you took a deep breath and spoke. "Is it alright if I sleep by your side? I-I can't really sleep alone anymore. The nightmares have been getting worse since I've been forced to run more trials than usual." As mentioned before; you’re scared and tired, made prevalent by the deep bags that are hanging from below your lower eyelids and the low-spirited haze that’s casted over your eyes. 

Quentin nodded, understanding all too well the toll that the trials could take on a person's mental health. You settle down against his side, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, offering comfort and support.

As you settled in for the night, you began to open up about your experiences with each and every trial you’ve had thus far. You spoke of how you noticed how your memories had been fragmented and distorted by the Entity's influence, with clear memories of pain and fear but hazy recollections of the details. You knew which killer had taken your life and how, but the memories were incomplete, as if snipped away with complete disregard.

"That's what scares me," you admitted. "I know we've been through so many trials, but it's like the Entity is wiping the slate relatively clean after every death. It's like we're not even supposed to remember what happened to us."

Quentin listened quietly, his grip on you tightening. He too had felt the effects of the Entity's power, the way it distorted reality and played with the survivors' minds. But he also knew that the survivors were stronger than the Entity gave them credit for. They had each other, and that was something the Entity couldn’t easily take away. Not as long as it wants to instill a certain kind of hope within them. This includes the two of you.

"It's okay to be scared," Quentin said softly. "But remember, you're not alone. You have me, and we're in this together. We'll get through it, no matter what."

You nodded a bit weakly and snuggle closer to Quentin before closing your eyes. Even still, he could feel that it was hard for you to fall asleep by the way you moved. His words weren't enough...

But when you finally did fall asleep, perhaps for the first time in a long time, he felt himself relax as well. In comparison, the warm glow of the torches provided a little comfort. Yet to him, you served as the reminder that even in the darkest mists, there was still even a bit of solace to be found. Even if it's just for a moment.

If only he could make it last forever instead...

#dbd #dead by daylight #quentin smith #nightmare on elm street #yandere #dbd x reader #reader insert

[alesyira]

numb

this scene (super early draft, wrote it last night and today, subject to revisions!!) probably happens a bit before that last one i'd posted titled 'still alive' with some tweaks to how they flow together, linked into a scene I've started where the bakugous end up coming by to cause even more sad feels. these two snips plus the brief still-under-construction BK cryfest should be most of what i have planned for a follow-up chapter at the end of glitch. it establishes a few tiny (probably unimportant don't worry about it at all) details that come back around in accidental vigilante.

The TV is off when Izuku blinks back to reality some undeterminable time later. He licks at his lips. His mouth is terribly dry.

“Mom?” 

The sound that trips out of his throat sounds little better than a miserable croak.

The house is dead silent.

The lights are still on. 

His fingers twitch, aching from the harsh grip he’s had on the TV remote. 

It’s stuck to his palm. 

His thumb is still settled over the power button.

Ah.  

The remote clatters against the table as he stands.

Her shoes are still missing, so she must still be- 

out.

His vision fuzzes as he stares into the mid-distance. 

His thoughts wander. Fleeting and brief, they bounce through a hundred thoughts without bothering to settle upon a single thing.

He stands there for a few minutes before he realizes he needs to do something with himself.

When he runs out of things to dust, tidy, and wash, he starts hanging the laundry to dry.

His thoughts are mostly empty and at relative mindless peace by the time his mom gets home.

She pauses by the door, forgetting to remove her shoes as she stares at him from across the room.

He feels frozen in place by the evidence that’s wrecked her normally cheerful expression with a red nose and puffy, bloodshot eyes.

Maybe he should have left while he had the chance. 

She crosses the room in a few quick strides and throws her arms around him.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, though it’s terribly muffled by the way she’s shoved her face against his chest. He breathes out a long sigh and tentatively hugs her. 

He’s not sure how he should feel. 

Sad, probably?

Angry--  likely. 

Lost … definitely.

“Katsuki, he’s-” she starts to explain, but he squeezes his arms around her sharply, cutting her words into a squeak.

“Don’t. I know.” He doesn’t know, not for certain, but he can damned well make an educated guess. “We have some leftovers still. Let’s eat those before it gets any later.” 

He doesn’t think he should feel like the adult right now, but maybe of the two of them, he’s the one that’s a little more numb to accepting of the horrible fact that heroes can die. 

Hero students can die. 

Students can die.

He could have died. 

She sniffles and nods against his chest. 

She clings a little as he leads her back into the kitchen. They heat and plate up something simple, then she settles back into the couch with a wobbly exhale that sounds like she’s on the verge of tears again. 

He quietly watches her until she resolutely stuffs a bite into her mouth to chew. (He hates to think how she’d react if it had been him, instead.)

Not really interested in eating right now, he sets his plate on the short table between them and opens his laptop for a fresh distraction. 

He checks his email.

That seems safe enough. Probably.

He cringes at a note from one of his teachers about an assignment he’d left incomplete. The message is brief and to the point, with inference that quitting midway through some of the projects they’ve been assigned could lead to dangerous situations. 

But neglecting to finish poking around for new clues on a cold case? Yeah, the criminal(s) were thought to be a serial killer, but they hadn’t been active in several years.

This incomplete assignment seems pretty small and insignificant in light of all the people that died just days prior. As much as he wants to distract himself with the interesting (and sad) details of the cold case he’d been looking into, this more immediate problem seems more deserving of his attention.  Like the building he’d been standing next to which had exploded so soon after he’d fled, or the weird thing that barely missed taking off his face as he stared into an unnamed hero’s horrified eyes. And the authorities that now want to ‘talk’ to him?

His mom flicks on the television. They’re still running the segment asking for any information on the unidentified individual shown in the security camera.

His mom nearly drops her plate as she whirls to stare at him with wide eyes. 

“Izuku.” 

…The incomplete assignment continues to be neglected.

side note, i'm toying around with possible Izuku disguises so if you've ever cringed at Izuku wearing non-gender-conforming outfits you might want to go find something else to read because author writes whatever the hell she wants to but ily anyways

#midoriya izuku #izuku midoriya #bnha #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #two steps to the left au

[divinekangaroo]

While "patiently" waiting for fic updates :) , was wondering what other stories you're working/will be working on? Will you be writing still when you go back to work?

No pressure btw, this is me trying to manage my expectations XD

lol, yeah -> my 8 hours of blissful 'do nothing but write idly' day has dropped to about 2 hrs in the evening. the increasing arc of life resuming. The writing is still ok in these 2hr bursts but getting it to a readable standard is agony. The one benefit is that these 2 hours are probably going to be the same 2 hours I'll have once back at work.

My past fandom experience is that I usually mono-play in a fandom for around 5 years -- but I've never had kids+work+other family commitments when writing before.

I do hope I still have the drive to keep writing once am back at work. I can already feel that anxious itch of pressure, though, and my way of coping with pressure is to aggressively prune everything (friends, family, hobbies, chores, self) that causes the slightest bit of peripheral friction so I can concentrate on the thing that I can't prune (work, money, survival). BUT, this time, I go back to a new area-director role rather than my past project-director role, which should have less crazy deadline pressure/inconsistent hours than most construction work, so I'm just not sure what to expect. It'll be the first time in my life when I actually have a desk job with consistent hours.

Of my current Last Second Ending arc, I really want to finish the Holford fic, the Diana fic, and the Charlie fic (the 'Churchill' vehicle, although I'm so many chapters away from Churchill it's nuts!), which are all the live and incomplete multi-parters-- but as multiparts they are more challenging to do. I have several other ideas/snips scattered through the timeline, but they're fairly short as drabbles, flash-fic or circa 10k standalones, so they will be less heavy to complete and easier to do around work hours -- but they do tempt me now because they're more easy and fun to produce. This timeline's list of ideas has stayed stable for a couple of months now, so at least I know what 'finished' looks like for this arc, even if I don't quite get there.

I do have two firm AUs which itch at me wildly (timeline arcs again). I'm desperate to write the first piece of both as an anchor/test, but keep deferring because I know I'll have to sanity-check my motivation after finishing (or hitting a motivational brick wall with) Last Second Ending.

The 'easy' AU is the 1990s AU which is Tommy x Lizzie, set broadly post S3 and to the end of S4 as an AU S4. It's easy because there's only a few scenes in my head but they're all pretty heavy/hardcore and I can't find an 'in' for framing them yet.

But the second is that weird-arse Dragon Age II fusion AU which is less pairing focused and more family focused, albeit a great deal of pairings and sex within - but it could be a fascinating little monster of a thing, so I'm letting that simmer in back of mind until well after I get back to work to see if there's sufficient motivational drive. It's likely to become a 'what if the PB version of the Real World also had five millennia of Blights, mages, the Fade and Circles as part of Real World history/currency?' idea (alternatively: magic is real but it's pretty fucking ugly what humans do with it).

I also have about five loose BUF-Britain AU list of flashfic sketch ideas, which are generally 'things and scenes that might happen if Mosley was voted into power and took over england', which is primarily Tommy and Alfie.

And I have one solitary sort-of crackfic sort-of-not-crackfic -- S5 from the 'My Property' scene onwards but with the addition of a male chastity device -- which despite the crack premise will actually be really difficult to write compelllingly with the amount of scene checking and chronology I'd need, and accordingly is so low on the list I only think about it in idle moments to amuse myself.

There were a range of other ideas (like a 28 Days Later AU, or a Butcher x Baker AU, or why can I not have these endlessly magnificent threesomes I desperately want to read) but mostly they were isolated 'wouldn't that be cool' scenes without any sustained continuity or theme, so with time limits, they've sort of withered away.

#my writing

[choctalksalot]

@tipsygnostalgy HELLO HI UH THIS IS AN INCOMPLETE VERSION. i snipped out some bits because im throwing down anxiety in.the ring even posting this. im frankly a little embarrassed i can't give everything tonight even what i have down as okay to upload is not my top form at all, im just really really excitedaaaa i'll probably reblog the lovers post with a complete version eventually, but for now this is the best thanks i can offer for the nigh lethal dose of dopamine you've shot into my skull.

apologies in advance for my verbosity it's chronic

im posting dirk's half first because i definitely talked too much on jake's. it's almost double the length. i think it's partially because ive chewed through dirk so much i can make it through a considerable amount of his sections without dissolving completely. and i'm impatient!

note: my interactions with philosophy are limited to the two month bonanza i spent when i was 14 which i barely remember due to my general memory issues because my philosophy teacher was shit at his job and i took matters into my own hands, and uh. dirkjake! and one character from one other fandom. yeah. i am a nerd who loves breaking shit down, i love information, and i love philosophy nonetheless but i am So unqualified to be doing any of this

entry 1:

can i scream? i'm screaming. out loud. in real life. holy two fucks and a half. what do i even say it's So Good. dirk could excuse his inadequacy with the minute comfort that the brother he idolizes is functionally perfect in a way he could never conceivably live up to be. everything is shattered when he meets a version of him who is on the same footing. Yes. i literally have a post typed up about it.

im copypasting a small segment here but it's so close to exactly what you said im almost unnerved. mostly excited tho i am SHAKING

the most devastating thing to know is that dave is just a guy. dave strider, 16 year old. human and flawed and still enough in ways dirk never could be. what he did for his team his friends the things dirk couldn't, he is made to serve and no matter how hard dirk tries he cannot live up to be the same because this is not his role.

words? words. that's so much many words.

this is not his class. he is doomed to be selfish, his thread is already in the tapestry and he falls right into the path no matter how much he fights it. what can be counted as him indirectly the plot was created at the service/detriment to himself (hal) and what is himself directly aiding his party is in fact orchestrated by other more helpful, more selfless people and he hates it so much.

YES IT'S EXACTLY THAT RIGHT THERE RIGHT RIGHT THERE dirk is so so So aware that he is selfish that he cannot help the people he cares about oh so deeply and the knowledge that dave on his own, after being hurt so much "more" than dirk direct abuse he was able to pull through, he was still enough. shit man !!!!!!!

funnily enough i think dirk might have been able to learned new skills to do with his classpect besides the passive narrative bend it has on everything he does to destroy. this is entirely theory but your classpect and your development with it helps you develop as a person. it's like a muscle if you think about it; the more you use it, the closer you get to its core, the more you learn to bend ithad he tried to use it (resisting the urge to say like dave did because that will stomp on the shattered pieces of my heart) i think he would have gotten a bit more control over his position in the narrative if it makes sense.

ironically, i think learning how to direct the destructice force his classpect gives him might have allowed him to get a hold on said narrative bending, and stop unintentionally wrecking shit. but doing Anything as a prince is the last thing dirk wants.

(god it's so tragic this theory is so tragic without it dirk was always doomed to the inevitable but with it he could have done better in his eyes nevermind that destruction of selves isn't always bad if you know how to direct it, see bgd @ aranea, but it literally requires him to take the path he's trying to hard to fight. you define how your classpect changes you. oh dirk.)

i think a lot about this if you can't tell

FUCK IM GETTING OFF TRACK. STOP OKAY CAN THE THEORIES FUCK.

[insert 2 paragraphs more of me screaming about the katana line hally lieu yeah]

entry 2:

HAL MY FAVOURITE KENTUCKY FRIED FUCKER HELLOOOO HELLO OOHOHOGO

god my old hyperfixation on deep learning models is coming back to bite me in the jungular. delightful slash gen

dirk does love his control mhmm mhmm god im gonna go dig up that picture my friend sent me once one sec

that's who he wants to be. so badly

he Hates not understanding shit prides himself on being the (im quite sure it's part of how he gauges his use. he has a very utilitarian view on it. being the one to pull the strings thus being useful by virtue of organizing their success. proceeds to eat gcatshit trying)

i think a part of why dirk insists so fucking much that hal is Not him and Not alive could be one of two 2 reasons, beyond the already tangled pumpkin patch of conflict.

1) not taking credit for hal's contributions. the fact that hal has served the team without dirk's direct orders + dirk's objective pride about being the puppetmaster, he wouldn't want this tied to him

i doubt this one honestly, it's incoherently explained on its own because it's really late but also it just there's a lot of holes in the logic here. the second one breaks my heart a little:

2) if he accepts hal to be sentient, he has to accept he has created a new conscious person. he cannot cling to any notion that he did help his friends, he created an intelligent AI and that tool he made in turn was used to aid and guide his friends. he is still in control here. he still helped, he built that bot and it helped.

right?

[cutoff point 2. im rushing. im so sorry ajsjaj]

entry 3:

killing me

"He likes emotion, he likes people, he just wants to be completely perfect when interacting with them so that he’ll never lose them." YES. YES. YES YES YES yes okay yes exactly Yes

this is one of the things i headbutt against in dirk fandom stuff a lot (even borzoi's take once i think correct me if im wrong) it's the fact that i think dirk likes people. he's been alone his whole life yet he delights in dialectics and dialogue, he's socially awkward and introverted but he's not socially averse. i am not gonna let myself run over the hills and far away with this tangent but i am hushdhsj AAAAA

what he doesn't like is feeling inadequate interacting with people. he doesn't like being inadequate in general he reflects on his flaws near constantly and the biting reminder of his alternate selves' sins in the back of his mind doesn't help, but with people he Cares About interacting with them he does not like not knowing what to do, he does not like being unable to navigate these situations. he likes being human and experiencing emotions and connection and he hates the fact that it requires error to the trials, he just wants to be entirely logical while still having a metaphorical right brain totally not a big thing to ask for ahshdhskjrh[explodes]

AHAAAAA SISYPHUS YYYES YES YRS EYSBEYDHHWHEHSHEHD FUCK YES oh man i am much more a theatrical literature person so this is ringing off bells in the wrong direction than intended but im reading reading reading chewing

"upon facing the question of the absurd in the fullest extent, one can either choose to kill themselves or make a ‘reply.’" hogh

two roads: become god, or kill yourself. jesus fuck that's a screwed up twitter thread if ive seen one. and of course he picks the secret third option: Both. absolute DiStri Moment™

fuckitweballkind that's joining my regular vocabulary holy shit your language is amazing

this feels like an extension of dirk's dilemma between subjective experience with objective control; coming to grapple with the unpredictability of his absurdist existence and his solution being to take control of the narrative entirely. i feel like there are a lot more dots i could connect here. i will sleep on this

[addition i feel is important even though it has minimal connection as of right Now:

roxykisser put out something about classpects and the ult self being the literal narrative very recently and how they tie into the narrative and it's That it's that. my take is partly influenced by past fandoms but it has always ruined me that in order to god tier, quite literally, you're killing the person you were before the embrace the narrative role. you the actor are giving up your freedom to the performance, and the closer you get to your classpect the more you embrace the narrative. in return, you gain more flexibility and control in said narrative, more ways to use your classpect. to become the ult self is to become the role. you kill the person, you become the role, but at the cost of your self, your mind may be driven by the consciousness of an amalgamation of every You, but your core is now your role.

im incorporating and altering this with my consumption]

really hope this is like at least mildly entertaining i have no idea what im doing but!!!! I Am So Abnormal About Everything i love this i love you i love love this so Much

#choc talks #A LOT. #about dirk #not gonna maintag any of this because i intend to keep this as down low as possible aksjsjas it's unpolished unfinished #everything everything this is everything to me GAH I LOVE YOUR MIND

[andsohegetstodieasaint]

touch starved ☠️

Alone time with your favorite patient I sure hope he doesn’t fuck you like he’s trying to kill you or anything!

pairing: ghost x reader

word count: 5.4k

tags: slow(ish)burn, mutual pining, mask, ((tw medical environment, descriptions of wounds and medical procedures, reader is a medic)), vaginal penetration, choking, blood kink, overstimulation, nipple play, spanking, rough sex,

“Alright, I promise not to fall in love.” Turning on your heel, you approached the counter with a couple emesis bins full of supplies. The quip earned a raspy chuckle from your patient, but he complied— sort of complied. The hard won compromise you’d been able to reach was an incomplete removal of the mask. He’d roll it forward just enough for you to get at the stitches. Stubborn fucking bastard. With the lac running from the sagittal suture down to the zygomatic arch, you had a fair bit of ground to cover today.  

Unwillingly, your arm remembered his bone-crushing grip on your wrist when he’d first come through triage and you hadn’t known of his strange way. The chalky rub of so many little wrist bones, like crunching pebbles underfoot. You’d never had a soldier argue with you undressing them period— medical emergency or not. Here as well as in many other areas, was where Ghost was different from the rest. His check ups with you now happened in a private room and though certainly not as stoic as usual, he still didn’t relent on the mask. 

He’d cleared your field, moving the hood away and holding the front of the mask to his face with his hand. The wound looked good, the skin was fused, no redness, swelling or broken stitches, you'd been betting on at least a little dehiscence with a cut curved so wildly. 

“Ah, I see you’re keeping it nice for me. And here I thought you were looking for reasons to visit.” Another small chuckle, only made special by the habitual reticence of the man under you. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the room as you gently ran a swab over where you’d be working. “How’s it feelin? Any pain?” 

“Not for the past few days. I’ve healed through worse.” You’ve ‘eeled ‘ave yew? The jeer slid back down your throat when you saw jagged discolorations along the flesh of his neck— a burn scar so nasty he had to have been hospitalized. A fraction of your mind wondered how far down his scars might go, if his skin would feel rough and calloused, or maybe extra sensitive to touch.

“I believe it He-Man, I only need you to sit still.” You let your voice come through a little more gently, gloved hands starting to snip away at the stitches. 

“Not possible.” He sat like a stone in your chair. You ignored every warm feeling you got from hearing the smile in his deep voice. Despite yourself you were growing fond of him. The patients you saw only ever came back hurt again, or worse, so it was best not to get attached. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy your time together.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you, and you focused on string and scissors and tweezers to blot out how badly you wanted to focus on him. Unbeknownst to you your patient fought a similar urge. The line of duty left him mildly touch starved and though the feeling of the stitch removal he could do without, your hand gently cradling his head as you worked awoke a frightening vulnerability in him. He almost wished he were in body armor under fire— there he knew what to do. 

It only got worse as you worked farther down to the side of his head, now gently cupping his cheek. He swallowed thickly when your breath brushed his neck. It embarrassed him, but he was always worked up after your sessions. Lately you’d been talking to him a little more lively, not realizing it multiplied the effect you had on him. He didn’t want to cross a line but after so much time alone he was pent up. He couldn’t make himself not want you.

“This is looking really good actually,” you paused, leaning back to consider the entire wound. “It may not even scar.” ‘Looking really good’ struck his mind like a bell, it still fed him even though you meant healed and not handsome. 

“What’s one more at this point?” Ghost said, voice cool, not betraying how flustered he felt. A small win for him. 

You laughed softly, an exhale. “Right? It just adds to the charm.” Focused, you swabbed with another round of antiseptic before laying down strip-bandages in place of every other suture. You were using half the damn cabinet in terms of bandages on this man. 

His dark eyes flicked over. Charm? He’d think about that when he was fucking his fist in his bunk after this. “Exactly.” 

In the back of your mind you were wondering if you were flirting too much, it seemed okay to keep toeing the line as long as he kept toeing it back. During the last few sessions you two had been playing footsie all over it. “Keeping it all hidden away is so merciful of you. It’d be hard to do my job with my hands shaky,” you said, turning to dig through the bin to find more fucking steri-strips.  

“I know, I know. I do what I can,” he drawled through what sounded like a big grin, shit eating, even. The giggle you let out made his chest, and something lower in his stomach, rise with warmth. Getting cut up was turning out to be worth it for him. He savored the last moments of contact as you started snipping again, taking out the final sutures before covering where they once were with more strips. Your hands were on him with professional grace– not how he wanted them at all, though he’d been pushing those thoughts away. Mostly. 

“Alright, one more.” He’d gotten the second laceration in the process of defending from the first one. It ran from right around the ulnar head about three inches down his forearm– he’d stopped the blade just before it made it to the neck, and in deflecting it upwards the cut ran up his head. 

He pulled his arm up to show you as you sat down on a rolling stool in front of him. “This one doesn’t feel ready yet.” He gingerly tapped the side of the bandage that covered another set of stitches. The gentleness of the motion was funny coming from the intimidating mass of man in front of you. A man who almost got stabbed in the neck– and who had definitely stabbed others in the neck before. “It was deeper, it may take longer to heal than the first one. What we’re worried about is a problem in the healing going uncaught and leaving you with complications in the future.” You’d pushed away, rolling to the counter on the opposite side of the room to look at his chart. Inwardly smiling at his attempt to prolong your sessions. 

He watched your legs move as you maneuvered the rolling stool wishing, with a little bit of guilt, that you’d put your hips into it so he could watch. One special thing he’d always loved on women was how far their thighs– and ass, flattened out when they sat down. Watching you move, he wanted to bear the weight of them so badly. Ghost wondered if you’d be shy, if you would need encouragement to put your full weight on him. The slope of your hips looked like the perfect handhold to pull you down if you did. He swallowed, opening and closing his good hand, watching the tendons flex as if to erase the image of you from his mind. It didn’t work. He didn’t want it to. 

“So I still have to check it– to see how it’s healing before we leave here today. Okay?” He missed everything you said while you were moving the stool around. “Yes ma’am,” he said, voice throaty. You had gathered new supplies in a new bin, the old bin now full of removed stitches and gauze.

He laid his arm down on a small rolling table that you’d made a big deal about cleaning. You’d told him about it too, explained why and everything, he just didn’t absorb it. With the way his arm laid on it his hand hung over the edge and was dangerously close to touching your thigh. He wondered how much give there’d be if he got to grab it— if the soft flesh would fill his hand the way it filled out the chair. He balled his fist.

The bandage was on the outside of his forearm, which meant you were gonna have to turn his arm a bit to get it off. You took up his wrist and twisted gently, looking down the length of the laceration. Holding his arm it was impossible not to note the thickness of it, you’d already borne witness to the strength it contained. That first day in the emergency bay you tried desperately to break his grip on you, eventually digging your other hand into the wound to get him to release you. His crew hurried to explain but they hadn’t been fast enough. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he’d broken your reverie. “I remember that day, it was wrong of me to grab you.” He paused, unsure how to fully make it better. “I thought you were–” 

“Yeah,” you smiled abruptly. “You hit your head.” The grip he’d had on you that day hurt, your wrist still clicked a little. But the effortless strength in his hand had dogged your raunchier thoughts as of late. It had been a little while for you, and seeing only a fraction of what he could do left you curious as to how thoroughly he could manhandle. Had you been prepared for it– or had it been somewhere else he grabbed, you would’ve happily remembered it in your bunk that night. “At least mine didn’t need stitches.” 

“Alright now-” you cut him off with the snapping of a new pair of gloves. “Sit still, I can make this hurt.” He was glad it was smoothed over lightly, but it did bring him a sense of deeper quiet to know you didn’t hold what he did in a daze against him. You peeled the bandage faster than he was ready for, but gentler than you usually would have. His sigh stuck to the back of his throat, he was right, when they’re ready to come out they aren’t this painful. 

“Yeah,” he could hear the frown in your voice. “Looks like we will have another session; fear not.” The black surgical thread stood out angrily against his healing skin, it stung just to look at.

As you turned away towards the bins you’d gathered he looked over his arm without the bandage. This had been his first opportunity to see what remained of his tattoo. “I did what I could,” you said, not turning around. “Used a simple interrupted suture to keep the scarring down, luckily the lac ran in the direction of your lines anyway.” He looked at  the back of your head unable to say anything, he felt touched that you’d consider something small like that for him. “Thank you.” It released a whole new flare of warmth in his belly to subdue. He was about to take in the full picture of your back when you started to turn around. 

“Of course,” you turned back with a smile. His dark eyes hung on you for a beat longer than usual. Warmth flared up your belly, it made you nervous he’d read your thoughts earlier. His new clean bandage went on without a hitch. Cleaning up your makeshift station you snapped your gloves off last, revealing the deep tissue bruise from where he’d grabbed you. 

“Fucking hell,” he was on his feet with you in seconds. He made a gentle motion out towards your arm. When you recoiled from him, a sucking pit opened up in his gut. “Medic, I-” 

“Don’t worry.” He couldn’t tell if your other hand on his shoulder was to keep him away or to comfort him. The joy he’d expected with your touch came tainted. He’d hurt you. “It looks worse than it is. It’s a bruise.” Darkened abused flesh rolled out from the carpals of your wrist down two or three inches. The swelling had subsided over days but not evenly, leaving you bumpy and stiff. As your other thumb ran back and forth along the outcropping of his shoulder, he placed his hand over yours, gently, like you were made of glass. Holding it there with a cautious comforting warmth, ready to fly away at any second. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I shouldn’t have let this happen.” He started to break away from you, he wanted to pace the room until it collapsed in on him. You kept him there, hand sliding to the back of his arm. “You were barely conscious, it was just a reflex. Do you really think this is the first time a patient’s hurt me?” He quieted, recognizing the look on your face as the one medical people wore when they were leaving a lot unsaid. Truthfully he hadn’t considered that before, but the thought turned his already sinking stomach. It made him want to shadow you, and break anyone else’s hand before they could hurt you with it. 

Your hand dropped from his tricep to his wrist, indulging in a very small, hopefully imperceptible squeeze against your better judgment. “You didn’t get out unscathed either, ya know.” He looked back at you. The mask hiding everything else made the movement of his eyes all the more fascinating. Where there usually was a sleepy downward slope and the harsh cut of a bag underneath, his eyes were now bright with alertness. The squeeze was not hidden well. “I’m the reason you needed the internals. Jammed my fingers in there pretty good.” Your smile spread across your face so easily that he wanted to laugh, nervous energy needing to escape him somehow.  

The internal row of stitches hurt like a bitch. He’d never gotten cut that deeply before, body armor usually taking the brunt. He had wondered, in passing, how this one had taken him so deep. But now knowing the culprit, he couldn’t find the same anger he’d planned on for vengeance. The flare from the memory of pain twisted together with the heat of wanting you that still hadn’t died down in him. 

It wasn’t dying down anytime soon with you feeling on his arm like that. “You felt me up.” The abruptness he said it with made it sound like an accusation, your first reflex was to defend yourself. “What? No-” He brought his hand outside your arm and slowly felt upward to your shoulder, squeezing exactly as you had. It brought your breath to a sigh. Embarrassed, you tried to suppress it only making it sound shakier as it came out.

“If that’s not feeling up,” he paused, getting closer, “why’d it make you sigh like that?” His hand came up to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head back to look up at him fully. His gaze was too intense, you turned away, or tried to. His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb in front of your ear and pointer finger behind it, the rest of his fingers caught up in your hair. “You’re gettin’ shy on me.” 

Done for, you were unable to stop your smile. You met him with eyes that felt too heavy, finally letting him take the weight of your head though it felt unwise. Leaning into his hand. “I’m actually not feeling shy at all right now,” your words came out easier than you’d expected.

“Ah,” part answer part exhale, he pressed the lines of your bodies together. He was wearing too many clothes, you couldn’t really feel him underneath them. Now standing firmly in his space you were delighted when his other arm curled around you. Warm and excited, you sighed happily when the rough fabric of his mask ran along your neck and settled behind your ear. “D’you feel this comfortable around all your patients? Medic?” His voice low against you, bantering even now. 

“It’s funny. I want to kiss you,” you turned and eyed where his mouth should be behind the mask, “but I can’t figure out how.” He suppressed his chuckle to a low hum in the back of his throat and mouthed down the front of your neck through the mask. It scratched along your skin gently, with the warmth of his interest behind it. It pulled a groan from you and woke up your clit, a warm line running up into your gut. “Sit down.” You put your hands back on the outside of his arms, directing him towards the bench in your exam room. 

Ignoring the annoying crinkly paper he did as you said. So easy to follow orders when you liked where they were going. It turns out he was luckier than he’d hoped, you weren’t shy about being on top of him at all, legs filling out his lap much better than they ever did the rolly stool. He reveled in the pressure of you grinding on him, strength in your legs he hadn’t anticipated. “Fuck,” his breath came hard against your neck, “I’ve been thinking about this since I laid eyes on you.” He punctuated with squeezing hands on your hips, savoring the motion of your waist and how plush the skin was. The pressure was good but it wasn’t enough, he buried his head in your chest and nibbled on your collarbone. The sound it pulled from you made him leak. He tilted his hips up to rub against you harder, muscles in his legs happy for the strain. 

The pressure of him growing more solid underneath you was lost in the thick fabric of his pants. “Ghost.” At your call he looked up to you, detaching himself from your chest. “Take your clothes off.” The forwardness surprised him. Without meaning to, he paused, fully registering the moment. Your hand put gentle pressure on his throat when he wasn’t moving fast enough, “Please.” The squeeze took him by surprise, his voice came out in a rushed sigh “God.” 

Your vision flipped, he’d moved you under him so quickly that you didn’t have time to register he‘d used a fighter's roll to do it. He was so practiced in close combat he didn’t even feel the strain, controlling you with ease. He’d lined you up on your back, hips above your navel, thighs parting around him. He seemed to hesitate there, massaging the flesh on your thighs and grinding  against you before taking his shirt off and working on his belt. His body was lanky but solid; big. His pale skin was littered with scars, cuts and chunks taken out. 

You wanted so badly to feel the patch of hair that ran down from his navel, end still hidden by his pants. But with how he had you, your own weight was holding you down. You struggled to get a grip on your shirt— on anything, hands scrambling. “Don’t worry love,” he shucked the scrub shirt above your head quicker than you’d ever been able to. Leaving you suddenly cold in your cami, cold enough that the peak of your nipples through it stopped his train of thought. 

Burying his face in your chest again, his hands kneaded on you gently, when his thumbs pressed on each nipple and rubbed up and down the moan you let out pitched up to a whine. Looking down you saw the muscles in his broad shoulders flexing and rolling as he pulled the cami up from where it was tucked in your scrub pants, his hips still rubbing against you as he worked. His breath came out hot against you now bare, taking a nipple into his mouth and letting his tongue lap against it. The extra friction from the rough-hewn fabric of the mask all but contracted your legs for you, clinging to him tighter as the sensation built you up. 

Your nails digging into the soft flesh of his inner arm turned him on more than he was willing to say. He wanted you to scratch him hard. Ghost liked to get it as good as he gave and so far you hadn’t been reluctant to be a little rough with him, his dick twitched at the thought, starting a new pool of pre cum in his boxers. He grazed his teeth against your nipple and when you gasped he bit down, nipping at you in between rolls of his tongue. Your noises were addicting, he settled in to stay there a while longer. 

Finding his ear you gripped him harder than you should have, stretching the thin skin you’d spent so long nursing back together. He sucked in a shaky breath and moaned an exhale, dark eyes flicking up to you with an intensity usually reserved for combat. A warm thin line drew down his jugular and it excited him more than he’d expected. The sting of the cut reopening made him groan, swallowing hard as he stared down at you. You were too excited to wait, throbbing of your clit matching the runaway pulse in your chest. “Fuck me now.” 

In one motion he pulled your pants and underwear off. Legs now above you, he folded your knees to your chest, tilting you up further so he had more control. Too impatient to undress all the way he let his pants fall around his thighs and pumped himself in his fist a few times, smearing pre and wetness he’d gathered from you down the length of him. The angle let him sink into you deep, he was curved perfectly to push on a sensitive spot far back. Eyes wet with the sting, you were wishing he’d come near you again so you could squeeze the shit out of him, overwhelmed from the pressure of him inside. 

With how he had you positioned you couldn’t rock against him or meet him halfway, it left you focused instead on the sensation of being so full. He’d given you time to acclimate but now he started up in earnest. The force from his thrusts started to send you up the table and away from him. Leaning down to you his hand met your neck, strength pinning you to the table to hold you still while he fucked you harder and deeper. The sound of skin slapping skin completely filled the small room, and unfortunately probably also the surrounding hallway. 

The weight of him was pressing the breath out of you, your head was going flush with the need to breathe. Without thought you gripped his wide forearm squeezing as hard as you wanted, feeling heat creep through your fingers. Letting your head loll to the side, you focused on the feeling of him all the way in you as that warmth spilled on your chest. It felt like his head had a distinct ridge, when he pulled back it suctioned deliciously along the top wall. His curve made it a “come here” motion, and his length made it too deep to think of anything else. You couldn’t decide if it felt better going in or out, the pressure of your impending orgasm built quickly in time with his thrusts. 

He released you when it had been a little while since you made a sound. Seeing how your lips had plumped with the blood rush he couldn’t resist bending to you, kissing like he meant to eat you from the mouth down. You kissed back at what felt like his mouth, letting the mask move against you, just another sensation. He moved down to your neck, biting through the mask as he had done before, thrusts slowing down but getting deeper, pressing even harder. He was savoring you. You felt warmth drip from his neck to yours, sliding slowly down your jugular to the junction of your collarbone. You started to wonder how he’d started bleeding until his head pushed especially deep, forcing a gasp from you. Your legs and feet flexed gripping around him,mind completely blank of anything else. 

Gripping at his thick shoulders you dragged your hands down, intending to mark him. His groan twisted in his chest and came out a little strangled, he was sensitive from the scarring on his back. The sting from your scratch rallied the fire in him, he pulled back and pulled out, needing a second to stave off his ending. 

You watched his chest heave from underneath him and idly followed how the blood from his neck mixed with the sweat to smear down his chest. You had wet spots on your neck, hand, and chest, where the cool air of the room now bit you. The professional part of your brain wanted to stop and bandage him, you were ripped out of the thought when he threw one of your legs aside and flipped you over.

Your hands held you up on the annoying crinkly paper as he gripped the hinge of your hips, lining himself up with your entrance. Before going in again he took a minute to run his eyes along the curve of your ass, tapping his dick on it lightly and committing the ripple to memory. The soft bounce was too enticing, he grabbed a handful and kneaded while his dick strained to be touched. When you wiggled against him and sent his dick bouncing back and forth he let out a groan like a man starved. 

Arm like a vice around your waist you were confused when he turned a bit away from you until you felt a harsh smack on the flesh of your ass, reflexes tensing you away. “God, sweetheart,” his breath came through a sigh, “I could do this all day.” He’d paused, kneading, see how you reacted, if you’d be okay with more. His eyes shot you the question. Your expression had a fine glaze, your higher function mildly fucked out, but the sharp smile sent over your shoulder gave him the permission he asked for. He held you too tightly for you to move against him like before, but you let him feel you try, struggling against his strength. 

He could only savor a couple more smacks before he had to be inside you again. New angle drawing him in even deeper. The strangled whine you let out made him grip you tighter, he wished you’d make that noise again. He resolved to make it happen. 

The curve of him felt even better flipped over. Punching the sensitive spot like a bullseye, it was impossible for you not to clench around him, only making the pressure better. His hands on your hips gripped you tightly and pulled you back on him as he came forward, force increasing. With every hit your voice came out a little, out of your control. It seemed to egg him on, he kept meeting you harder and harder. Eventually pulling your wrists out from under you, he tipped you further downward. “Like the way you sound,” he grunted out his words. 

Walking his knees up even closer to you he held you up a little higher, your knees almost coming up off the table. While repositioning he made one long heavy scoop motion, it brought you so close to the edge that you keened and your hands fought for purchase behind you. Unable to reach him you dug into the flesh of your own thighs, starting to brace for the end. The noises he was relishing came muffled with your face now squished against the bench. His pace forced them into half sobs as a small tremor started to run through you. He recognized it and fought the urge to go harder and faster. 

Feeling the growing pressure of you squeezing around him, he knew the moment when you were about to finish. Ghost watched your body lock up underneath him, curling in on itself and shaking in waves as the grip you had on him tightened around his dick until he had to fight it to move. Fight he did, fucking you through it although admittedly slower and steadier than he would’ve liked to. When your breath came in a string of inward gasps and your hand splayed weakly against his stomach he slowed to a stop even as it made his body scream. You fought your words out through the smaller convulsions, “I can’t stop.” A fine tremor in your voice matched the shaking of your hand on him. “Don’t have to,” his voice had a soothing thread, “just take it for me, love.” His hands massaged the flesh of your ass before he straightened out your legs, you were getting too shaky to stay up on them. “You can do that, yeah?”

At your small nod, he started up slow again, pulling all the way out before pushing back in. He’d put you completely flat on the bench while he straddled the back of your legs, planting his elbows up by your shoulders. Missing your sounds from before he snaked his hand under you to reach your throat, he groaned at the feeling of your voice against his palm– groaned right into your ear. Laying flat made the pressure feel different, he was coming straight down on you now, but the curve of him stroked the back wall so well your sensitivity hardly died down. With him close now you grabbed at the outside of his neck and held on while he started to approach his earlier pace. Your voice grew higher as he pounded at the too-sensitive flesh over and over. The more you mewled the tighter he gripped you, the tighter he gripped you the more you clenched, the more you clenched the faster he went, turning each other on in a fevered pitch. 

Tears pricked at you as your voice came out of your control again, so sensitive it didn’t take as much as before. Trembling as you felt another, hotter buildup, you squeezed at his arm that gripped you, starting to struggle against him. “Tap your clit,” his voice came strained but assertive, rushed from feeling his own end around the corner. He went as deep as he could while your hand played around him, finishing you in a fit of contractions even he couldn’t move through. The force drew him in and wrung him dry. Head against the back of your neck he finished while you still shook beneath him, his breath unsteady as it came back. His orgasm was quicker than yours, you were still contracting in waves while he had grown too sensitive to do anything but suck in breath through his teeth. 

Almost pained with the sensitivity, he pulled out and slumped to lay down flat on the bench with you. Big and broad, he realized he took up a lot of the room on it. Trying to make up for it he curled you to his chest with his arm. The silence of the small room in the wake of so much noise seemed unnatural. With the heat fading from both of you, you were a little cold even with him on top of you. Inwardly giggling as you pressed cold hands to his chest, you giggled out loud when he hissed from the surprise.

When you started to wriggle out from under his arm, his heart sank a little. He had the possessive urge not to let you go, but after taking a moment to appreciate how your body felt against his he released you. Committing it to memory, he convinced himself he’d be happy with only that. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for you to run away and never speak to him again, or worse– to turn around and say something cruel. Being treated horribly in the past left him presently looking to defend from it around every corner, a reflex he couldn’t stop. When you returned with a blanket and snuggled back against him he was glad for the mask. Blinking away the sharpness of his earlier thoughts, he laid his cheek on your head, grateful he could lay there with you a little while longer.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #oneshot #smut #minors dni #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost #cod mw22 #lemon #he's sensitive because i say so #i wrote this

[larkral]

My darlings, my dearests, remember when I told you I'd finished the first draft of my @erotic-grope-fest piece last week? That was true...but then also upon reflection/feedback I realized that it's a VERY incomplete draft and needs at minimum another probably 3k words on top of what's already been written. So, you know, for plot reasons, I will be writing another 3k of smut. Hopefully the length will not make this story an undue hardship for everyone who has been encouraging me along as I write this. 😂

ADA is coming along a bit ploddingly. I had a really good conversation with @petedavidsonscock this week about why I wasn't making progress on it and even though I have a good sense of that, and a wellspring of motivation to write it, it seem that working evenings most of this week cuts into my writing time? How is this possible? Why does capitalism suck? Questions for the ages.

Anyway, today's six sentences are from a scene I wrote today! I *think* this is only mildly spicy, but my barometer may have malfunctioned. Anyway, tags and snip below the cut!

I can't study in our room, even if he's not there. I can't focus through the sizzle of anticipation that he'll slam through the door and pull my chair back from the desk before dropping to his knees in front of me. Even in the library, I can't help thinking of what will happen when I leave, when I walk up the stairs, when Snow's eyes light on me and he stands from his bed (or out of his chair, or pushes open the bathroom door, or slams the closet shut) and he yanks my hips into his hands and tugs my trousers off and reaches into my pants and… Honestly Penelope Bunce won't have any competition for being the top of our class if this keeps up.  But it's hardly a choice: a year of Simon Snow's mouth or a year of academic excellence. Who wouldn't choose the former?

Thanks for the tags @palimpsessed @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @stitchyqueer @thewholelemon @takitalks @confused-bi-queer @artsyunderstudy

Come out and play! @raenestee @facewithoutheart @cutestkilla @hushed-chorus @sillyunicorn @basiltonbutliketheherb @ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @captain-aralias @yeonjunenby @carryonvisinata @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars @nightimedreamersghost @ionlydrinkhotwater @aroace-genderfluid-sheep​ @shrek-gogurt @forabeatofadrum @fatalfangirl

#six sentence sunday #egf2023 #a year of Simon Snow's mouth or a year of academic excellence? #someone make that a poll #for plot reasons i will be writing another 3k of smut

[allknowingofnir]

Snipped from here x "Yes, I am Ordovis. I accompany Fia here in the hold." He lightly bows to Gideon. He watches as Gideon observes his form. It's only been a minute since they met and he's already analyzing him. He needed to be more wary of his actions now.

"I was here searching for books to read while in times of lull when caring for Fia." Does he dare mention the topic he's been reading about? "Mainly books about the shattering and such, as I wasn't present during the shattering."

“Many weren’t, so that’s no surprise. The history of the event is muddled even in the best kept records. History is written by the victor and when it’s a multisided stalemate, well, you get the idea.” He turned around and dug through a few tomes. He stopped on one shelf, hand resting on a newer tome, though still aged. It was his own notes, compiled from pouring over texts. An incomplete record but one none the less.

“Perhaps this might help? I’m a scholar but not officially a historian, but it’s the most complete record outside of Lyndell’s you might find. Notes compiled by myself over the years. You’re free to read it if you wish, I just ask you not let it leave the Hold. I’ve no problem with you taking it with to read if you wish, Fia’s been a pleasant member of the Hold even if we’ve spoken little. I’ll not grieve her with pestering you about its return, if she trusts you, that’s good enough for me.”

He slid it across the table, hand lingering a moment. He studied the man’s frame again, tilting his head. Ordovis... was a knight... a Crucible Knight... here?

“I hate to pry, but was Ordovis a family member of yours? The Crucible Knight that is. You’ve certainly the stature of one, but I’ve rarely seen one without their armor, if ever. If I’m bothering you please let me know, I’d hate to upset Fia’s friends.”

#deathblightprince #verse: communion

[pluralsword]

ID of the 2 images in total: Snips of an Ao3 series page (of the Autosignet Cycle) showing Part 5 and Part 6 of it, Rekindling Flight and Addendum respectively, are incomplete, while Part 7, Sparkflung Trust, is complete. End ID.

just the fact part 7 is done but part 5 and 6 are not it's cosmically amusing to us. We are happy to have finally shown this is what it is right now.

The respective stories: 

Rekindling Flight: At long last, The vast majority of transformers, residing in the Planetwell Polity Alliance, are about to rejoin the largest galactic alliance, which the PPA originally helped create and was expelled from after the Unicron invasion and the subsequent thousands year long war with Functionist usurpers. But, all is not well- threats loom from all corners upon the Autobot revolution: Decepticons, Unicronists, Functionists, and deep existential problems with past, present, and future will try people from all walks of life fighting for intergenerational hope and love. Nonetheless, something new and wonderful yet old and familiar is afoot- efforts by trillions and their many subalterns are not vain: the power and practice of iterative story.

Addendum: 7 million years ago, the latest blow to gender on Cybertron is dealt by the rising Functionist tide, stirring an Arcee struggling with loneliness and aesthetic dysphoria into enraged action to help bots in the Hadean System across the aesthetic spectrum save their transformative glory and stories… in the process, she finds aid from the scientist Jhiaxus, who also offers her a new reformatting surgery to let her spark do shaping with CNA editing help. Thus begins a new chapter in her life as a founding member of the expansion of what would later be called the Anti-Vocation League alongside her beloved partner and fellow old person Codexa, while grappling with her own growing pile of pains and traumas. As the millennia carry on and she heads to space, she eventually meets Anode and Lug in the stars, and some dear moments near the present all the way through to events after Transformers: Optimus Prime #25: “Post”… where she helps some gender expansive bots, and with help from Aileron and her pals she finally gets some answers and closure to her own self, and has a reckoning with forces pitted against her for millions of years. The years after are not what she expected during most of her life prior, and she is glad for them…

Sparkflung Trust: Written for a Transformers "fanthology" and also is a tie-in to the Autosignet Cycle original continuity we have been writing - along with a bit of IDW1, Cyberverse, and Alternity. A story about transformation in many senses (surprise), including a quest for the Transformation Matrix … inside of one of the most powerful creatures transformers have ever encountered. What will the errant people on the journey realize, and will it be enough to put into practice to succeed?

#fanfic #fanfiction #transformers #maccadam #trans fanfic #transformers fanfic #transformers fanfiction #autosignet cycle #addendum #Arcee #rekindling flight #normalize releasing stories in the order that comes to the author #fwiw we have outlines of addendum and rekindling flight sitting around

[strawberry-barista]

{Omg y'all. 😭}

{This got kind of long so... Snip snip}

{So I did a new reading for Hanekoma. I was following this template: }

{Because it seemed so varied. And this is what I pulled Lord help: }

{A brief list of what he got and what I managed to glean from it, and I'll go into detail about what I picked up from this under that.}

Biggest Fear/Distraction: 5 of Swords ↓ — Reconciliation, forgive and forget, recognizing a lose-lose situation

Where to focus instead: 2 of Wands ↑ — making progression, planning and moving forward, undertaking new experiences and exploration

Past experience to let go: The Heirophant ↓ — feelings of restriction and constraint, rebellion, losing control and flexibility in life

Useful Past Experience: The Fool ↓ — Living in the moment without planning, being reckless and spontaneous

What to Cultivate: The High Priestess ↑ — Instinct, intuition, spiritual growth, inner self

Next Step: 3 of Wands ↓ — take time to plan for the future, keep an eye out for opportunities that may arise

Inner Strength: The World ↓ — Emptiness, incompletion, an ending

Outside Help or Advisor: 7 of Swords ↓ — Manipulative or cunning advisor, diplomat, revealed dishonesty

{Okay so. Holy smokes.}

{Hanekoma's biggest fear is the 5 of Swords reversed. Which can be reconciliation or the dread that comes with realizing that no one will win in the current situation, which I think pretty perfectly sums up what's going on with Josh rn. He is then told to focus instead on enacting his plans for the future, to take steps forward and make progress. Which?? Yes???}

{A past experience to let go is represented by The Heirophant reversed, which is like rebellion, feeling constrained by rules, and losing control of one's life. This seems pretty dead on for him, both for the guilt he feels (but not regret) about his actions against Joshua during the Long Game and for the way his life spiraled when he was still part of the RG. He is then literally told to practice what he's always preaching, and to take use of experiences in which he was spontaneous and living in the moment.}

{What to cultivate is The High Priestess upright, which represents intuition and spiritual growth. He's told to cultivate his inner spirit, which, uhhh, yes. He's not only baby in angel years but he really does let his own head get to him way too often. He is then told that his next step should be to make plans for the future and be open to potential opportunities.}

{This is where things get... Interesting. 🤔 Hanekoma's greatest strength is represented by The World in reverse. Now this card appears to represent when something feels as if it's coming to an end or when one feels as if they are missing something, as if they're empty. I could only really interpret this as meaning Hanekoma's greatest strength is literally the fact that he's probably easy to manipulate in terms of the Higher Plane, an empty vessel prepared for their use, since he doesn't have all of the information of their ins and outs like his angel-born counterparts (as most of them seem to be). How this is his greatest strength, I dunno. But excuse me???}

{The last bit of information given is that his outside help, or his advisor, is represented by the 7 of Swords in reverse. I had some trouble interpreting this but it seems this could be either an experience in which manipulation comes to light, or it may represent a manipulative person or a very diplomatic, silver-tongued person. In any of these cases it sounded pretty close to either a Joshua or maybe even the Twins. Either way it seems more on point.}

{In any case, I would love to hear what you guys think of all of this. I know a lot of you are probably way better at interpretating these than I am as, like I said before, I'm really not used to reading cards this way. So please let me know what you think, especially about that strength card. I have to be interpreting that incorrectly so... Yeah. Hep.}

#mentioned: kingsmedley #mentioned: dandybarista #mentioned: catncore #few lines of the sentence lie ⤙hc⤚⚄ #anonymity annoying me ⤙ooc⤚⚄

[floristbloggers]

A Beginner’s Guide to DIY Wedding Bouquets

A wedding day ensemble is incomplete without a bouquet. It is the best way to create a statement. Just imagine – all of your guests will admire the breathtaking arrangement as you walk down the aisle. But what if you and your partner are on a tight budget? Having a DIY wedding bouquet seems viable. Do not worry; even people terrible at crafts can put together this task.

Although it may sound scary to make a wedding bouquet without professional assistance, it surely is possible. With simple materials and in just a couple of steps, you will be able to sculpt a perfect accessory for the most special day of your life.

The Advantages of DIY Wedding Bouquets

According to a luxury wedding florist London, professionally crafted bouquets are on the pricier side because of the labour involved. The cost may increase if the design is exceptionally intricate. When you do the labour yourself, you manage to save a lot of money.

Sourcing Flowers for DIY Wedding Bouquets

It is necessary to decide the kind of flowers you wish to incorporate into the bouquet. Keep in mind the style of your gown as it reflects the overall tone of your wedding. Then, pay attention to the colour palette. You may opt for complementary colours or integrate contrasting shades to add drama.

Are you going for a simple and contemporary design? If yes, please use two to three varieties of flowers with little greenery. The flowers must contribute to textural interest. For a cascading or garden bouquet, use six to eight varieties of flowers and abundant greenery. They must enhance both gestural and textural qualities.

Since you have a game plan ready, you must source the flowers. If you or any of your family members has a garden, please see what is blooming in there. You may visit grocery stores or local farms to source the florals you want. You may also rely on online platforms to order florals in bulk.

Preparing DIY Wedding Bouquets

Timing is perhaps the foremost thing you must consider when creating a bouquet on your own. Most florists make bouquets a day before the wedding. Suppose a wedding is on Sunday. The florists would then source the flowers on Friday, create the bouquet on Saturday, and add the ribbon and other finishing touches on the final day.

After sourcing the flowers, please collect the following materials – 

A bucket of water

Floral snips to do the trimming

A floral tape or ribbon

Get rid of the leaves from the stems. Snip the stem at a 45-degree angle and place them in water. When assembling, stand in front of the mirror to see how the bouquet looks. Start working on the base and continue adding the large flowers one by one to develop the centre. Tie the ribbon tightly for a neat look.

You certainly wish to have the best wedding bouquet but try not to stress over it. According to a luxury wedding florist London, when things do not go as you desired, take a deep breath and start over. Enjoy the opportunity you received to create something gorgeous with your hands.

#luxury wedding florist London #Wedding bouquet London #Wedding flowers London

[scrawnytreedemon]

4, 8, 10, 35, 40 for the weird questions for writers?? a l l o f t h e m

4. TOO FUCKIGNGNGN MANYGHFKJGJHDFKJHD to narrow it down though I fucking LOVE anatomical terms in what should ostensibly be non-anatomical contexts; it's this melding of visceral horror, and with it a sense of unsettling intimacy.

Also love using conventional words in unconventional ways that are technically correct even for it. It's making that familiar unfamiliar, but in a sense that it's wider now; why be bound by convention? We're makers of language as much as wielders.

To pick a specific word right now: 'sepulchre'. Again, love my religious/archaic terms. There's a similar sort of feel to the anatomical usage, in that it hits you with a sort of wider context that you'd be unlikely to consider otherwise; one that leaves you open, and potentially even unsettled, or struck with a strange sense of awe.

8. Without action. I've actually done a dialogue-only piece before(that being Ache, a Sephrret piece). These sorts of exercises tend to have a loose-in-time, dreamlike feel - Which is exactly what I'm all about.

But I also get the sense I could do an all-action piece too; the amount of sentiment you can bring into a seemingly innocuous scene with seemingly innocuous descriptions,,, NEVER underestimate the power of Pathetic-Fallacy, baby!!! Nor of body-language, either. I've had many leadups to my work heavily lean into this, before inevitably being broken.

I wonder what would happen if I decided to take that further.

10. Already answered here! A very-you question to ask, Cesium <3

35. [snipped in from another ask, because I realised my dumbass read the wrong number. Oh, well!]

OH GOD, THERE'S TOO MANY-- The fucking crackshit idea that you must cut out anything that doesn't directly advance the plot --This is how you get number of stories that have very tight plot but because the writers haven't actually allowed us to settle down with the characters, and very barrow story.

Obviously there are genres where this narrowing is beneficial(say, in, detective noirs, where the whole premise goes in with the assumption that anything you see could be vital to the plot), but I see this advice getting thrown across the board, and... It genuinely fucking sucks, man.

Like, right, to return to my original project, it's slow-paced emotion-heavy fantasy. There's alot of focus on the mundane, and while I'll be picking up the pace now that the plot is finally rearing its head, so much of that is vital to what setting up home and the mundane is, as our protagonists delve into the surreal, the spiritual, the hyperrreal-- For the story I'm telling, you need that grounding.

Otherwise shit flies too fast, and it doesn't hit as hard when said protagonists start yearning for a simpler time; even and especially when that simpler time had its own horrors to face.

And you can't fucking do that if you insist on cutting out everything not directly relevant to the plot. There's no plot-reason our POV character, Caréa, drinks tea the way her sister Iorie makes it, with too much milk - She does so because of the story; because of that comfort, and wanting to remind herself of her family, even as they must quarantine.

Yet another case of bang-it-out sell-it-as-quickly-as-you-can industry writing advice making it into the more public sphere. There are endless cases of this, and I've had to unlearn them as much as I have had to learn everything else.

40. AHHHHHHHHH, GOODNESS???

I'm not sure if this ask refers to picking out your own poems, or a poem you like, or if the ambiguity is intentional.

I've posted a few fan-poems during my Zelda-spree later last year, however I also have a few incomplete ones... many of which are highly personal. Also I like writing things that are Very Long so none of them would be wise to paste here - But I have two I'd recommend.

What We Made in Hyrule Castle - This one focuses on the mentor-mentée relationship between Ganondorf and Zant, with Ganondorf as our POV character. The tension in this piece stems from Ganondorf wanting to bide their time and grow in peace, while Zant is hasty, to manage, to oversee, to quash. Ganondorf keeps trying to ease him into loving the finer things in life; but Zant is young, and firey; and ultimately, they are at war.

Waltz of the Gemset Deer, I think you'll like. Our focal characters are Link and Ghirahim, with Ghirahim as our POV character. It's entirely focused on the dynamic between them, and how despite it all, Ghirahim can't seem to stop himself from looking out for him. So much of this poem is just... Concerned chiding - And Ghirahim being all-too aware of it; that he shouldn't be doing this. It's not explicitly romantic, by any means, but the dynamic is so tight-knit that it easily fills that slot.

As for a poem I just like... LOOK I know this one's gonna be generic, but Robert Frost's "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening".

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep,  And miles to go before I sleep.

I mean... god, that final stanza. That sense of beconining, yet also refusing because you have duties to tend; promises to keep. The way is long, with miles to go before you sleep.

It's minor, but I also love the dark as something welcoming here. That's always a weakness of mine.

Also, Ozymandius.

Told you I was generic, haha.

~~~

Thank you for asking, Cesium!!! Your corrospondences always make my day <333

#scrawny rambles #scrawny answers #ask game

[eradicatetehnormal]

Sold to the Heart Hotel fanfiction. Thoughts?

Assuming that this is what you're talking about: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26117875

I think it's fine art to the highest degree. I'd even go as far as to say that even in its incomplete state, its quality rivals that of Pride and Prejudiced by Jane Austen. The events of the story is that of your standard romance romp. Where it really shines is its inner monologue. What of the stand out pieces of writing is:

"What was that? Who was that other Vanitas, the one who lacked a huge amount of testosterone. Most importantly, why was I turned on by him?"

It provided excellent foreshadowing as well as a callback to the original source material for Kingdom Hearts. It is a true must-read for anyone who enjoys fiction, PERIOD.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Okay, so to be real, it's fun. It's not made to be taken seriously and is an obvious satire of self-insert fanfics. I like to think that Vanitas and Roxas's hyper-aggressive dialogue is meant to rip on how many fanfiction writers insist on portraying the two as beings of pure unfiltered rage and nothing else. I like that the chapters were short, sweet, and digestible. I do like fanfiction, but reading, in general, is just hard for me, so making the chapter's little snip bits helps me take everything in easier.

If I were to have a problem with it, I'd say, it's missing a graphic, automatically incorrect gay sex scene.

To be real again, It's fun to parody fandom culture, but part of what I like about it is how unironic it is about stuff like self-insert fanfiction and edge-ifying characters from shows it loves. One of my favorite KH fics, Shatter Me by SerenityDenied is a good example. It's a horny, trauma-filled, edgy take on a story with Disney characters. It's emotional, triggering, and has nothing to do with the original characters unless you're *really* reading into the relationship between Ansem and Riku. It's super deadass and It's great.

This isn't to say all that is an attack against Sold to the Heart Hotel Boys. The writer was clearly having fun, and that's all that matters. Besides it's relatable. If Vanitas wanted to fuck me, I wouldn't say yes but I wouldn't say no, either. I was just expressing something that came to my mind while reading it.

#thanks anon! #If i'm talking about the wrong thing #please tell me! #you can send me another ask #fanficion #answered #anonymous