iudlig

[iudlig]

so much (for) stardust.

[iudlig]

the trope where ghost only tolerates you for his pup. too bad the pup's dead. nothing but angst oopsie! OR: another fic where it's ghoap without the 'ap'. all gho and you. good luck.

"you and me," he says and drops silently next to you onto the cold concrete where you sit.

suspended in time, festering.

"ain't made for this, huh."

his voice is all baritone. cataclysmic. he can move the earth with the flex of his chords. and does he.

he knows he's won when he reaches for you and you don't flinch. he ruffles your hair with a gloved palm, mouth crinkling behind the mask.

"dunno what you were thinkin', bird."

you didn't either. hoping that you'd make it work—make him work. but he's always been unapproachable. stalwart. barbed wire and fences meters high.

you cross your ankles tighter, tuck your face between bent knees and shrivel inward.

"johnny's not the one for ya," ghost's voice rumbles like an impending storm and you sigh at even the mention of his name.

he's never been this chatty before, always looking at you like you were secondary. derelict debris revolving around the sun, obstructing his view. you pull yourself inwards and ignore his magnetism.

maybe, for once, ghost will get the hint.

he never does.

he grunts, knees cracking as he shifts (tectonic plates; the earth settles—a slow promise of how organic life disintegrates without its nutrients) to sit next to you.

"left you too," you say; forlorn, pitiful.

ghost huffs outward in humour. "yeah," he muses, gloved fingers thrumming against his knees.

he hasn't had a moment to relax, hasn't wanted one either.

"least i got to say goodbye."

"what an asshole comment."

"must suck to find out through a text," ghost ignores the way you tighten, head lifting from the halo of your arms, and glare into his side profile. "price didn't even call ya, did he?"

no point in answering when he's always right.

"gaz said it would be right if he did." he's waiting for you the finally break. jabbing at you for weak points—soft spots—because he's got none of his own left.

there was a reason you preferred johnny to them all.

you inhale, bracing yourself.

air tightens moments before the implosion; the promise of ruination. a black hole awaiting its chance to eat and eat and eat—

"musta forgot, yeah?"

when you drop back into your earlier position—knees bent, ankles tucked, your face in your arms—he finally looks at you. defeat.

success.

ghost sucks on his teeth.

it doesn't taste as sacharrine as normal.

"got me still," he says assuredly, but its the promise of a long-dead corpse.

you wonder if this is what it feels like to be suspended in dead space.

at least, you finally know what it's like to be suspended in dark matter. the boötes void. it's never been so promising.

"gonna good care o'ya, bird."

[iudlig]

tinkering with river ward's hand | gn v!reader OR: the fic where v refuses to admit that river is their fatal flaw.

you're sitting in bed when he wakes up.

hunched over crossed legs with his hand planted palm up across one of your thighs, his battered red tank top hangs loose off your frame.

wrist to fingertip, nothing but phantom touch, and river has never found himself aching to feel the way you ghost over his joints like this before.

the swell of your fingerpads—calloused, coarse, a testament to the hard-lived life alongside his own—as they trace the hinges that make up knuckles and warped dense metal. paltry excuses for long-gone organic tissue.

your eyes flicker to his and he's on top of the world.

he starts and ends with you. your sheep's eyes—fluttering, furtive glances. he's in the academy again. wet behind the ears. peacocking his strength to impress you, beguile you. keep you within this bed so you can look at him like that all day.

when your gaze returns to his metal hand, there's a curve in your lips—bittersweet and secretive. entrancing. just for him. he'd kill for that smile. again and again-

"mornin'," he yawns into his free palm, thumb rubbing against his bottom lip and angles his head towards the windows of your apartment where night city rages and roars below.

"you know," you greet him in response, bending his middle finger. it creaks at the midway point—a broken staccato that has you clucking your teeth in disappointment—"could get ya something better than this, riv. i'm good on the eddies."

river hums in thought. squinting into the morning light before he finally turns back to you and shakes his head half-heartedly.

"nah," he breathes, mouth curving into a grin when you reach over for the grease neatly atop your bedside table whilst the rest remains littered with condom wrappers and crumpled cans—

('special touch,' you antagonised, refusing to acknowledge its singular purpose, 'goes great on everything'—)

"as they say, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. right?"

you snort humourlessly, "funny."

one track mind, you get to work. greasing cogs and tightening screws, your head dips low to peer into the seams. eyebrows furrowed. lips parted in concentration.

you could just slather it on. or, do what he does and ignore minute malfunctions until they finally impede his job.

but, you don't.

"quit looking at me like that," you've got that grin on your face again and river's face splits into a downright smile.

he tries to flatten his mouth, tongue darting out to trace his bottom lip—your eyes dip, following its arc, resolve momentarily snapped before you can quickly turn back to the task at hand—and he schools his expression into an attempted frown.

he lasts all of three seconds before he has to turn his head away. looking back to the window, organic hand pressed to his mouth. cheeky smile hiding below calloused skin.

joss and the kids were right.

he's so utterly fucked.

"no clue what you're talking about, v."

[iudlig]

it's wednesday my dudes AAAAAAUUUHHHHH!!

wip— untitled; ripperdoc!reader/merc!ghost, oneshot 18+ plays by cyberpunk 2077 rules. all overbearing vibes, open chest cavities, and belt loop tugs. cw: gore, selling a body (ghost), thoughts of ownership

in your waiting room, a newcomer coughs. added ambience for your incoming meltdown.

"get the fuck outta my chair."

"ya got the chrome wrong." your scoff is synchronous with his gruff. leaning back and crossing your arms over your bloodied apron, you wait for him to continue. "ain't paying for a bad job."

"chrome's chrome," you wave jaggedly at his behemoth figure. a hack job of scavenged scrap work interwoven with newer, ornate carbon fibre like the mask adorning his face.

he stares. the absolute picture of overconfidence—languishing in your examination chair, knees spread wide with you hemmed between.

(corralled, caged. his cock twitches at the thought.)

"colour's wrong."

"you care about the colour?"

"think i don't, sweet'art?"

"actually, don't move." you lean back over him, hands hovering by his chest split down the middle. inside, a steady organic heart beats, whole and hardy. strong. he's a man in his prime. superimposed by the chrome he's accumulated and puffy keloid scars.

fine, you'll rip each hinge, cable, and cog out of him. it matters little to you anyway.

gloved hands grip your hips like shackles. gore-flecked scratchy cotton. crude anatomical bones painted to match the skull on his helmet.

his eyes whir, boring into you. analyzing. then leering as he takes your body in. bloodied apron, sweaty tank top beneath it, the low rise of your shorts. he digs his fingers into your hipbones—

(pinpointed pressure. he salivates. so close. nearly there—)

and sucks on his teeth, "keepin' it."

"but you're not paying," you clarify.

"chrome's chrome," effortlessly he throws your words right back in your face while staring at the way your skin dimples beneath his fingers. (so close. so close. his jowls ache, froth—) he hooks a finger through your belt loop and tugs you nearly flush against his chest.

you make a noise. bewildered. fawn or fight, you can't seem to decide as your arms lock onto the headrest.

eyes zeroed in on his chest where it sits open, mere hairbreadth between yours and his. hovering on the brink of ruination should your dirty apron infect his hardware.

he grins behind the mask.

"got other ways to pay, pet."

[iudlig]

wip — ustulation; oneshot , knight/squire , more scraps sorry! 18+ gore!

You keep your position at Ghost's back, blinking at the peeling paint of his shield. The red cross stares back at you. Memento mori. A reminder; you will die. Now that you've seen what it could do—

(—ripping through skin and sinew alike. Ghost's aim spot-on as he hefts his shield in a clean arc and aims for the man's neck—Teeth bared. A mangy mutt, your knight. Unused to the attention you lavish him with. "F'r the throat, runt," he always reminds you, "Go on. Take m'breath away"—

The sound is grotesque. A sickening crunch suspended in gelid air next to the malaise pocketing itself deep in your chest.

His quarry—gargantuan Austrian oaf adorned with an executioner's hood, insipid and tactless, who'd forgone an honourable exchange of combat in favour of you, the squire—gurgles on the blood pooling within his larynx, armour-clad hand reaching for ruined flesh. Memento mori, you'd spit if bile wasn't searing the back of your throat and forcing you to roll to your hands and knees, dryheaving in the bloodied snow. A hellion, Ghost would affectionately call you in retaliation.

The shield's blunt edge does not strike true upon the first hit. Nor does it the second. But Ghost's face is well-hidden beneath his heaume, and his grimace—if there were one—is long dead and buried.

"Keep up," is all Ghost offers you instead. His behemoth figure bends down not to procure a hand but to reclaim his sword and shield, flicking gore from the blade then wiping it down with the holy mantle adorning his behemoth chest. Total desecration.)—

Meaningless, you think.

[iudlig]

wip — ustulation; oneshot , knight/squire 18+ bros kinda mean!

"knock. knock."

you blink upwards, bleary-eyed, as two massive fingers tap at your bottom lip.

it distorts your vision to have a hand thrown in your face. what you'd been doing rendered to no importance, diminished to the petulant child you once were. instinctivel rears its ugly head and irritation licks at your insides. you had always bit first. asked later.

but a simple command wrapped in a familiar inflexion—guttural, deep, a dichotomy of smoke and scratch; cocksure buried beneath layers of sleep deprivation and a penchant for one too many smokes—has taught you to stand down.

he's apathetic towards you, at most. at least, he despises your very being. wishes he'd said no when they'd tossed you to him—a clot of blood in shark-infested waters—for tutelage.

treats you like a runt from the litter of hunting dogs he breeds. picking you apart to find the smallest, most antagonizing details—the most personal of barbs—then, flays you apart again and again until you are raw, bleeding out on your threadbare mattress. unable to allow yourself the luxury of thinking about a dreamless sleep whilst you polish clean armour and hone sharp knives.

still, you comply, malleable in his unforgiving hands. saccharine; sweet enough for a toothache, never lets you live it down—'might 'ave to pluck y'r teeth out, runt. givin' mine a cavity. eye for an eye n' oll that'—

his fingers push at the seam of your lips, slow but forceful; impatience at an all-time high if you're involved. your jaw protests, lockjaw,—'need ta learn how to relax', he says as the next swing of his sword against yours is jarring enough that your teeth rattle and your ears ring, while knowing he's the source of all of your stress—you're forced to blink back a whimper of pain when your knight's digits bully into your mouth.

they're unwashed. pungent acridity, brine burns on your tasebuds as he pets your tongue with rough fingerpads. he huffs in laughter, mean, when you inevitably choke on his taste.

"good, pet," he purrs. nothing like a compliment and all too antagonising, an austere reminder of the hellion he'd broken in, "open wide. let me see my next set o' pearly whites."

[iudlig]

blood upon the snow; how dark the night

blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. OR: Our hands get dirty so that the world stays clean.

self-indulgent angst anthology about a non-canon operator by the callsign of WISP. no descriptors of the operator were used. written in second pov. 18+ contains dark themes and no holds. it's a lawless land here. read on, or don't. your choice, your consequence.

inspo / credit 1 / meet wisp (f!oc)

1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 ....

1 • TIT FOR TAT . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: You pick up the slack.

2 • RETURN FIRE . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Ghost helps you back.

3 • IGNITION . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Implosions happen and you can't seem to get away fast enough.

4 • COMPLACENCY . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Sparks fly. Wood burns. People die. But, you are stuck in limbo.

5 • OVERTURE . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Time passes in a way you cannot comprehend.

6 • NOSTOPHOBIA . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: It's time for Ghost to face the music.

7 • HOMEWARD . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: A house burns and you are sick of tasting its ashes.

8 • TROJAN HORSE . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: What lies within.

9 • EYE FOR AN EYE . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Ages old debts repaid.

drabbles:

mutiny . kaleidoscope . coffees and bourbon . get me out of california

[iudlig]

four fae and a clueless folklorist walk into a forest....

four part series inspired by this novel.

written in second pov. 18+ contains dark themes and no holds. it's a lawless land here. read on, or don't. your choice, your consequence.

inspo / credit 1

I • ILLUSORY — GAZ . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Everything is not what it seems.

II • PAPER TRAILS — GHOST . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: You've got the wrong Ghost.

III • MESARTHIM — PRICE . ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: Desecrating a holy area has its drawbacks.

IV • GIZMO — SOAP. ao3 mirror

"blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. blah. " OR: A nervous tick lands you on your back.

[iudlig]

elle , she/her | 20s | lover of Simon Riley, Rowan Whitethorn, & Estinien Wyrmblood MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI. MINORS DNI.

graveyard sideblog. (personal dumpsite for yours truly.) — KEY : 💀 , 🧼 , 🚬 , 🧢 , ∞ (all) , ● (in progress) , ... (misc) , ● (on hold)

ART to do

💀 — kissing ghost ... — wisp mastersheet ... — V4L-3R13 artwork

RENDERS to do

💀 — tattoo collab ... — wisp & chip NPV creation

WRITING to do

💀 — ustulation; anthology , knight/squire 💀 — sacrosanct; oneshot , video games 💀 — so much (for) stardust; oneshot , cyberpunk au ... — reverse sun; river ward , oneshot

OTHER to do

🧼 — soap's theme [v2] 🧼 , 💀 — ghoap x reader theme ... — ode to leather; general mood board ... — V4L-3R13; vp mood board

SCRAPYARD may return

💀 — how dark the night; series ∞ — faerie folklorist; anthology , four separate one shots 🧼 — cowboy soap [ 🖼️ ] 💀 — top down bedroom antics [ 🖼️ ]