#operation make the braces not suck

[amimere]

costumizing my wrist braces: part 1

as some of yall may know i have a case of tendonitis wich tends to rear its ugly head during exams or other big projects, wich means that i carry around a set of wrist braces wherever i go

the problem is that said braces are of the color i would charitably call "medical beige", and the resulting look honestly ruins all of my outfits

so today, armed with a bottle of rit dyemore, access to a cricut and obnoxious htv, various colors of thread, AND a big bag of safetypins, i have officially started operation "make the braces not suck"

[ID in ALT]

the dye took really well and i am happy with that, BUT it turns out that the glue holding all the little bits together was heat-based and thereby Did Not like 30 minutes in close-to-boiling water

its not anything i cant fix with stitching, and i was planning on adding something decorative anyway, but it was a bit of a shock to discover upon pulling the braces from the bath

thus concludes the first part if this saga, second part (here, or check the "operation make the braces not suck" tag on my blog) will probably be the htv once the braces are dry and i have the spoons to do it

[httpsserene]

𝖍𝖙𝖙𝖕𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖊'𝖘 2𝖐 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖑

welcome to the table of contents for my two-thousand followers special !

i am actually shocked that i reached this milestone, considering my writing managed to convince people to follow me even though i have not been active on this account. you all bolstered me to 2k through two hiatus' that i did not announce, and that i do sincerely apologize for. the next time i plan to disappear off the face of tumblr, i'll give you guys a heads up: no more ghosting :) but seriously, thank you guys for the never ending support, and i will make sure i return the gratitude by being more present on tumblr, and writing more often!

as previously requested and mentioned, this special event is the daniel ricciardo edition. i believe a majority of you wanted a part-two of the overstimulation with daniel ricciardo / max verstappen x black!reader from my f1 kinktober series, which will be included in this special. i also promised a few dr3 fics to some of you that requested--so all in all, all of the daniel ricciardo thirst that YOU ALL requested is listed below the cut. i hope this is enough of a peace offering, and i hope you all enjoy xxx

if you would like to be added to this special's taglist, send me an ask or leave a reply. all episode upload times are at 12 PM EST on their release date. posts tagged as # httpss :// 2k special. all works can be found in my table of contents (m.list).

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐨 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

��𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: it's his one-man show. you ask for danny ric, and he will always over-deliver. 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: daniel ricciardo x fem!black!reader 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: assorted oneshots.

view playlist? ↴

Pilot: Over-Stimulation Kink w/ Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen

You can't remember the last time you've gotten to spend more than three days at a time with both of your boyfriends. You understand how demanding their job is but, you just can't remember the last time they really exhausted you...pleasurably. And then winter break comes around, and they have all the time they need to make you lose your mind.

Episode Two: Say, "Cheese!" | facial | 5/31/24

The day she gets her braces off will be the best day of her life. Maybe all the years she dealt with insults, underhanded compliments, and men who wouldn’t date her because of them, would be worth it when she sees her perfectly straight teeth. Of course, it sucks that she has insecurities stemming from her braces; her boyfriend, Daniel, says that they “add to her beauty.” If she believed him, she probably wouldn’t hide her mouth behind her hand when she grins or laughs. Don’t worry—Daniel has an idea of how to make that smile of hers…shine.

requested! insecure!reader. soft!dom daniel. oral sex (male receiving). serene's fave.

Episode Three: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss | fake orgasm | 6/5/24

When Daniel isn’t feeling well, it’s no hardship for her to take of him. Except this time, he broke his hand and is proceeding to be an absolute nightmare to take care of. They haven’t had sex since before the accident in Zandvoort because she’s afraid that somehow she’ll end up aggravating his injury. Daniel, however, has convinced himself that he only exists to bring her pleasure. So, she comes up with a plan to soothe his service dom tendencies. Enter, Operation Fake Orgasm. How hard can it be? Spoiler alert: she’s a terrible actress.

requested! servicedom!daniel. vaginal sex. hurt/comfort. attempt at humor.

Episode Four: Tomorrow 2 | body worship | 6/7/24

She’s the least favorite Formula One WAG. At first, she was optimistic, the fans would eventually start liking her—but that was a pretty naive thought. She’s constantly compared to Daniel’s ex-girlfriend—she’s not as pretty as her, she’s not as supportive as her, etc. Unfortunately, in a moment of low self-esteem—she breaks and thinks maybe the fans are right. Daniel comes home and sees you gathering every belonging of yours that’s migrated to his apartment like you’re breaking up with him. He tries to change your mind with his words, but that doesn’t quite reassure you completely; so he has no choice but to do it with his actions, too.

requested! insecure!reader. light angst. multiple orgasms. manhandling.

Episode Five: TSA | soft yandere | 6/13/24

She’s too pure for him. She hasn’t been damaged by life like he has and he hopes she never will be. So, that’s why Daniel can never allow himself to be with her. He knows she’s convinced herself that she can fix him, but he knows the longer he sticks around, the more he’s ruining her. He finds it cynical: their relationship (or lack of one) reads like one of the books she’s obsessed with: right person wrong time or forbidden love. Daniel learns that it might be a little darker of a trope—like one of her books that she never allows him to see a page of.

requested! possessive!reader. mild angst. happy ending. morally grey.

Finale: K.O. ! | over-stimulation | 6/25/24

Okay, Daniel may have won the first round. He cleared her dry spell with no problem and used Max to do it, too. That’s completely fine, she will never complain about experiencing some of the best orgasms of her life. But, Max (the man unable to not have the last word) coerces her into giving Daniel a taste of his own medicine.  As soon as they can manage to walk on two feet, without a wobble. Mark their fucking words. 

requested! part-two of the pilot fic. multiple orgasms. polyamory. bondage.

current taglist:  @saintslewis @cherry2stems @lorarri @inloveallthetime @mindless-rock @biancathecool @barnestatic @my-ylenia @katekipshidze @darleneslane @lovingaphroditesworld @smoothopz @vetteltea @tallrock35 @iloveyou3000morgan @smartstupyd @spideybv28 @lh383 @loomiscorpse @hiireadstuff @namgification @gg-trini @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @multi-fandom-rando @dreamingofautopia @jayswifee @megatrilss1885 @nanamilkbread @sophia12345678 @benstormy @userlandonorris @xxniallxxsworld @starfusionsworld @hangmandruigandmav @spicybagel14 @itsmiamalfoy @ineedafictionalman @everythingabby101 @valent1na-ferrari @vetteltea @dark-night-sky-99 @svinzlec @angelfreckless

© httpsserene2024

[nahoney22]

I have a request! Works been rough lately, can I get a fem reader/Crosshair with “let me distract you” when he visits her during a tough shift? Love your work, thank you!

-dumfanting

The Perfect Distraction*** 🌊

🫧 Pairings: Crosshair X Female!Reader

word count: 2.6k

Prompts:

• “Let me distract you.”

Plot: When work is non-stop, you feel yourself overwhelmed and in need of a break. Luckily for you, your other half came at the right time.

Authors note: sorry that work has been tough lately @dumfanting 🩵 hopefully things have gotten better. If not, here’s some soft Crosshair to make your day better. (Sorry for the wait)

warnings: NSFW, 18+ only. Explicit Sexual Content and Language. Female Reader, Work Stress, Light Angst, Established Relationship, Massage, Soft Smut, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Aftercare, Comfort, Kissing, Neck Kissing and Sucking.

A neon sign by the door flickers, glowing with a dim "OPEN" that buzzes faintly in the background. It’s barely holding on, much like you are at this point.

Your shop that you owned for a few years is - to be blunt - a mess. A current maze of half-disassembled speeders and crates of mismatched parts, with wires and hydro spanners scattered across every available surface. The usual hum of machinery sounded through the space, barely masking your own frustrated grunts as you try to wrangle yet another malfunctioning power converter back into shape. But no matter how hard you work, it feels like the pile of jobs only grows larger, while your supply of critical parts dwindles.

Then, you hear the familiar irritating buzz of the door, followed by heavy footsteps. You grit your teeth, already bracing yourself for what’s coming.

A burly customer storms in, his face flushed with anger. “This is ridiculous!” he snaps. “You said my speeder would be ready days ago! What kind of operation are you running here? I’ve been waiting long enough!” He throws his arms up in frustration, knocking over a pile of circuit boards in the process.

You open your mouth to respond, trying to keep your tone steady despite the stress bubbling under the surface. “Look, I’ve got a shortage of parts. I’m doing everything I can—”

He cuts you off, voice rising. “I don’t want excuses! You’re supposed to be a mechanic, not some scrap peddler! If you can’t get it done, I’ll take it somewhere that can.”

Before you can get another word in, a cold, measured voice slices through the tension. “I think you’ve said enough.”

The customer whips around to see Crosshair leaning against the wall, twirling a familiar toothpick between his lips. But there’s nothing casual about the deadly look in his eyes. He straightens up, moving to stand between you and the customer, his hand resting near his blaster as if daring the guy to push his luck. “Back off and leave the lady alone,” he snarls, tone voice dipped with venom as he flicks the pick at the customer's chest.

Their bravado is quick to vanish. He stammers, trying to recover some of his bluster, but it’s clear he’s rattled. “I—I just want my speeder fixed…” He takes a step back, bumping into a tool cart and nearly knocking it over in his haste to retreat.

“Then take it somewhere else,” Crosshair replies coolly, his eyes never leaving the man. The customer mutters something under his breath and stumbles out of the shop.

For a moment, all you can do is exhale, letting the tension drain from your shoulders. You shoot Crosshair a look—half-irritation, half-gratitude. “Well, there goes another job. Not that I’m upset about it,” you mutter, rubbing your temple. “But still, I don’t need to be losing more credits.”

Crosshair simply shrugs, clearly unconcerned. “Credits won’t matter much if you’re burnt out.”

You huff, feeling the exhaustion catch up to you. “Burnt out is putting it lightly. It’s been one thing after another all day. Parts shortages, broken motivators, customers demanding miracles. I’m running myself crazy, and no one seems to care that I can’t fix what I don’t have.” Your voice wavers slightly as the frustration spills over. “I’m one person, Crosshair. I can’t keep this up.”

He listens quietly, his sharp gaze softening as he takes in the stress etched on your face. Without a word, he steps over to the door and flips the neon “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED.”

When he turns back to you, he’s closer now, his tone gentler. “What can I do?”

You look up at him, feeling a lump in your throat at the kindness in his voice. Before you can answer, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a secure embrace. You really needed this.

The warmth of him, combined with the rare tenderness in the way he holds you, makes your chest tighten with relief. You let yourself sink into him, closing your eyes as you take in the steady rhythm of his breathing. For a moment, the clutter of the shop and the never-ending to-do list fades into the background.

“Just this,” you whisper, feeling the weight of the day lift ever so slightly. “This is enough.”

Crosshair’s hand moves in slow circles on your back, offering a silent comfort that says more than words could. His eyes then move toward your cluttered office tucked in the back of the shop. “Why don’t we head to your office? You could use a break.”

You nod, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over you. The office is far from tidy—tools, spare parts, and datapads are scattered all over—but there’s a worn couch in the corner that’s always offered a bit of comfort when you need a breather. Crosshair leads the way, and you follow.

You sigh heavily as you begin pacing in your cluttered office, not being able to help but continue venting your frustrations. “It’s like everything’s falling apart at once. Staff keep canceling their shifts, leaving me to pick up the slack. I’m drowning in work with no one to help, and my orders for parts are delayed again! I can’t catch a break, and I’m starting to think I’ll never dig myself out of this mess.”

Crosshair moves towards the couch, slouching back in his usual relaxed manner and his sharp eyes follow your every move. He doesn’t interrupt, just lets you get it all out. When you finally pause to catch your breath, he speaks, his voice calm and steady. “Come here.”

You look at him, still frazzled, but the calm assurance in his tone pulls you toward him. You sit beside him, and he wastes no time, guiding you against his chest as he wraps his arm around you. You lean your head back against his shoulder, trying to let go of the day’s weight.

Crosshair’s fingers trail lightly along your arm, his presence grounding you. He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “Let me distract you.”

You hum softly in response, your lips curling into a faint smile at the suggestion. “You think you can really take my mind off all this?” you ask. Oh you definitely know he can.

Instead of answering, he starts massaging your shoulders, his touch firm and soothing. His skilled hands work out the tension, moving slowly, melting away the stress you’ve been carrying. As his fingers glide over your muscles, your body begins to relax, the tension easing with every pass. His thumbs press into the knots with just the right amount of pressure, and you let out a quiet, contented sigh.

“See?” he murmurs against your neck, “You’re already feeling better.”

His hands continue their path down your back, trailing lower before slipping back up along your sides. His touch is tender, coaxing you into a calm state that contrasts with his usual intensity. Crosshair is rarely gentle, but right now, it’s exactly what you need.

The atmosphere shifts, the tension turning into something else entirely. He pauses, and you feel his lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Is this how you wanted to be distracted?”

The teasing lilt in his voice makes you bite your lip, your pulse quickening. “Maybe… but I think you know what I really need,” you reply, your voice breathy as your desire begins to build.

Crosshair chuckles, clearly pleased with your response. His hands drift lower, sliding over your hips and down your thighs before slipping back up. You feel his fingers hook into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down just enough to grant him access. Your breath hitches as his hand dips beneath the fabric of your dampened panties, his fingers brushing against your already slick folds.

“Is this what you had in mind?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he begins to tease you, his touch feather-light and maddeningly slow.

A quiet whimper escapes you as his fingers trace gentle circles over your clit, his touch skilled and precise. “Crosshair…” you breathe, a plea hidden in your tone.

He smirks against your neck, enjoying the way you’re beginning to unravel in his arms. “I thought you needed a distraction,” he murmurs, sliding a finger inside you, teasingly slow. He works you with agonising precision, each movement calculated to draw out your need.

You arch against him, gasping softly as his fingers press deeper, his thumb maintaining a steady rhythm against your clit. “This what you wanted?” he taunts, slowly adding a finger inside you, curling them just right and hitting that perfect spot.

Your body answers for you, a shuddering moan escaping your lips as you grip his arm, your hips moving in time with his touch. The stress, the tension, everything melts away under his skilled hands, leaving only the building pleasure that threatens to tip you over the edge.

Crosshair’s free hand wraps around your waist, holding you steady as he continues to work you with an almost unbearable precision. “Let it go,” he murmurs against your neck, his voice velvet and commanding all at once.

And you do, falling apart in his arms. The pleasure crashes over you in waves as his fingers carry you through your release. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, spent and breathless against him.

For a moment, the world narrows down to just the sound of your breathing and the warmth of his arms around you. Eventually, Crosshair withdraws his hand, holding you close as you come down from the high, pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

“Feeling better?” he asks, his voice smug but laced with genuine concern.

You manage a tired, satisfied smile, still basking in the afterglow. “A little, yeah,” you whisper, sinking deeper into his embrace.

“Only a little?” He asks with a raised brow. He shifts positions, taking your waist and gently lifting and then laying you flat across the couch, crawling over the top of you. “That’s not good enough, is it?” His breath is warm against your skin, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips.

You find yourself grinning, completely obsessed with your boyfriend. “I suppose it isn’t,” you gasp the second the words leave your lips, his mouth on yours with a tender, slow and sensual kiss.

“Let’s fix that,” Crosshair’s lips press a final kiss to your neck before he slides lower, his gaze never leaving yours as he settles between your legs. You’re already breathless, anticipation tingling through your veins. His movements are deliberate but unhurried, as if savoring the effect he has on you.

He hooks a finger around the side of your panties, pulling them aside with a casual ease that sends a shiver up your spine. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his usual sharp demeanor softened by the affection in his gaze.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp as he leans in closer. The word is both a command and a promise. Then, without breaking eye contact, he dips his head, his lips brushing your inner thigh before his mouth finds exactly where you need him.

His touch is slow, precise, completely different from his usual rough and demanding approach. The contrast sends waves of pleasure through you, and you can’t help but melt into the couch, your body responding eagerly to his attention. He takes his time, his tongue moving in smooth, deliberate strokes that drive you wild while keeping you tethered.

You gasp softly, arching into his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continues to work you with a patience that’s almost agonising. “So, beautiful.” He moans into your clit.

He seems completely focused on drawing out every bit of tension, coaxing your pleasure higher and higher with each careful movement. Every kiss, every flick of his tongue is calculated, designed to make you feel like you’re the center of his world.

Unable to resist the pull, you reach for the hem of your top and tug it off, tossing it aside. Crosshair doesn’t miss a beat—his hands are quick to slide up your torso, fingers grazing your sensitive skin as he cups your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, sending electric sparks of pleasure through you as his mouth continues its unhurried rhythm below.

You moan his name, your voice laced with both need and admiration. He hums against you in response, the vibration adding another layer of sensation that has you clutching the couch cushions, completely lost in the pleasure he’s giving you.

After what feels like an eternity of bliss, he finally shifts, moving back up your body with slow, languid kisses, each one lingering as if he’s savoring your taste. He presses his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before he whispers against your mouth, “I told you, I’m not done yet.”

Your breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to reach down and free himself. He takes his time, positioning himself between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs to hold you steady as he aligns himself with you. But before he moves, he locks eyes with you, his gaze filled with an intensity that makes your heart race.

“I’m going to take all that tension away,” he promises, his voice rough with desire, but there’s a softness there too—a genuine care that makes you feel cherished, not just desired. “Just let me take care of you.”

As he slowly enters you, every inch deliberate and controlled, you feel the world narrow down to just this moment—the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the way he fills you completely. His movements are slow but powerful, every thrust purposeful, designed to make you feel every bit of him. It’s intimate, soothing, and completely overwhelming in the best way.

He keeps whispering soft praises, his voice a rough murmur in your ear. “That’s it… just like that… you’re doing so good for me.” His hands roam your body, caressing your skin as if he’s grounding you in the here and now, making sure you stay connected and completely focused on him.

His pace is steady, as if he has all the time in the galaxy to show you exactly how much he cares. The dirty talk flows naturally, his words laced with affection. “You’re perfect like this… so beautiful when you let go.”

The way he moves, the way he speaks—it’s all meant to draw you further into this shared moment, making you forget about the stress and exhaustion from earlier. The tension in your muscles, the weight on your mind, all dissolve under the weight of his attention.

As the pleasure builds, you can feel yourself falling apart in the best way, and he’s right there with you, guiding you through it with whispered reassurances and gentle touches. When you finally reach your peak, he’s watching you with a look that’s both possessive and full of awe, like he’s proud of how you’ve given yourself over to him completely.

“C—Crosshair…mmm, I’m goin’ to cum.” You rasp, your back arching into him as stars begin to blur your vision.

He doesn’t stop until you do. Letting you ride out your orgasm on his cock until you’re fully sated. He reaches his own high, panting your name softly before he pulls out and spurts his velvet white seed all over your stomach and breasts.

As your body relaxes and becomes loose in his embrace, he leans over you and places a tender kiss to your lips as he holds you close, letting you bask in the aftermath.

When you finally catch your breath, he gives you that familiar smirk, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Now… how’s that for taking the tension away?”

You can’t help but laugh softly, feeling lighter than you have in days. “More than enough,” you whisper, still wrapped in his arms, grateful for the way he always knows exactly how to care for you.

That is the distraction you definitely needed today.

Tags: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lamiliani @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @lulalovez

@tentakelspektakel @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder r @mysticalgalaxysalad @yunggoblin @photogirl894

[illmoraineakoi]

AU where Victim discovers his Creator’s location long before AvA season 3/without Chosen getting captured, and Victim has his corporation make a machine to try to bring his Creator to the facility.

But something goes wrong; the machine is untested, it has defaults because it was rushed (due to Victim getting impatient), and it malfunctions, badly. Instead of bringing the Creator to him, it sucks Victim in and sends him hurtling to the Creator’s location.

Or, Victim thinks it would have, if the machine didn’t keep malfunctioning. The receiving end of the connection keeps snapping between different places: websites, other IP addresses, different random devices and online accounts.

So when Victim is spat out onto a desktop, he doesn’t think he’s arrived at the right place. He has no way to double-check where he is, or determine he’s in the right place.

Because Victim never really saw his Creator through the screen, all those years ago. Looking through the screen to the world of the Creators had been difficult back then, because something something old 2006 monitors sucked. His view of the outside world through the screen had been blurry/foggy, so he never saw his Creator’s visage clearly enough to memorize identifiable features. He had just been a vague looming shadow of shifting form and color.

Nor does he even know his Creator’s name. Victim never got to see a chat window or login usernames or even the computer user account name, because he never made it out of Flash. And his Creator never spoke, only snickered and laughed.

So when he suddenly finds himself on a desktop, very much not according to any of his plans and something he’s completely unprepared for, faced with five other younger sticks, a cursor, and a shockingly clear view of the being who controlled that computer…

Victim doesn’t recognize Alan.

And Alan doesn’t recognize him.

Needless to say, being on a computer again is a not a very pleasant feeling for Victim, and his first reaction, his first instinct, is to try to flee. To get off the computer, to return to the Outernet, to the safety of his facility. Being on a computer wasn’t safe, the Creator controlling the cursor could delete him at any moment, end his process, erase him, or even enslave him. He was powerless here, not in control, his cunning and resourcefulness would only aid him for so long, only delay his potential death. He had no hope of overpowering the cursor, not here. He needed to leave.

But there is no way for him to leave, because the malfunctioning machine was a one way trip and he doesn’t actually know how to get off the computer. He doesn’t know about the Wi-Fi escape route, and even if he did, he doesn’t have powers to make a portal.

So Victim is stuck on the desktop, fairly certain he’s in the wrong place, with no idea how to get back to the Outernet. Under the constant attention of the looming Creator on the other side of the screen, who can keep pace with his movements and escape attempts with frightening ease. To say nothing of the other five who manage to efficiently outmaneuver him and nearly bring him to the ground several times, clearly assisting the cursor and its operator in trying to capture him.

Victim doesn’t have time to dwell on that. He can only run and run and run and try to find a place to hide, if only the other five weren’t so fast, if only he could escape the cursor’s focus for just a moment—

He’s cornered. The other five backed him into a corner and surrounded him. He has nothing to fight with, he’s overpowered and outnumbered. He curls up, and braces for deletion.

But things don’t go as Victim expects/fears they will…

Because he isn’t attacked. He’s not captured. He’s not deleted or ended or erased.

He’s only confronted, approached, like a frightened wounded animal by one of the other sticks, their movements slow and careful and deliberate. Assuring him that he was okay, they weren’t going to hurt him, he was safe. They ask him if he’s alright. They try to calm him down.

They ask him for his name, innocently giving him their own.

He doesn’t give them his name. He gives them the name Charcoal. They can call him Charcoal. They accept this, without question.

Their naivety is a shock to Victim. He’s dumbfounded by it.

He is a stranger who just appeared on this desktop, and they’re treating him like a friend. With so much genuine and childlike kindness that Victim doesn’t know how to process it. They trust him, almost instantaneously; for no reason. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t comprehend.

How could anyone be so trusting so quickly? Did they not know the danger of it? Did they not know how awful and unfair the world was? Did they not know how easily they could be taken advantage of, manipulated, ensnared in a web of control they had no way of escaping from? Did they not know they had to protect themselves, guard every bit of themselves, else the rest of the world would use their weaknesses against them?

How did they not see him as a threat?

Or did they not fear him because he didn’t have any powers, so they thought he was weak?

The cursor was worse. It doesn’t attack him. It doesn’t hit him. It speaks to him too. Asking him questions, like where he came from and how he got there, and offering answers and information in return to Victim’s own demands. Victim had not even realized it was possible to communicate with a Creator. Yelling and screaming had done nothing with his own.

It did not seem malicious…

He doesn’t know what to think about that.

He didn’t know what to think about the entire situation he’s found himself in. He is entirely out of his depth.

Here he was, stuck indefinitely with a seemingly benevolent Creator and five rainbow stick kids who are way too happy and upbeat for sticks who live on a computer. Five sticks who eventually start to insist on including him in their activities and adventures; teaching him how to play their games and sharing their hobbies with him. Who carve out a space on the desktop for him, adding a room onto their strange house for him.

It’s bizarre.

The Creator, too, treats him well. Lets him stay and explore the computer as much as he wants until a way to leave was discovered, so long as care was taken to prevent damage to files and data. But it also interacts with Victim, too. Includes him in the little games it plays with the others. Invites him to join it and Orange during their drawing sessions. It – he – was undeniably friendly towards him.

Victim, who had long become bitter and hateful towards the Creators ‘humans’ not just because of his own torment but also because of the horrible mistreatment he’d witnessed the aftermath of upon the refugees arriving to the city, is now faced with the uncomfortable dilemma that not all Creators ‘humans’ are vile evil beings, which challenges a fundamental part of his world view. He is forced to realize that this Creator human, this animator, Alan, was genuinely kind and loving towards the other sticks, and to Victim himself as well. That the color gang genuinely loved Alan, and were well taken care of. Victim never once sees Alan hurt them.

It’s something that Victim had never even conceived of being possible, before. Creators, human, hurt sticks. That's just how it was. Except now it wasn't...

And it’s this that finally confirms to Victim that he was definitely on the wrong computer.

Alan was not his Creator. He couldn’t be; the dissonance was too large.

And as the weeks turn into months of him still not able to figure out how to get back to the Outernet, Victim, too, begins to slowly start trusting and liking Alan. Opening up more, relaxing more. Learning things about himself that his tireless quest for power and then vengeance hadn’t allowed him the time nor opportunity to discover. Becoming genuinely fond of the Color Gang, sharp irritation and antisocialness mellowing into a soft, if exasperated, attachment. Especially Orange, who he feels the most kinship with due to a copious amount of shared interests.

(It was hard not to get attached, the kid’s cheerfulness was borderline infectious.)

Victim had never had real friends before. The closest he ever had were the copies of himself, and they were never really separate identities from him, despite the Box’s best attempts.

He started to feel like he belonged, here. Like Alan and the gang had become a sort of family he never had before. It was enjoyable. It’s nice.

…Right up until Victim finds AvA1 on Alan’s YouTube channel.

[sgt-tombstone]

https://www. tumblr. com/tiktoks-repost/664415151341076480

saw this and now i'm picturing soapghost in this situation

link, you’re so right anon

I’m thinking an au where Soap is part of a search and rescue team and Ghost, who was discharged for medical reasons but still lives close to base, gets bullied volunteered by his old captain, Price, to be a casualty victim for the CSAR (combat search and rescue) drills

Ghost would hate it, because it reminds him of actually being injured, but Price always makes sure that his fake injury is vastly different from the real one that got him discharged, and he actually has a lot of fun playing a victim. He knows how real injuries work, how real victims act in the heat of combat, and he really enjoys getting to play “bad” victims (ones who refuse treatment or are combative, because the PJs need to know how to deal with that too)

He’s never really treated it as anything more serious than helping to train soldiers to do their jobs better, but then he’s leaning up against the side of a house in the middle of a field in the base training grounds, and he sees a pair of brilliant blue eyes approaching, startling in their intensity and almost scary in their conviction, and Ghost thinks that maybe, for the first time, he might be in over his head.

The soldier scans the area, gun at the ready, because the first step in a search and rescue situation is securing the premise (and fuck, this guy is well-trained, Ghost thinks to himself, half-sullenly and half-grudgingly impressed, he knows what he’s doing), and then he drops to his knees by Ghost’s side. His gaze drops to the card in Ghost’s hand, marking Ghost as an amputee with a sucking chest wound (a far cry from the brush fire that had caused 3rd degree burns along his entire left side and more skin grafts than Ghost could count). Ghost tries not to be upset about the loss of eye contact, especially when the man opens his mouth.

“I’m Soap,” he says, thick accent distracting from the utter ridiculousness of his call sign. He’s deadly serious, both his tone and face conveying his devotion to rescuing Ghost. “I’m gonnae get ye out of here, I promise.”

Normally, Ghost would thrash around a bit, maybe have some fun letting out a little cry (who ever said he wasn’t a good actor? Price kept bringing him back for a reason, and he was directly responsible for many CSAR operatives developing eye twitches. But they were better soldiers for it, so who really won?) but he can only stare as Soap starts undoing his tac vest (the only time he still gets to wear it) and pulling on gloves to start simulating treatment for Ghost’s fake wound.

He keeps one hand braced on Ghost’s chest, apparently where he’s decided the sucking chest wound would be, applying pressure while preparing a dressing (god, who approved the funds for all of the equipment they wasted in practice? Ghost wasn’t about to start complaining) and pressing a chest seal against Ghost’s bare skin. He tells Ghost to exhale, then secures the dressing. It’s a textbook treatment, as far as Ghost can tell (and he’s done this a lot) but there’s something about Soap’s sure hands, his unwavering haze, his steady presence, that makes it feel like something more.

When Soap moves down to pull up his pant leg, obviously intent on treating his fake leg amputation, Ghost stops breathing altogether, and if he ends the day by receiving very real CPR from a very concerned Soap (as well as Soap’s personal phone number), well… what Price won’t know won’t hurt him, right??

(he’ll be Ghost’s best man at the wedding two years later, and his speech will have many, many innuendos about a certain sucking chest wound, much to Simon’s mortification)

[queen-haq]

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 5)

Fic: Grudgingly Yours (Part 5)

Summary: You are a general surgeon, working in a hospital that’s slowly sucking the life out of you when one day you’re given the offer of a lifetime.

A.K.A  - An arranged marriage fic :)

Pairing: Billy Russo x You

Rating: R

Masterlist (contains links to my other stories and this one)

Chapter 5

Your breath was ragged, your throat dry from screaming so hard. Your brother was dying in front of you and no matter how much you screamed at him he wouldn’t look at you.

In the blink of an eye you were at the hospital, taking bullets out of a horse. It was a beautiful animal, midnight black with a shiny, sleek mane, speaking to you as you operated on him. You were trying to save its life but the horse remained unfazed, being sweet and encouraging. You felt kinship with the animal, like you knew him. And then it was touching you, with human hands, his long, lean fingers running through your hair. It felt good, the sensation making you tingle. Your face felt warm, flushed. It was hot, too hot. Like your body was lodged against a heater or something. Irritated, you brushed off whatever was covering you and the respite from the heat slowly lulled you back to sleep.

Several times throughout the night you were startled awake by Billy, pressed tightly against you. At times facing him, other times turned away. There wasn’t much space on the couch, and maybe that was the reason why, but you were surprised at how tactile he was. His hand was always on you, tucked around your waist, your hips, on your butt, on your breasts before you moved them away. You knew it wasn’t about you, he was probably the same way with the women he slept with – you just happened to be sharing the couch this time.

You woke up alone the next morning facing the back cushion. There was a throw draped over you, your robe gone.

“You kick in your sleep.”

Hearing Billy’s voice from behind, you immediately pulled up the throw. Just because you probably flashed him in your sleep didn’t mean you had to do it now. You shuffled around to face him, throw tucked under your chin so your breasts weren’t exposed.

He was sitting on a chair facing you, sipping a mug of coffee, wearing workout clothes. His casual demeanor was a surprise, you were used to seeing him angry or stressed out. Mocking you most of the time when he wasn’t being insulting. That’s why last night was so unexpected. Seeing him be so vulnerable and pleading for help, it came out of nowhere. And as surprised as you had been, he was probably doubly so. Which was why a part of you was bracing yourself for the inevitable assholery from him. “Something I learned in golddigger school,” you retorted.

He didn’t say anything, just watching you. Wearing a blank expression, his face was unreadable, making you nervous.  “You were all over me last night. Guess they didn’t teach you about respecting personal space in class,” he drawled after a few seconds, setting down the his empty cup on the coffee table.

“Of course not. You don’t get a rich husband by being respectful.”

For a second you thought amusement flickered in his eyes but it disappeared so quickly you must have imagined it.

“What the fuck was last night? You tryin’ to seduce me?”

Despite the hostile words, his voice was calm. There was no anger or derision in his tone, which confused you even more. At least if he was pissed, you’d know how to react. “You’re the one who asked me to stay with you.” Even to your own ears, you sounded bitchy. “Begged, actually.”

A well-defined eyebrow quirked up, the corners of his mouth lifting so slightly that he almost appeared to be smiling. “I don’t beg, sweetheart.”

What the fuck? Was he seriously trying to gaslight you? “So what do you think happened? I saw you passed out on the couch and decided that was the moment I was gonna jump your bones?”

“You tell me. I don’t know what gets you hot.”

His calm tone was infuriating. “Definitely not you.” The gall of him to act like you had somehow plotted all this. Pissed, you didn’t want to see his stupid, smug face again. “You mind turning around?”

“I’m fine where I am.”

“I want to go to the bathroom.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m not wearing anything underneath this!” you huffed. “Where’s my robe?”

“You took it off halfway through the night.” He reached behind him and pulled out the fabric. Instead of throwing it to her, he draped it over his lap.

“You want to give that back to me?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t be a fucking asshole.” He sneered at her words. At least that side of him was familiar, you reminded yourself. You could handle him when he was being a dick. “I don’t have time for this, Billy. Give me my robe.”

“Come here and get it.”

“Or you could just throw it.”

“No.”

“Stop being a dick, Billy!”

“That’s who I am, sweetheart.” In the blink of an eye his voice shifted from amusement to controlled rage. “I’m a fucking bastard, not some broken man for you to fix. Remember that.”

Fed up and irritated, you sat up and secured the throw tightly around your body before storming over to him. Standing directly in front of Billy, you glared down at him. “I don’t want to save you.  I don’t even give a fuck about you. Last night you had a panic attack, probably some PTSD episode or something. I could’ve ignored you, yeah, but I didn’t because that’s not who I am. When someone’s in pain in front of me, I help them. Not because I care about them, but because that’s what I’m trained to do. It doesn’t mean I like you, or want to fuck you, or even give a shit about you.” Molten eyes locked with yours, he gazed up at you like he was mesmerized or something. You snapped your fingers, trying to get his attention.  “Are you listening to me?”

His eyes trailed down to your lips. “So that’s all that was? You being a compassionate doctor?”

Not responding, you moved to pick up the robe from his lap when he suddenly grabbed your wrist. His grip was firm but gentle, his eyes pitch-black as he stood up. Towering over you, you regarded him cautiously as he closed the distance between you. “Let me go, Billy.”

He didn’t.

Refusing to look away, you held his stare. He must have taken a shower because you could smell the subtle scent of his soap, a wonderful, fresh scent that made you want to lean in and inhale him more. Of course that was a ridiculous thought, you could just imagine how he’d react to that.

His voice was low, raspy, almost seductive, his intense eyes gleaming over your face like you were fascinating to him. “Next time you see me like that, don’t help me. Even if I ask.”

“Tough shit. I’m not gonna change who I am because of you.”

Anger flitted across his face. “Do you know how stupid that is? I was blazed out of my fucking mind, probably having a panic attack. And you come in there like some goddamn idiot. You’re lucky I didn’t accidentally smash your face in.”

“You realize how that sounds? You need help.”

A heavy sigh escaped his lips while he finally released your wrist. In one swift motion he retrieved the robe from the ground and wrapped it around you. His hands lingered on your bare shoulders, the heat of his touch scorching right through to your insides. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the intimacy of the gesture, your heart racing. This was not good. Last night was one thing when he needed help, but in the harsh ray of daylight there was no reason to act so familiar with him.

Immediately you took a step back, tying the robe tightly around your waist. It lay lumpy on your body because of the throw underneath but you didn’t care. You just wanted a fast escape from Billy. He, however, had other plans when he took a seat on the arm of the couch.

“What kind of help?” Billy prodded, his eyes boring into you again.

“What?” you asked, distracted by his feet brushing against your bare leg.

“You mean like therapy or something? I tried that shit. Worked for a while, but every year…” For a second he looked like he was a million miles away, a haunted expression on his face. “The nightmares come back.”

Leave, you told yourself. Make up an excuse and walk away. Yet you caught a glimpse of something in Billy’s eyes that reminded you of his aching vulnerability last night and you couldn’t ignore it when he obviously wanted to talk. “Did something happen?” you asked reluctantly.

His piercing eyes dropped from your face to the floor. “Yeah.”

You waited for him to elaborate; he didn’t. There was a part of you that wanted to ask about the burn marks and scars that traumatized him – but it wasn’t your place to press him for answers. Obviously whatever triggered him was a painful experience. “Look, whatever’s going on with you, it’s not just gonna go away. I know you said therapy hasn’t worked yet but that doesn’t mean it won’t. It’s a process, you have to keep trying.”

A small smile curved his face. “Sounds like you give a shit now.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just don’t want you to accidentally kill one of your one-night stands in the middle of the night. That’s gonna be hard to explain to my friends.”

“That’s why they never stay the night,” he said quietly, his vision slowly and deliberately trailing up to your face. “I don’t let them.”

There was that fierce glint in his gaze again, the one that made your heart squeeze in your chest. And terrified the shit out of you.

“I haven’t slept beside anyone in a long time.”

Until last night. With you.

Every molecule in the air suddenly felt charged, your heightened senses trying to cope with the sensation of his hand stroking your calf. The unspoken words hung in the air, sharp and palpable, his intoxicating eyes holding you captive and making it impossible for you to look away.

“Why?” 

His question was a soft moan, sensuous, seductive, a complete contrast to how scratchy you sounded when you responded to him. “Why what?”

“Why do you keep fucking with my head?”

Your heart was pounding hard, the lump in your throat growing bigger by the second. “Why do you let me?”

“I don’t know.”

“You make it so easy to mess with you,” you murmured.

“Do I?”

Your breath caught in your throat when his fingers slowly caressed up the length of your calf, jolts running through your body at his touch. “Yeah.”

“You surprised me.”

One moment you were standing few feet apart, next he had gently nudged you forward while he stood up at the same time. All oxygen left your lungs, his close proximity making it hard for you to inhale. Or think rationally. “You stayed with me last night. You didn’t leave.”

 “I told you, I-”

 “Yeah, yeah, doctor bullshit - but you didn’t have to be sweet, or cute, or hold me until I fell asleep. And you did all that just because I asked.” His fingers curled around your hair, playing with the strands. “Makes me wonder what else you’ll do if I ask nicely.”

 “Are you capable of nice?”

 “Always so cheeky.” His eyes centered on your lips, studying your pout. The way he was looking at you right now, it was too much, desire rushing through your veins, overwhelming you, more so when he drew closer, whispering in your ear. “Maybe I need to keep your mouth busy with something else. Got any ideas?”

 Your body trembled, shivering at the sensation of his breath on your neck. Desperate for some respite, you closed your eyes. What was he doing to you? This was stupid. Stupid and incredibly risky. And knowing how easily you’d succumb to him scared you. Using every bit of strength you possessed, you removed yourself form his grip and took a step back. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop. It’s not gonna work.”

 His lips broke into a smirk. “Sure about that? Looks like t’s working already.”

 “Go fuck yourself!”

 You turned around and stormed out of the room, agitated by his amused laughter that echoed behind you.

To be continued...

A/N - I know it’s a short chapter but I thought the morning after deserved it’s own part.

[amethysttribble]

“He resembles Princess Luthien greatly,” Oropher said and Celeborn stiffened on instinct.

He side-eyed his kinsman, bracing for the impact of whatever came next. Oropher never made idle comments. Oropher epecially never made idle comments to him, not without the direct intention of starting a fight.

Celeborn hoped this wasn’t intended to be a fight. He’d promised Gil-galad, and more importantly, Galadriel, that they wouldn’t so much as bicker tonight. They were supposed to stand next to one another in solidarity and pretend like the High Council of Lindon wasn’t fracturing at the seams and about to fall apart, the direct consequence of Oropher’s words and desires and pride.

But right now, Oropher at least wasn’t speaking of their king- ‘I don’t remember choosing him, do you think you speak for all of us?’- but of the one standing next to him on the ballroom dais. Of perhaps the one person whose name and presence between them was just as, if not more, incendiary than Gil-galad’s. Poor Elrond.

“He does,” Celeborn replied mildly, biting his tongue before he could ask why Oropher was bringing this up now. It wasn’t like he’d never seen the young lord- no longer a boy, not a child by any race’s measure, though it was hard to remember- before. It wasn’t like they all didn’t meet and talk often enough.

“More than either Elwing or Earendil. Or her.”

And, ah. There it was.

“True enough,” Celeborn said, and he wasn’t sure if Oropher wanted him to agree or not, but he wasn’t going to lie.

Elrond took greatly after dear Aunt Luthien. In some lights it was slightly nerve wracking.

Oropher crossed his arms rather than reply immediately, his face closed off. Not stony or hard like at council meetings, but his thoughts and feelings were far away from any observer. He actually looked like the lord they pretended he was, rather than the rogue marchwarden he actually was; regal. When Oropher looked like that he reminded Celeborn of Galathil.

He looked away.

“I think, in the details though, they are more present. His cheeks, for example-“

“And it’s funny,” Oropher said, and he even huffed a very sad laugh, trying and failing to make it sound like he actually was joking. The two of them hadn’t shared a joke since… since.

Celeborn certainly wasn’t laughing. He closed his eyes and swallowed his annoyance at being interrupted. He knew Oropher did it on purpose, perpetually the preteen at his brother’s table delighting in ribald and shock.

And there were his words to consider.

“El-Elwing didn’t really take after Luthien very much.”

She didn’t. She’d taken after the person whose presence hung between Oropher and Celeborn like the unlight of Ungoliant, sucking the air out of the room. Which was a horrible legacy for someone they both loved so much, but grief did strange things to already strained relationships.

“I keep asking myself if there’s something about Earendil I’m forgetting.” Oropher was rambling now, highly uncharacteristic. Celeborn drew in a long breath and re-centered himself in anticipation for wherever this was headed. “Has Galadriel said anything about a resemblance to anyone in her family?”

Celeborn raised an eyebrow, but Oropher wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were locked somewhere past Elrond’s head. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

But Oropher acknowledging Galadriel’s family, Earendil’s family willingly?

Oropher had always seemed to operate under some purposeful mental dissonance, wherein he forced himself to think of Galadriel as some Telerin princess who had mystically made her way across the sea alone and by sheer force of will. And Earendil? He might as well have been prince to some lost, entirely independent Elven kingdom- not Sindar, not Laiquendi, certainly not Noldor- for how Oropher acted, for the most part.

He’d slipped in an argument about Gil-galad once when he shouted that, ‘Earendil was the only Noldo I would have ever had for my king and he’s gone!’

“She’s never made any special mention of a resemblance,” Celeborn said carefully. He didn’t want to call attention to the… mannerisms picked up from certain half-cousins that Galadriel had noticed. That wasn’t a resemblance, after all. “Why?”

“No particular reason,” he said, though it was becoming clear that there was a very particular reason, “just, many remark that his brother took after Earendil and I never saw it, so I-“

“I always thought Elros more so resembled Dior.”

Oropher’s head snapped over to finally look at him. He nodded, slow and low, not even slightly upset at being interrupted.

“Yes, I thought the same,” he said. “Funny that. Identical twins, but it’s in the- the bearing. Who they take after. Luthien and Dior.”

Celeborn fought off the shudder that threatened the shake him, to make him crack and crumble under the weight of the thing between him and Oropher that would never go away. He actually looked Oropher in the eye, and in that faraway gaze, this time he saw the same weakness.

“How much have you had to drink this evening?” Celeborn asked.

Oropher shrugged casually, with one shoulder, and that was plenty of answer. Surely he couldn’t be as drunk as either the time Celeborn found his and his friends deep into Galathil’s liquor cabinet or the night they drank themselves into a state in Sirion after… after. Still.

“That’s very unbecoming.”

“You see it though, right?” Oropher said, voice still uncharacteristically even, but when they met eyes…

He was such a weepy drunk.

“Elwing and Earendil’s boys, they carry themselves well,” he said, voice bitter as could be. “Beautiful, kind, clever, magnetic, the both of them. Princess Luthien’s wildness is in Elrond, and Dior’s wonder at the world is in Elros. They stand so tall. And, yes, you’re right, Elwing and Earendil are there in the margins, but there’s also- also them. And so much space is taken up, our- Lothig is eaten whole.”

Hearing Nimloth’s childhood nickname come out of Oropher’s mouth was like being stabbed. There was no more air. Just like that, Celeborn was drowning.

“You should be proud,” he hissed back, trying to keep his head above water. “That is a fine legacy to resemble, our princess, our king. We loved them as well. At least, I did.”

Oropher wasn’t listening. He never did.

“Do you think any of these people-“ he swept his arm out to gesture at the entire room, the entirety of Lindon’s court; Noldor, Sindar, Nandor, Men and Dwarves in the margins, and one peredhil. “-care that they killed her?”

“Don’t put that on him,” Celeborn snapped quietly, “he doesn’t owe you grief for someone he never knew-“

“I don’t care what Elrond feels, I can’t even look at him,” Oropher spat out, every word sounding pained, and there was torment in his whisper quiet voice.

That whisper, more than anything, tipped Celeborn off to the fact that this conversation wasn’t just one of their drunken spats about trading blame.

“I would have raised that boy like we raised his mother and your brother raised me,” Oropher said, “but that didn’t happen, and I can’t look at him. He looks like Luthien. His brother looks like Dior. And that’s a wonderful thing for everyone else in this room, isn’t it? That’s hope. The beautiful king taken too soon reborn and the Nightengale who stole her happy ending walking among us, and that’s such a lovely end to this tale for them. But what about for us, Celeborn?”

For Celeborn? Celeborn was shaking with the effort it was taking to keep his breathing even. Galadriel touched the edge of his fea to ask if he was okay. He gently pushed her away.

Oropher was right about one thing, this was about their family; about Doriath and Menegorth and being the last two members of Thingol’s inner court on this shore.

Eru Iluvatar, how did it end up being them? Just a pair of hot-headed youths with the weight an entire dead kingdom on their shoulders.

“Gondolin and Nargothrond are gone too,” he replied, the words dull even to his ears. “Hithlum and Dorthonion, half of Ossiriand, and even Himlad and Thargelion. It’s about building something new for all of us. Hope is not a bad thing.”

“It’s different for us.”

Yes. It was. Because Doriath and Sirion need not have fallen like that, and the monsters who took their homes and their loved ones from them weren’t even defeated. They faded, sad and pathetic and allowed to escape by everyone and everything but their prize, and there was no catharsis in that.

And in this kingdom they spoke Sindarin, but they took a Noldorin king who ruled through Noldorin traditions- with a few of Cirdan’s lessons thrown in there- in a city built by Noldorin hands. After his death, Thingol had lost his war of cultural influence. Badly.

“No one here remembers her but us, Celeborn,” Oropher urged. “They remember our heroes and our most tantalizing tragedies, but they don’t remember her. They don’t see her. She’s just one more dead wife and mother, if they get that far, but not a cousin, a niece-“

“Enough, Oropher.”

“-an astrologist, a troublemaker, a queen, a girl who was so scared of being outshined-“

“Oropher!” Celeborn snapped, more harshly than he meant to. It made Oropher stop long enough that he could put a hand on his shoulder, though.

“Oropher, you’re weeping.”

He blinked harshly, then brought up a hand to wipe at his cheek. When he pulled away, Celeborn could see how wet the palm was. Oropher glared at the remnant of his tears like they’d personally offended him.

He muttered, half to himself, “Surely you can’t keep living like this. Ignoring what was done to us because it’s awkward and inconvenient for the new age they’re building.”

Could he? Celeborn didn’t know. He was trying. Galadriel was trying; she had as many wounds as him she was trying to swallow for the sake of something new and bright. But it was hard. Lindon made Celeborn feel old, somehow. But with Oropher he was always just a boy again, strutting around Menegroth, trying to make his place, being too loud and too proud and too sure of himself.

Perhaps that was part of why they couldn’t stop fighting. Always just boys when together. And those boys, they had a few things in common.

Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were in Oropher. And when Oropher looked at him, those same things were in Celeborn. There was no place for those things in this new world.

Because Doriath, Galathil, and Nimloth were forever gone on this shore. Oropher needed to realize that. Not matter how much it fucking hurt.

“Go to bed, Oropher,” Celeborn told him softly. “You’re drunk and emotional. You’ll embarrass your son. He’s one of those young people looking for something new. Something hopeful.”

And when they looked back towards Gil-galad’s dais and the youths surrounding him, there was Thranduil, charming smile on his face, making Elrond toss his head back and laugh. If anyone took after Nimloth, it was him; her mother and Oropher’s had been identical twins.

Celeborn’s hand was suddenly colder and hanging in the air. He turned back to the kid who showed up one day and took so much of his older brother’s attention and who he’d never forgiven for that small slight. Oropher was composed and looking like Galathil once more.

“I hate that you’re right,” he whispered. “And he probably needs me to be better than this. But I can’t be better here.”

And he left.

The next week, Oropher would formally announce his intention to travel east and settle there, alongside anyone who would join him. Celeborn, to the surprise of every other council member but Galadriel, raised no objection. Very briefly, the thought crossed his mind to join Oropher.

But that desire faded quickly. The envy didn’t, though, not for many, many years.

Not until the day he planted a little silver tree in Lothlorien.

[comphetkoncass]

timkon nightmare fic

///

The escape is pointless. Tim has already killed six, left twelve injured, and left a positive identification marker at the scene. The Iceberg Lounge is, was, filled with Gotham’s worst. And now, they are nothing but dead.

He’s past weighing the importance of their lives. This will make things better in the long term, he knows. Even if Tim gets caught, he’s revoked six people’s right to kill, and hopefully the others' injuries make it impossible to hurt others.

But he suddenly feels eyes on him, and fear floods the space between his ears.

His footsteps feel clumsier, more urgent. Panicked as he realizes that some of the cops are onto him. Turning heads towards him, one by one, from their stations.

It's too late. Tim's going to be caught. And when he is, he's done for.

But he's killed six people tonight — why is he more afraid of getting caught than of what he’s done?

The gun sits heavy in his hands. Batman would be disappointed with his priorities, he thinks — until he feels the weight of the cowl and it all makes sense.

He’s Batman.

He's Batman, and he's just shot six people, and injured twelve others.

Batman closes his eyes and braces for the crushing fear as it overtakes him.

And it's Tim who blinks them open.

He feels a headrush, despite not sitting up. Tim's eyes snap open to darkness, and an impossible dark weight pinning him to the bed. He can’t breathe, which is a very silly perception, since he’s half aware that he's breathing too much.

“Easy there, Rob,” Kon says, soft and careful. "I've got you, it was just a dream."

It was, Tim realizes. It was a dream. But his body doesn't seem to recognize that there is no danger. It's still running on edge as though he's still on an escape mission; as though he's still seconds away from being caught and held accountable for a crime he's never committed in the real world but was so sure he'd just carried out.

Yet- Even if he's never done it in the real world, he's come close more than once.

And he doesn't know if he would have felt guiltier then than he does now. Does he feel bad? Does it outweigh the crushing fear of being caught?

"Tim? Breathe, come on. Your pulse is still insane, you've got to calm down."

Tim doesn’t answer. He recognizes the panic attack for what it is. Distantly, he decides he can't make Kon walk him through calming down. It's absurd. It's just a nightmare. It must be four in the morning; Kon should be sleeping, not helping walk him back from the brink of a morality crisis.

Tim sucks in a sharp breath and holds it for as long as he can. His lungs ache asks his vision turns dark at the edges from the rapid shift from hyperventilating to holding his breath — but he’ll be okay.

There's still a heavy weight on his chest though. Pinning his arms and legs. It doesn't cause any real panic, though, even though it should. That's when Tim realizes, late, that it's just Kon. Kon, sitting fully and properly on top of him. Hands and knees, pinning him not with extreme strength or TTK, but with all two hundred odd pounds of Kryptonian security blanket.

It feels extremely nice.

Tim must have been thrashing, for Kon to get on top of him.

"It was just a dream, beautiful," Kon says softly. "You're breathing better, you actually alright this time?"

Tim already knew it was a dream before this. He believed Kon when he first said it. It's just that now, minutes later, with his breathing leveled out and his eyes adjusting to the darkness, reality is much easier to discern. And now that he's properly awake, the dream is fading. There are pieces that he already can't parse through, can't logic his way into remembering when the dream, for all its intense emotion, doesn't follow logic. He can't have just been in the Iceberg Lounge, for one. It's been out of operation for months.

The longer Kon sits on top of him, the more Tim’s perception — both literal and figurative — levels out. The world is still dark and grainy despite his best efforts, nothing but black and white. Even Kon's bright blue pajamas are nothing but grey right now. But the world is clearer the longer he looks. It helps, Tim thinks, that Kon is all he can really see. Once his eyes adjust, Tim can make out the soft edges of Kon's face; the set of his shoulders, the way his pajamas have slipped mostly off of one despite his bulk. The longer Tim looks, the more details he can see, but even then it's only enough to see him against the dark of the night. Tim can see nothing beyond Kon and his messy curls and intense, worried eyes.

“You awake this time?" Kon asks, brows furrowing deeper. "Are you okay now?”

Tim finally releases his breath in a shuddering gasp. “Get off me.”

Kon does, albeit reluctantly. "Sorry. Did pinning you actually just make it worse?"

Tim shakes his head. It helped, he thinks. He already misses Kon's warmth once he's up. But he needs to move to feel real again, no matter how nice Kon's weight had felt on top of him.

Kon is quick to throw the extra blanket on the side table over Tim. Wordlessly, Tim sits up and wraps it around his shoulders, breathing deeply. Slowly. Measured.

It's easier than before. The panic has passed, even if Tim still feels the hard edges of the nightmare in his mind's eye. Details he's certain of, clear as a mission report, even as the rest of the nightmare fade.

The gun in his hands, six people dead and twelve injured. Fleeing the Iceberg Lounge. And the fear of facing consequences for vigilante justice. For murder.

How is he still more afraid of getting caught than of himself?

Tim presses a balled up fist to his forehead. He’d rather die than become that. Rather die than be his evil-future self. Is this how it starts? Losing compassion and his sense of right and wrong until he’s afraid of others bringing him to justice?

“I see you’re being very normal about this. Not taking that nightmare extremely personally, not at all,” Kon says under his breath. He reaches for Tim’s shoulder. Tim doesn’t fight; doesn’t react much at all. “I’m gonna sit behind you.”

Tim doesn’t answer. Not even as Kon maneuvers himself around him, strong thighs wedging him in place, strong arms wrapped around his middle. Tim sinks down against his back. Kon’s TTK barrier is down, Tim thinks, surprised. He’s not as invulnerable like this.

Any other day, Tim would pinch him. Tease him for being soft and vulnerable and pliant, take advantage of getting to feel human skin yield under his fingertips instead of the harder, invulnerable sheen that usually shields him. If they were in training, he'd nerve strike him for letting his guard down.

Today he just enjoys its warmth and its give. Enjoys what it means, too; that Kon doesn’t see Tim as a threat. Somehow, it's a greater comfort than anything else Kon could do for him.

Kon props himself between Tim and the headboard then, and Tim sags against him. Kon doesn't say a word. Instead, he just rests one hand on top of Tim's chest. His palm splays big and open against his heart. Feeling for himself the steady beat beneath his skin.

They sit like that for several minutes. Until Tim's heart has fully calmed. Until it's back to a steady 80BPM.

Then, Tim closes his eyes. Lets the darkness comfort him, remind him that it's stupid late and they should both be back to sleep and put all of this behind them so they can wake up less exhausted tomorrow.

Tim opens his mouth to say thank you, to say let's go back to bed, to say I won't fight it when you hold me tonight.

What comes out is, instead, "Gun Batman."

Kon makes a soft, sympathetic noise and kisses the back of Tim's head, slowly trailing to under his ear. His hand stays over Tim's heart. "That fucking sucks."

"I killed people," Tim says. "And I wasn't even- I didn't even feel guilty. I was just scared of getting caught."

Kon shifts to rest his chin on his shoulder.

"It- I must be so fucked up to not even... to have done that and not even care that I killed. I didn't even- I didn't feel guilty for murdering six people, for a killing spree."

"In your dream," Kon says, voice a little muffled from having his chin tucked against Tim's shoulder. "You didn't feel guilty in your dream. You certainly sound pretty guilty now, beautiful."

Tim sighs, slow and deep. He feels Kon's hand move with his exhale. "...Yeah," he says. "Okay."

"You'd feel guilty as shit if it happened out in the real world." Kon says it so confidently. So sure.

"I don't know. There's always the chance that I... if I actually killed someone, that I wouldn't..."

"We're not going there tonight," Kon says softly. "And you are freaked out that you didn't feel guilty. That's guilt by proxy already, from the real you. So you don't need to worry about it."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "Doesn't count."

"Does to me." Kon gives him a soft squeeze with his other arm. "I know you. You wouldn't do that. You're making a better future, like we talked about."

Breathing comes easier, Tim finds now. In, out. Deep as he can. He feels grounded and safe here in Kon's arms. Not that he should have to feel safe, when his dream was about going on a killing spree. And yet, Tim is certain that as long as he is here, that's something he won't have to worry about. He'd never need to do that; he has Kon to keep him grounded in reality.

"Okay," Tim finally breathes out. "I believe you."

"I've got you," Kon says, and drops a kiss onto his bare shoulder. "Always, Rob."

It's exactly what Tim needed. His body feels absolutely boneless again. Exhaustion catches up to him, and he just wants to go back to sleep. He can't possibly feel this calm already. But Kon's steady heartbeat behind him, more obvious the longer he holds him... the easy trust he feels... that's real.

"I'm ready to try and go back to sleep now," Tim says.

Kon smiles against his shoulder, then smacks a friendlier, sleepier kiss to his cheek. "You're getting cuddled tonight."

"What, I don't get to jetpack?"

Sleep softens the rough edges of Kon's chuckle. "Not tonight."

Then, Kon coaxes them into cuddling, with Tim's back to Kon's front, spooned and held securely in his arms. As always, there is nowhere safer than being held by a Kryptonian.

Moments like these, it's impossible not to feel small. But it's a good kind of small, Tim thinks. Being held as though he could do no wrong. As though he's someone worth protecting, rather than someone who could cause devastation beyond belief.

Tim closes his eyes, reminds himself that he's loved enough to keep himself from going down a darker timeline.

The future will come at dawn, with light and promises. Choices he'll make that will shape him into the hero he desperately tries to be.

For now, it's so dark that Tim can't see a damn thing, and he has no idea what the right choice is, if there are even any he needs to be making. And the most important part is that he doesn't need to.

In these twilight hours before dawn, Tim is exactly where he should be. In strong arms that belong to someone who loves him. Who knows he'd never slip too fast, too far, for Kon to catch him and pull him back up.

Tim closes his eyes, and sleeps.

[whumpbug]

whumperless whump event day 19: the whump morning after! @whumperless-whump-event

tending to injuries / domestic hurt comfort / “let's check the bandages, okay?”

see this post for character information!

caretaker: Simon

whumpee: Archie

guys. it's here. i can't explain why but i think this is my favorite simon and archie fic i've written and i literally wrote it the week after i made them so PLS ENJOY!!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“Ow ow ow! Fuck!”

“Easy, easy! Jeez Archie, relax, would you? Are you trying to run a marathon or something?”

“I have to pee!”

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed.

“We’ll take it slow. The last thing we need is you popping a stitch because you're rushing it. That cut was a pain in the ass to suture.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Just help me? Please?”

Simon sighed.

Patrol nights were always rough on Archie. At least during the fights, he was always too hopped up on adrenaline to notice how injured he really was, and he usually conked out before Simon finished patching him up.

The mornings, however, were unrelenting. 

Every ache, bruise, slash and sprain from the night before now made itself very apparent, and Archie wasn’t able to ignore it.

As for this particular night, it had been a pretty rough fight between Archie and some lackies from a well-known drug operation he had been trying to dismantle. They were dosed on strength enhancers that rivaled Archie’s own abilities, and while he came out on top, it definitely wasn’t an easy fight.

Now, he was sporting a black eye, several broken ribs, a knife wound to the gut, a sprained ankle, a mild concussion, and a mosaic of bruises all over his body.

Rough night indeed.

“Alright, let’s get you up then,” Simon bent down and wrapped his arm under Archie’s. Archie braced as Simon started to guide him up, grunting sharply when they started to move from the couch.

“Go slower.”

“And here I thought you were about to piss yourself.”

“Just go!”

He grit his teeth against the all-consuming jolt of pain that overtook his body. God, the morning after really did suck.

“Alright alright, almost there..” Simon soothed, taking a bit more of his weight. “Just a little more..”

After a ridiculous amount of time, they were both finally standing. Archie was heavily favoring his left ankle as he began his hobble to the bathroom door with Simon’s help. Every step was agony.

“Alright, I’ll be fine from here,” He stated with a wince. He waved Simon away from the hallway, but Simon.. didn’t move.

“Nuh uh. No way. The last time I left you on your own, you fell and cracked your head on the bathtub. I’m waiting right here in the hall.”

“Ew, no! That’s weird! Go away!”

“It’s only weird because you’re making it weird. You forget I’m literally in school to do this for a living. This is strictly professional.”

“Whatever. Weirdo.”

“Strictly. Professional.”

Archie shot Simon a weak scowl as he shut the restroom door behind him.

Simon waited awkwardly for a few moments before he heard a zip, a flush, and the whoosh of the faucet. 

Archie merged from the bathroom, looking absolutely unsteady on his wobbling legs. He was just about to pitch forward when Simon closed the distance between them, slipping an arm around Archie’s waist. “Alright. Back to the couch we go.”

It took another eternity, but finally, Archie was lying down again, significantly paler than when he had started. 

“This sucks.” He whined, breathing deeply through his nose as the aftershocks of pain reverberated through his bones.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should think about that before you try to take on six guys that are three times your size,” Simon retorted, replacing the ice pack on Archie’s ribs. “That was the most stupid thing I’ve seen you do in a while, and I’ve seen you do some pretty stupid things.”

Archie would have crossed his arms indignantly if he could.

“You should have seen the other guys..” He muttered under his breath, rather childishly.

Still, despite his banter, the way sweat was beading on Archie’s brow and the way his face was void of all color was not lost on Simon.

“Hey, let’s check those bandages, okay? I think you might have popped a stitch after all.”

“I did not. I would know.”

“You absolutely wouldn’t. Lift your shirt.”

Archie rolled his eyes and slowly lifted the fabric to reveal… a bright red stain on the gauze.

He didn’t have to look at Simon to know the kind of smirk he was sporting.

Simon made quick work of replacing the suture and re-wrapping the wound. His hands worked deftly and with a practiced manner that Archie found himself feeling.. saddened by. He couldn’t quite explain it. It was more of the realization that Simon had been doing this for a while, enough that it was second nature, and Archie had done.. well, nearly nothing for him. He had yet to repay him for his undying generosity.

“Simon..” He began. His voice faltered the slightest bit. “Do you.. ever get tired of.. this.” He motioned vaguely to himself.

At the sudden change in conversation, a mixture of anger, hurt, and surprise flashed across Simon’s face. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just mean.. well..” Archie swallowed the lump in his throat and averted his gaze. “This can’t be fun for you. You come back from classes, from work, probably exhausted, and have to deal with me. I just.. I don’t want you to think you have to do it. I’ll be fine on my own if you don't want to. You’ve taught me enough that I--”

“Archie. Look at me.”

Archie drew his gaze up and met Simon’s unwavering eyes. 

“Listen to me. I don’t ever want you to think I am just dealing with you. I do this because I genuinely want to. Nobody is forcing me, I’m doing it because you deserve it. Archie, I know I don’t say it a lot, but you do so much to help others,” He said breathlessly, taking Archie hand and holding it tightly. “You deserve someone that will do the same for you.”

Suddenly, Archie found himself scrubbing viciously at traitorous tears that spilled over. Before he could say anything else, Simon pulled him into an embrace. It was the kind of hug that cradles every part of your soul, every part of your being.

He wept openly in Simon’s arms.

“You’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not,” He hummed, rubbing Archie’s back and pulling away slowly.

“So you’d better start learning how to dodge.”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[merbear25]

Could you do NSFW 8 with Germany pls?

Hello, hello! Thank you for sending in this request! I hope you like it 💜💜

CW: NSFW!! MDNI! gn!reader, a little angsty, oral sex (male receiving)

Coddled love

You were assigned to work along Germany nearly five months ago in order to aid in military operations. Being more than qualified, you were eager to put your abilities to work. However, upon arrival, you were nearly exclusively kept behind your desk. Pushing pencils was not what you'd had in mind and the lack of opportunities you had to show what you were capable of were eating away at you.

There weren't many chances to have a one-on-one talk with Germany, seeing as he was under constant pressure and had to keep his nose to the grindstone. Despite this, you had this irking need to make the misuse of your skills known.

Being granted entry, you were met with an overworked man who appeared to be too burried in his work to be phased by your irritation. Clearing your throat in a failed attempt to catch his gaze, you instead led with, "There has been quite the influx of responsibilities placed on us recently."

He nodded at the obvious.

"So much so that I find it's become necessary to releave me of my current duties, so that I can be of more use." Keeping your head held high was trying when his icy stare met your self-assurance.

"And what exactly are you suggesting?"

You were firm in your approach, "I have more than qualified and have more than enough experience to aid you and the others. I was thinking I'd be most useful as a spy."

He abruptly stood up, shoving his chair back against the wall. To counter his outburst, he calmly explained, "You're needed here in the office. That's the end of it."

Resentment was rising, causing the venom you'd been holding back to bubble at the back of your throat. "I've had just about enough of being held back!"

"Held back?"

"I'm not being allowed to live up to my potential, instead being forced to work behind a desk and make copies. You know my background, my education and training, so why are you keeping me around if all you're going to have me do is play secretary?"

"Putting you in as a spy is much too risky a—"

"This job involves taking risks!"

"But I can't bear to have you be a casualty of it!" Shocking himself at hearing his own fear of losing you leave his lips, he watched your reaction carefully before approaching you. When your body language didn't tense at him closing the burdening gap, he sighed, "The idea of you getting hurt doesn't sit well with me."

Your eyes fell on his lips as he cupped your face, "I just—" your protest was cut off with sultry lips. Once being placed upon yours, the lust that had been building throughout your time there was finally set free.

Pulling you closer and deepening the kiss, your hands instinctively gropped his chest. You felt his hand run down the small of your back, gripping your soft backside. When you let out a soft gasp, he moved to your neck, sucking and nibbling at your sensitive skin.

Getting caught up in the moment, you pulled away and positioned yourself infront of him: knees planted to the ground. He hurridly undid his belt and lightly tapped his length against your needy tongue.

Taking as much of him as you could, you placed your hands against his thighs to brace yourself for the inevitable: handfuls of your hair helped keep you steady as he slid in and out of your mouth. Muffling your moans against his throbbing member only escalated the electrifying surges coarsing through him.

It wasn't long before he was at his wits end: letting out one final grunt, beads of hot cum began to foam around your mouth. Being sure not to waste any, you greedily licked up any excess off of his cock and your uniform.

A compromise was yet to be made, but at least now you had a sure enough way of getting what you were after.

[laracrofted]

(since I’m feeling greedy) how about “show me how much you missed me” for Rhett 😍

i saw the new lewis content and exactly one (1) rhett picture yesterday, and suddenly, i was inspired to write some filth. enjoy! 🤠

warnings: minors dni, mentions of alcohol, language, explicit sexual content (basically rhett gets blown in the storage room at the handsome gambler... so semi-public oral sex), not proofread. rhett x fem!reader (bartender).

You are working a double at the Handsome Gambler again, an excruciating eleven hours, filled with spilled drinks and scattered peanut shells and rambling drunks who've got nothing better to do than get in a fight in your goddamn bar.

Luckily, Carl is working security tonight and can throw them out at the drop of a hat. You just have to give him the look, and all 200-something pounds of muscle are strolling over and grabbing some drunk out-of-towner by the collar of his brand new Carhartt.

Everything gets a whole lot better when Rhett strolls in around midnight, looking rugged and handsome as hell in an old worn (read: not fresh off the rack like California License Plate's) pair of Levi's and a Stetson.

He's been gone all of yesterday and today, away at an out-of-town rodeo just across the state line in Gardiner.

You wanted to go so damn bad and lose your voice cheering him on from the stands, but the Handsome Gambler needed two bartenders to operate on a weekend night. No one wanted to cover your shift.

You were disappointed, of course, but couldn't blame them. Who wants to work a double on a Saturday?

He braces his elbows on the bar and leans in, enough for you to smell mint and tobacco on his breath, and looks at you with those ocean blue eyes, half-lidded from exhaustion and something else entirely.

"Hi darlin'," Rhett murmurs, rough and pleasant, all smoke and leather. "Can I get a whiskey and a beer?"

An idea develops in your brain – your sleep deprived and cowboy deprived brain, who doesn't care much about your job now that Rhett's here. You cast a sidelong glance down to the end of the bar to make sure Wendy has it covered. She seems fine.

"Sure, but I keep the good stuff in the back, cowboy." His eyes flare at the nickname, black pupils blowing out the blue, flickering down to watch your mouth move around the word. "Wanna come help me get it?"

His lips twitch.

Less than a minute later finds you on your knees in the back room with Rhett's cock in your mouth.

You'd pushed him back against the locked door, hard enough to rattle the good liquor bottles that're kept on the metal shelving unit nearest the door, reaching for his belt buckle and peppering kisses on any inch of available skin within reach.

His strong neck. His collarbone, visible through the smallest gap in the plaid shirt. His jaw, covered in afternoon stubble. His neck.

You'd breathed, "Missed you, cowboy," between kisses, to which Rhett had rasped, "Oh yeah, darlin'? Why don'tcha show much how much you missed me?"

You were on your knees in a heartbeat. You might've actually bruised them.

His fingers are strong and insistent in your hair, guiding you on him, encouraging you to move faster. Take him deeper. He brushes the back of your throat, salty and warm.

You swallow instinctively. A strangled whimper punches out of Rhett's chest.

He lets out a long string of curses. "Shit, darlin'. Love your damn mouth. You're so good to me."

You pull back, running your tongue along the sensitive underside of his cock, licking and sucking at the tip of him, growing wetter with every harsh breath that shudders from him.

You're soaked already, just from the sounds of him, the weight of him in your mouth.

You look up at him, lashes sticking together from the moisture welling in your eyes, and damn, Rhett really is beautiful, eyes closed in desperate pleasure. He is still wearing the damn Stetson, which somehow gets you even hotter.

Idle fingers sneak under the hem of your denim skirt, and Rhett catches the movement.

"God, are you – Touch yourself for me," Rhett instructs, breathing hard, "but don't come. I want you to come on my cock later. Don't come, darlin'."

You desperately moan, vibrating around his cock, and with a half-gasped warning, Rhett comes down your throat. You wipe at your mouth with a crumpled napkin in your pocket, rise to your feet again as Rhett recovers.

He is red in the face, flushed and breathing like a marathon runner. He catches a glimpse of your damp fingers, slick from your own wetness.

Rhett lifts your hand to his mouth and sucks the wetness from your fingers, groaning.

"When do you get off, darlin'?"

"2:30 AM."

"Can you make it until then?" Rhett smirks, knowing, reaching under your skirt and running his index finger along the damp seam of your panties. "Christ, girl."

You think Rhett might be half hard already, straining against his now buttoned jeans.

You smirk back, despite the uncomfortable stickiness between your thighs that'll distract you for the rest of the damn shift. "A better question might be, Can you make it until then?"

His gaze is dark and wanting, but Rhett grins. "Meet me at the motel. I'll get us a room."

[amimere]

costumizing my braces part 2: vinyl boogaloo

(part 1 here)

look at me having the spoons and time to keep working on operation "make the braces not suck", in todays episode; adding the htv (heat transfer vinyl) designs

first up, the designs, theese were designed and cut out while i was at home for autumn break (before i was planning on making process posts about this project), so i dont have any pictures of my cricut or the weeding etc., but i do have pics of the designs i cut out

[ID in ALT]

to explain the text i used:

"are the gods truly this petty?": a phrase said by shadowheart in act 3 of baldurs gate 3 whenever her incurable sharran wound hurts. since her wound is on her right hand, and my right wrist is the one most likely to act up (and since bg3 has me in a chokehold like no other), i figured it would be a fitting choice

"d va da som svarte": written more or less phonetically according to my dialect, its hard to translate but as a phrase its simmilar (but not as "severe" on the swearing scale) to "for fucks sake" or "fucking hell". it goes on the left brace since i really fucked up if i need to use it

[ID in ALT]

for the transfer i needed to make sure i did not mess up the communal equipment, lest i be excommunicated from the workshop. so i put a paper towel under each brace to protect the ironing board from any possible glue, and i used some scrap muslin on top of the braces to protect the iron from the plastic and the dye (as yall can see from the second picture it was a good thing i did)

i ironed the designs from both the front and back of the braces for 30 seconds each, then another 30 seconds from the front, this vinyl is cold peel so i let one cool down while i did the other, i then removed the transfer tape and (because i dont trust the glue on this brand) ironed for Another 30 seconds with just the muslin between the iron and the design

thats it for part 2, part 3 (link found here once its up, or check the "operation make the braces not suck" tag on my blog) will more than likely be the stitching to re-attach the bits that fell off during the dying

[forestknifefight]

Blupjeans Week Day 3!

With a clean 500 words, I present to you something silly based on the prompt Strings. I enjoy referencing other fandoms in my fics, so enjoy the Indiana Jones reference :]

Also, TW/CW: Spiders

Strings of white, silky thread threaten to cut through Lup’s IPRE robe as she sits, tied up, in the corner of a small cave. Around her the silk strings dance through the air, flowing as if through water. She attempts to take a deep breath, but the constriction of the bindings prevents the inhale.

Barry is dropped near her extended feet, equally bound by the white silken threads. He lays on his side, and the top of his head snaps against the stone floor with a disgustingly wet sound, but all he does in response is groan in discomfort.

Lup glances down at him with wonder. Sure, Magnus is the tank of their operation, but something about the resilience of Barry Bluejeans is comforting. And attractive. But oddly enough, that attraction is taking the backseat in this situation.

Alright, maybe the passenger’s seat.

“Hey, Babe,” Lup says. Her lack of breath is betrayed by the wheeze that accompanies the words.

Barry’s eyes are still pinched together in pain when he speaks. “Hey, Lup.”

Lup looks around the cavern and the strings of white thread. “This sucks, huh?”

Barry hums. “Spiders,” he mutters. “Why does it always have to be spiders?”

“The size of dogs, too,” Lup says.

Hissing noises have peppered the air around them, but one particular hiss catches her attention. It’s louder than any of the others have been, and it pulls her attention up into the webbed rafters of the cave.

She inhales sharply. “I’ve got a better idea, actually, fuck this,” she says, panic rising in her voice. “I’m burning a spell slot.”

She casts Fireball and braces herself. The blast of flames comes shooting out from behind her, burning away the wispy strings of webbing. The binds around her body fall away, and she pushes herself forward, to Barry.

Above them, tens of dog-sized spiders begin to his and snarl in their direction, descending the strings of white silk followed by their mother, which is easily the size of a fantasy Buick.

Lup rips the web off of Barry and helps him to his feet. “Come on, Bar-Bar, we gotta go, go, go!”

Barry lets himself be pulled haphazardly to his feet, but hurries after Lup nonetheless. As they exit the cave, she burns another spell slot, casting Fire Storm into the spider-infested cavern. She makes sure the two of them get far enough away from the cave and into the jungle they had been scouring for the Light of Creation before dropping to her knees to take a deep breath.

Barry drops down to the ground next to her and rolls onto his back, taking deep breaths of his own.

After a few moments, he looks over at her.

“How did you cast that?” he says. “It’s not even a Wizard’s spell.”

Lup sucks in another breath, this time one to calm her emotional fire. “Barry?”

“Yeah?” “You are so lucky I love you, or you’d find out exactly how I cast that spell.”

[from-nobody-to-nightmare]

From Nobody to Nightmare Chapter 1

“Never in her life – she could swear it from the bottom of her soul – had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgments had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently?”

― Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles

The noises from the hospital room grew fainter and foggier with each passing moment, as the anesthesiologist counted backward out of their habit since I was in no condition to move my lips anymore. Utter darkness overcame me as I drifted off into what felt like a dreamless sleep under the bright lights of what I guess was an operating room. 

I woke up to an unusually blue sky above my head. Sitting up gave me vertigo as the rest of me tried to shake off the anesthesia. I wobbled to my feet with bleary eyes bracing myself against an unexpected structure. As the world came back into focus, I focused on my hands. Or at least I think they were my hands. I don’t remember having my skin be so gray or having nails quite so pointy. I stepped back a bit after I noticed that the thing I was leaning on was a rather tall podium. I was engrossed in mild awe at the pristine sight of it. It felt way taller than it needed to be and was capped in gold so polished it shone like a lighthouse beacon on a clear night. “Geeze that is bright…” I mumbled to myself.

My deep sigh was interrupted by a melodic and cheery voice, “Why hello there!” I could feel some of my hair stand on end as I craned my neck up at the source. It was a blond, clean-cut man with the clearest blue eyes I had ever seen, grinning from ear to ear looking down at me, his hands cradling open a massive white book embossed with gold. Squinting, I asked in a cautious tone a question,  as if I didn’t already know the answer to, “Where am I?”

His gentle smile shrank a bit as he looked at me quizzically, but rebounded quickly back into place, “Welcome to Heaven; Can I get your name please?” Befuddled and with my finger to my chin I answered, “Nadia Del Abaroa?”, followed by, “Wait a minute; how did I die?”

As he went through the book whispering off names that started with Na; he interjected, “Judging by what you’re wearing Miss, my best guess is on the operating table.”  I stood silently stunned my eyes burning a hole into the guiled pavement with a thousand-yard stare that could make a snake flinch. He quietly continued to rattle off names to himself flipping through the pages in earnest until the Nad turned to Nae. “I’m sorry. I’m not seeing your name on my list.”, he glanced back at me with a practiced look of apology.

I shook my head like an etch-a-sketch to those words. Hoping against hope and utterly perplexed I asked, “ Does that mean I get to be a ghost? Or, do I get to go back to the living world?”

The nervous chuckle that came from him dashed my already fragile hopes and what came next brought me to tears, “Oooh, I’m so sorry that’s not how it works….” 

My eyes tearing up, “Then where will I go?”

He shook his head in apologetic disappointment, “ I’m afraid you’ll have to go downstairs with the others that didn’t quite make it. Yeah…. so sorry about the mix-up.” A gust of wind began to brew as my hospital gown began to flutter.

I pleaded for answers, “May I at least know the charges?” The wind picked up more and more force as the gatekeeper replied, “ I’m sorry it’s not my department…. I wish I could help you more.”

Those words brought me no comfort as the breeze became a gale pushing me backward. I turned my head glancing behind me as a massive hole in reality shimmered an ombre of reddish hues sucking me into its vortex, like water down a drain. A final gasp in terror rushed out of me as I was swept off my feet tumbling into the waiting abyss. 

“Tisk, tisk, tisk; what a pity. With a look like that, she would have fitted right in.” sighed the gatekeeper as he readied his post to welcome the next visitor.

[loz-furbies]

Spirit Tracks complete! It was quite a roller coaster in terms of how much fun I had, but my ultimate verdict is still a definitive thumbs up. Which is very unexpected because I had quite disappointed memories from my first attempt over a decade ago.

(spoilers I guess?)

As documented here, the stealth sections were quite a struggle, but at least I can just file that under "I just hate this genre" instead of what I felt with for example having to do the mountain for a fourth time in SS. The train sections weren't as bad as I remembered once I got the hang of how to deal with the demon trains, but at times it was just really boring when you just wanted to get somewhere and the train is so slow and nothing interesting happens during the travel. I really wished for some kind of turbo speed upgrade or a better cannon or something. Then there was the flute, which was a massive hurdle for me, but eventually it worked out fine because the issue was just that... I wasn't even blowing into the 3ds microphone. But seriously it isn't even labeled! This is not my fault, I'm not the dumbass here! Regardless the 3ds screen was at an awkward angle for playing, the DSi worked better for that too.

The stamps made for a surprisingly fun collectable, while I only did the bare minimum of rabbits because I didn't like the rabbit catching minigame (=I'm bad at it) and the prizes suck anyway. But the dungeon items were great (excluding the microphone-operated whirlwind); the stylus controls made them unexpectedly enjoyable and fresh to use. As for the dungeons, they were pretty easy but I still had a good time. Also points for Anjean for being a far more appealing character than I anticipated.

The music side had some real bangers, like the train theme, the evolving spirit tower staircase theme with the final version being especially awesome, and the light tear train theme from the end of the game. And microphone controls notwithstanding making music together with the lokomos was also fun and they knew to cap the game off with playing the game's main theme with Zelda singing and all the side characters joining in for a grand performance, which was probably my favourite moment overall. In general while I had my frustrations with the final tower section, the end game was solid and wrapped everything up nicely, with all the major gameplay elements getting their last chance to shine: the stealth + phantom puzzles, getting revenge on the evil trains (and finally getting that speed and power train powerup I was hoping for!), combat with the train, combat with phantom Zelda, the flute, and of course a sword fight with the final boss.

And then there's of course Zelda herself who really was the best element of the whole game. She's great as a companion in that she doesn't get in the way, both puzzle and combat gameplay were fun with phantom Zelda, and she was expressive and had some really funny and epic character moments. And most importantly she remained playable through the whole game! I was so bracing myself for her to get damseled in the grand finale but no, she remains an active gameplay element through all the phases of the last boss! Truly a game where Link and Zelda work together to save the kingdom, and not just Zelda doing some fancy magic in a cutscene. And then in the end credits they hold hands, which is more than what they manage to do in most games.

So yeah, overall a bit uneven but still well worth playing, and I'm glad that I took on the project to clear all the loz games because otherwise I might have never bothered to finish this.

[candycryptids]

Ayoooo, I'm back to be a pain AGAIN! This time I really, really, really want to know more about... duh, Chuu! But also a little about Tuesday, as well. This idea is just so COOL and I need to know more.

So! How long did it take Chuu to finish building Tuesday? I know it says he's been 'finished' for around 6 months to a 1 year but I imagine the process must have taken Chuu forever! And how in the heck did she learn to make an entire being from scratch and give it the capabilities to understand/learn emotions and what not?

My curiosity is insane and I'm going to stop before my "one question" keeps turning into a billion more. :)))

Ok so we’re gonna start with the first question, and then the second answer ends up being a huge timeline-lore dump, so, uh, brace for impact?

It took Chuu 10~ish years of development to get Tuesday to a 1.0 state, starting from drafted prototypes on paper to Built.

She wanted an assistant after going MIA from Garlemald [if you ask her, she’ll say she quit; she just only left an audio clip at her station that said GoodBye :)] because going from having people to run around and do grunt work to, doing everything herself forever…. Sucked.

Learning to Build Tuesday as a whole took her first visit to Ul’Dah, where she was first properly exposed to Mammets in the Goldsmithing guild. Delicate, small robots with full on Hearts. Personalities. MEMORIES! Opinions! Instead of Ceruleum, like Magitek, they ran off Aether. It’s fascinating- it’s not a weapon, it’s different, and confusing as hell. Chuu sticks her nose into their business and learns as much as she can about, how Mammets even function, how they’re put together, until the Gil she had starts to run low, and the Flames start questioning why there’s a Viera here with shocking similarities to one of the head engineers from Garlemald, and she dips again. To Limsa, where she meets the then-Warrior Of Light Keathan. Their extensive knowledge in Aetherology sets Chuu briefly into learning Arcanist magic (hence… part of the origin for her obsession with Carbuncles)

Together they draft further still prototypes on paper, utilizing Keathan’s extensive knowledge on the Body- and the affects Aether has on it, and the reverse (a body’s affect on aether). (it is, in fact, what their Archon Mark is for; BioAetherologist is the word we’re settling on uvu;) to make some pretty Huge Headway….

Something Chuu coins as ‘Mammetek’; a marriage between Magitek and Mammets that would be able to Talk, Walk, Carry, Gather Materials as well as Analyze them for Quality and Usability. A slimmer silhouette than her previous designs, a Mammet heart, a Magitek’s dependable, durable framework, but no need to make room from Ceruleum Tanks, or Emissions. While this Assistant would likely still need coolant, heat sinks, vents… it would still be possible that, to the layman’s eye, it would appear as any other Person, given enough fiddling.

Until the 7th Umbral Calamity occured, and Louisoix’s magic wipes from all the memory of The Warriors Of Light….. and Chuu and Keathan both wind up with gaping holes into the memory. Keathan with terrible active recall, and Chuu with no recollection of the Project they’d been working on together for all this time. Aimless and restless, she drifts away from Limsa and settles Temporarily in Kugane, with its more neutral stances. This is about when she falls in with her current shady Free Company, lmfao. [Which I’ll say, has lore, but I don’t know it, cos our rp scene is, shall we say, a tumbleweed, at best.]

While she’s moving in more fully to their base of operations, about a year after the Calamity, she dredges up notes and prototypes for something that she can’t remember having drafted in the first place. There’s numerous notes on something called a ‘Mammet’ though, which sends her back to Ul’Dah, much to her consternation, but it was the best and only place to learn more.

She happens to meet Keathan again- though the two are mostly struggling with a sense of Deja Vu at first, trying to place where they know each other- they eventually work it out, though perhaps the middle of the market street wasn’t the best place to discover this…

Regardless, the project ends up in full swing again, with Keathan making occasional contributions when not otherwise occupied (though Chuu did probably throw them off their intended task a number of times)

Tuesday [1.0.0] isn’t operational mid-ARR, and he’s not allowed out of the workshop at all. No legs. No face. No hands. But he has a voice, and he has crude mitten-like graspers, and Keathan spent quite a bit of time conversing with him while Chuu refined code and worked on the frame. Originally he was more like a dating sim- predefined responses to partially defined questions and phrases. But it was…. Vast. Training a learning module was easier; let the Mammetek utilize stored memory, and let it build on recalled conversations to generate its own responses based on those. It gets more complicated than that rather quickly but it was more forgiving a module than trying to code for every conceivable combination of words. *please understand my knowledge of computers and programming is rudimentary at best, I’m leaning rather heavily on Fantasy Handwaving

Tuesday’s first proper forray with a body includes mitten hands and a blobby-somewhat suspect-tonberry head, mailed in pieces to Ishgard once Chuu finally got word where Keathan and the Wayward Fugitives had ended up. This is Tuesday [1.2.45]; The startup takes quite a large amount of Aether- so it’s really fortunate Keathan has just that ;)

And Keathan continues to [treat them like a person] and not a Machine! So do most other Ishgardians, actually. He’s Keathan’s attentive, if a little eccentric, assistant and bodyguard. By the end of Heavensward- following a [major incident] with Nidhogg, he’s on 1.3.49. A furious Chuu had to build him a new leg, and made some alterations to his software in the hopes she could head off some of his ‘riskier’ plans (partially at Keathan’s request).

Working as a group in Azys La with Gerolt gets us to Tuesday [2.5.58]; new body, working individual fingers, a lovingly crafted and life-like Faceplate (thanks Keathan 💖) and, more importantly, an enhanced Mammet heart that could better Sustain itself and didn’t need to tether with Keathan to remain operational all the time. Allagan tech also aids in creating a durable self-healing bio-skin, so he gets to wear… like… real clothes. Not just a full coverage padding-insulating armor-body, but. Like. CLOTHES.

Tuesday [3.6.60] comes about post-ish Shadowbringers, when she gets her hands on YorHa technology to take apart and refine and study…. Through curious means. [Tuesday’s Soul] was called there, having residual ties to Keathan, so much of her work comes from second-hand sources until she figures out how to get there on her own power. Don’t tell Shtola.

I imagine he’ll face another updated body and hardware/software to 4.6.49 in Post Endwalkers, working in tandem with Thavnairian Alchemists who designed Varshaun’s vessels. She comes a long way by that point on being closed off and insular, more willing to… care about other people, lmfao, and a course in the Studium about Memory gives Keathan some ideas to work on with Chuu and Tue about upgrading his memory- store it as Aether, and not just as hard copies of ‘deemed important’ or ‘requested’ video and audio and training data. (So basically…. He gets pumped with way more aether and it gives him a proper unique Personality, by about EW, lmfao. Outside of just Formed Opinions and Programmed Quirks, which are the basis of things… it’s a minor but important change I think)

…. Which is to say; how did she learn to give Tuesday Personality? Technically, she didn’t! It was more Keathan’s influence and fingerprints that led to Tuesday having as Developed a sense of self as he does, with Chuu working to accommodate his growing Self while also stubbornly refusing to let him be completely self-governed. He knows entirely too much to be allowed to act completely on his own, you see.

Additional silly fact as a thank you for reading this much; anytime he has a full face and hands and ears and all during Heavensward screenshots it’s because I struggled immensely with knowing I had to obliterate all expression and nuance by slapping a tonberry head and gloves on. So I let him have his face (which I worked QUITE HARD ON, THANKYOU) And hands, because I really like hands as part of a communicative medium. :T

Also, his hair used to be white-ish and green, like Chuu’s, but following HW he asks to be Blue instead of Green- not only to match the color of his tech but also to match the hair of the person he has strong emotions tied up with (Haurchefant, who is provide links for relevant posts but there are a Good Many).

(You might notice in many images their hair isn’t even actually a pure white, but a greenish yellow, this is because I kept going fucking blind with their Snow White hair so I shifted it a few shades into pale grey-green and I’ve enjoyed it much more lmfao.)

ALSO I HAVE SCREENSHOTS IF PROTOTYPES FROM CHUU’S JOURNAL- I struggled to figure out where to place them naturally and even considered doing some heavier editing to make it look like an actual journal schematic, but the payoff wasn’t enticing enough to pursue, so have these on their own; (they were taken using a variety of fiddly filters and a smidge of post-editing but I’m pretty sure it was just “some sorta sketch shader” and then fiddling with settings in gshade until it looked right)

Fuck I forgot to tag my HUSBAND @zombiesockfuckinglovescardfight who is Keathan @v@