#and i'll write them one day

[becca-e-barnes]

Ma’am, you are deviously incredible 🔥 We’re begging for an exploration of him saying “I love you” while fucking her like he doesn’t 🥹

My brain keeps picking up the storyline a few splendidly torturous hours in when her body’s completely spent & quivering & she’s a blubbering mess & that’s when he picks her up & takes his sweet time positioning her so she can limply yet eagerly watch their reflection has he finally gives her… exactly what her twitching body’s been craving. 🥵

I'm so glad you all enjoyed the thought of this as much as I did because I've been dying to expand on it 😵‍💫 (Part 1 here)

I like to imagine by that stage, he's absolutely desperate too though. He's got to feel your sweet little pussy clench and flutter around him, contracting so tight every time you cum that he swears it's going to be the end of him.

He's been too hard for too long, buried inside your body and he swears he's never felt you this wet or this hot before. It's been fucking luxurious, forcing you to cum against his fingers, feeling how your body's natural reaction is to coax him to drain his balls into you but that alone isn’t enough. He needs more than that.

He wouldn't admit it to you but he can't take any more. His balls feel like they're fizzing; overfull and beyond ready to flood your waiting, overstimulated body.

He arranges you gently, laying you on your front because he doesn't trust your trembling arms to support you. "That's it, good girl." He coos, hearing you whimper and sob pathetically because he needs to slip out of you to slide a pillow under your hips.

"You've made such a mess." He groans, taking a second to appreciate the delicious, inviting, slick little cunt he's about to indulge in. "You're dripping, sweetheart. God, I just know there's no way I'm going to be able to pull out."

His huge hands are gripping your hips and with one sharp, brutal thrust, he's back inside you and you both sob pathetically at the feeling of your bodies being joined again. This is exactly what you've needed but you don't have the words to tell him that. All you can do is whine and will your body not to cum again so soon.

"I meant. What I said earlier." He punctuates his sentence with soft groans, drawing back until he almost slips out of you before pounding back in.

He leans forward, tilting your chin up, making sure you can see the way he's fucking you in the mirror at the end of the bed.

"I love you. And I don't want you to forget that." He sounds sincere, one hand trailing up from the small of your back to right between your shoulder blades and then back down again. It feels intimate and tender but all that is forgotten by the very next thrust.

"I love you. But for now, you're just a mindless. Little. Drooling. Breedable. Cunt for me." He slows his thrusts down, determined not to cum so soon but it's going to be difficult to last until he gets the first couple of loads out of the way.

"Baby..." You whimper, feeling the tip of his cock nudge against your sweet spot, making you shake from overstimulation.

"I know sweetheart, I know. It's too much. But you're being so good for me. You're so perfect. How have no idea how you feel. So wet and warm and I can feel you fluttering around my cock. It's like you're trying to squeeze every last drop of cum out of me. Is that what you want? Because angel, I'll keep this delicious cunt stuffed full of load after load until I have nothing left to give you."

His thrusts are punishingly fast, thumping against your raised ass, half chasing his orgasm, half holding it back.

"And when I do, I'll remind you just how much I love you. And the baby I'm going to give you tonight."

With that thought, he can't stop himself from cumming, his dick twitching inside you as he shoots thick ropes of his seed right against your cervix. You're so cock-drunk you can only rut yourself millimetres back and forth but that's all you need to send yourself spiralling into another orgasm that leaves you trembling and sobbing.

"Fuck, you want that as much as I do, don't you?" He kisses the back of your neck, breathing you in while letting the euphoric rush subside. He notices he hasn't softened in the slightest despite such an intense orgasm but he knows he needs to be gentle with you for a moment before he can get any rougher.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you all for an incredible 500 days of love and support. I offer you: answers to questions that no one has asked.

(As always, more can be found in the tags <3)

[farshootergotme]

Dick 'my mental stability is hanging by the rope that snapped and killed my parents' Grayson met Bruce 'emotions aren't real if you don't acknowledge them' Wayne when he was 8 years old and he never recovered.

[inhurtandincomfort]

Begging writers not to delete their old work because yes I understand it feels cringy and embarrassing but I cannot tell you how good it is to reread something you wrote a long time ago, and be able to see just how much you've improved. Even if you still have a long way to go, you're always improving and nothings more motivating that having direct proof of your efforts

[mattodore]

birthday boy 🎂

[mmmelahii]

Did you know? That she dreams of you more nights than not. You propped upon her lap; regaling her with the machinations of your mind while she brushes your hair. Pausing only to press a kiss on your candle warmed cheek. She mourns your death as you live.

[cringefailvox]

overlord husk aus are very interesting to me in part because they present such a radically different vision of the huskerdust dynamic that is very compelling to me. present-day husk and angel are exhausted. these are people genuinely at rock bottom, who have been so worn down and chipped away at by the long, dragging stalemate of their circumstances that they have nothing left to give but their bare minimum selves. which is okay, and it's enough for them; a lot of what makes their dynamic so interesting is that it's about two people at their lowest rediscovering what it feels like to not be alone down there, to even begin thinking about the possibility of climbing out of the deep dark hole they've made their peace with now that they won't be doing it by themselves.

in contrast, overlord husk aus imagine a version of husk and angel before they were losers together. they imagine versions of them that haven't been beaten down all the way just yet: husk at the height of his greed and power and reckless addictions, angel riding the high of his stardom while adamantly refusing to peel back the surface and acknowledge the rot. both of them still digging the hole and saying to themselves, "i've got a ladder, i'm not going to get stuck. i can always climb back out."

and having these two meet at this stage in their lives, i think they would really, really not make each other better. husk's consideration for the souls on his chain had to have been close to zero for him to use them as gambling chips the way he did, especially the recklessly self-destructive way he did that ended with his own soul in alastor's pocket. and i imagine that for a long time, angel lived in total willful denial about val's escalating abuse and the toll his increasingly demanding job was taking on him, because acknowledging it would be tantamount to making it real, making it something that could actually hurt him and not just be rationalized away, and so of course he'd put off doing that for as long as he could.

if husk had actually won angel's soul, it wouldn't have been any different from all the other people he traded back and forth across his table just for the illicit thrill of the game. angel probably would've had a whole sunk-cost freakout about it (what was the point of all that pain and suffering and lack of autonomy if all the consequences are coming from a stranger now and not val? when it isn't personal? and now he can't even claim a little bit of power back by saying he chose it, because he didn't.) angel knows full well what it looks like when someone is going to kill themselves with their addictions, but what obligation does he have to the guy who would just as quick give him up to somebody else if it gave him an adrenaline rush? nothing, that's what, and he has enough of his own problems anyway.

crucially, they're both INCREDIBLY self-absorbed. not even in a conceited or vain way, but just in that they're so wrapped up in their own mess that they can't see beyond it, they don't have any space for empathy, and furthermore, they have no reason to even try.

it's why the version of their dynamic we get in canon works so well—they're in the same place now, at just the right time to finally start opening up their worlds to how they affect other people (angel watching charlie interact with val at the studio; husk being forced by alastor to engage with the hotel's residents as the bartender). there's space for empathy in their lives now, because they've finally been brought so low that they can't hide anymore, can't look away, can't deny how completely and totally fucked they are. it's a kind of brutal honesty that can only really come from confronting your absolute worst-case scenario. but for them to even begin connecting with each other in any authentic sense, they needed to have the ladder taken away so they could finally bring themselves to stop digging, look up, and realize there's been someone down here with them all along.

[erinwantstowrite]

Speaking of your new and improved canon: what is the story behind Tony being somewhat chill with Bucky? Is he actually?

started writing LoF when i was being nostalgic for 2012 where the Avengers Tower fics were at its height of writing so in my world there is no divorce arc. I have no idea how to elaborate on that other than Tony having Peter around changed shit up because having a kid changes your world perspective a lot

[lavellane]

very still, without reaching

(ashara lavellan x solas. 2250 words. post-solavellan ending. hurt/comfort. major veilguard spoilers. read on ao3)

The nature of her own regrets become apparent soon enough. Mostly, as they appear to her in the fade, they relate to her regretting so very little.

There are exceptions, of course. She and Solas pass them sometimes on long, silent walks together; small, ugly things carved into barren rock, almost impossible to catch in the shadow of Solas's own towering monuments of despair. But they are there, and Ashara can always sense them before she sees them. Her least favorite recurrence pertains to a rock she threw at some shemlen farmers when she was a girl. They had returned later in the day, but they could not distinguish the difference between Dalish vallaslin , and so chose to take out their vengeance on the whole of her clan, instead. 

They had never truly forgiven her. Of all the statues of contrition this place has manifested over the months they've been here, this is the one she can't yet bring herself to face.

But there are, unexpectedly, great works of beauty here, too. Oftentimes she sees herself and Solas carved into the cliff faces, or jutting out of canyons. Old echoes of embraces, stolen kisses, intertwined fingers. She suspects their prison doesn't quite know what to do with these complicated memories, but it does its best to use them against her even so. She had regretted those moments once, after all. Or at least she thought she had. Her time in this place offers an alternative school of thought; that she had never truly regretted the choices leading her down this dinan'shiral of theirs, but rather the heart of her shame is more that she could never truly bring herself to regret them at all.

Once the fade understood this, it course-corrected. Now if she sees those statues at all, it is because she wants to.

Solas has made little progress. It is harder for him, with his regrets so numerous and so at odds with his ego. On a good day he makes her worst mistakes look infinitesimal by comparison. Sometimes he disappears for days on end, wandering aimlessly, pulled one way or another by the compass of his guilt alone. When he returns, as he always does, he says nothing, only holds her very tightly and does not let go.

In all the months (or perhaps even longer) that they've been here, they have spoken very little. More time is needed before either one of them is ready to face that looming conversation. For now, quiet comfort takes priority. For now, sex suffices. For now they sit on the edge of yawning chasms for hours on end, watching the shifting rocks, the starless skies, the shadows in mournful, flittering dance at the edge of their vision, and find solace through a tender silence in which no words are yet necessary. And when he begins to get it in his head that perhaps they are necessary, she stops him with a long, languid kiss until she feels those worries melt away between them.

It is a terrible place he's built, but it is not so terrible facing it together.

And it gets easier still. The nature of the Evanuris' prison was always to contain the regrets of beings who thought themselves gods, but she is not a god, and neither is he. Her regrets are not so insurmountable to overcome, given time, and soon, slowly, she finds the world around her starts to mirror the world inside her. At first, a singular star in the sky. Then, below it, a wisp of elfroot growing between the crack of a barren rock. The fade cannot be mapped by mere cartography or magic, but a learned mage can always find their way with enough discipline. And Ashara was, before stepping through that final rift, a very learned mage.

When Solas departs on his lonely journeys, she cultivates the place in secret. She was never one for dishonesty, and so it's the only real secret she has. She shapes the space sporadically over many months in the image of her late mother's patch of camp among their clan. With some . . . creative liberties here and there. The tent is warm and green like her mother's was, but with all the ample space and utility (and — admittedly — luxury) she had grown accustomed to over her many years as the Inquisitor. Some ugly shemlen cottage wouldn't do, and she never had a full night sleep in her Skyhold quarters, anyway.

She dreams up the smell of incense, and many multicolored rugs, and a bed that's warm but not too soft. Books; a table with two chairs; a big bathtub to share. The small fire pit in the centre might have burned the whole tent down around her were it abiding by the laws of the physical world, but it does not. It abides her.

The hardest part was the damned trees. Several times she nearly lost everything, locked in a seemingly endless standoff against the will of the very prison itself. But Solas made this place to contain monsters, and Ashara need only remind herself that she is not one. She never was. Whether the magic of this place recognises that — or if she truly did best the fade by sheer audacity alone — she couldn't really say. All she knows is that one day the trees stood tall — leafless but very much alive — as if they'd been there all along, and her impossible little clearing was all but complete.

"I've found a place I think you ought to see," she tells Solas soon after, reunited in their usual spot after several long days apart.

He seems especially exhausted this time around. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply. "Then I am yours to guide, as you see fit." 

He clings tightly to her hand as she leads them on, aided by the lonely light of her beloved star. Samahl , as she's come to calling it — named after her nephew. Solas would see Samahl too if he ever looked up, but he keeps his eyes defiantly low, avoiding the overhead statues of a handsome, crumbling man with Mythal's vallaslin , whose wounded gaze seem to follow Solas wherever he goes.

He will find it in himself to meet those eyes one day, a long time from now. In the meantime she lifts her head to the sky for both of them, and presses onward through the gloom.

He stops short when he sees the clearing of trees in the distance, bordered by infinite wasteland. Ashara squeezes his fingers with her own and urges him forward. "Come."

"That . . . cannot be."

"It is. Come."

Soon the cracked earth beneath their feet sprouts small, unassuming blades of grass. The riverbed they pass remains as dry as bone, but carries the unmistakable smell of wet earth after recent rain. Closest to the centre of the clearing, Ashara herself notes leaves on trees that were not there the day before. 

Solas's brow furrows, and he makes a strange noise when they reach the point where the grass is most concentrated. As it exists now, the grass is too patchy to be called a meadow, and yet it grows strongest and greenest in a perfect circle around her little tent as if it were the sun itself, nourishing by proximity. 

The tent glows faintly, lit up by the hearth and candlelight within. But it is a strange glow, which seems to extend to the whole of the outer clearing, cutting through the endless mist and shadow. For months her world has been a haze of muted gray and monochromes. This space, by comparison, bears a subtle vibrancy she might've missed if she hadn't grown so used to its absence.

The violets of his eyes are clearly visible for the first time since they arrived, shining as they scan about the clearing. "How can it be that I feel you so vividly in this place?" he finally whispers, incredulous.

"I made it," she says. "It's mine. Will you come with me a little further? I didn't bring us here to watch grass grow."

She had hoped he might at last be baited into a smile, or a sultry retort, but he only frowns at her with those same sad, uncertain eyes, and takes her hand once more. 

"It's much larger inside," she says. "Come."

"As you say."

He has to duck his head to slip inside the tarp, but the interior is as large and spacious as promised. Her fire bathes the walls in bright flickering hues of yellow and orange, and Ashara watches him give an involuntary shiver of pleasure as its warmth passes over and through him. It's a nice sight. Her pyromancy has inspired no shortage of pain and terror over the years, but in truth, it was always watching the relief of her companions faces when she warmed their soup in midwinter that had made her feel the most accomplished. 

Maybe she could dream up soup next? There are several potted plants next to her little bed. Elfroot and crystal grace, and some others even she doesn't recognise. Not quite right for soup, and yet . . . Had she put those there? Or has this dream of hers now taken a life of its own? She ponders as much, settling in amid her thick fur blankets, waiting for Solas to compose himself.

"I made this place for you as well," she tells him when he makes no move to join her.

He shakes his head despairingly. "No."

"What?" Ashara scowls. " Yes ."

"No."

" Yes ."

"This cannot be, Ashara," he snaps. "The very will of this domain is such that —"

"I don't know what to tell you. I outwilled it."

He scoffs. "The greatest tyrants of the Evanuris could not outwill it."

"I am not the Evanuris. Neither was your little bird friend, and she flew free."

"That is different. Rook had —" 

He stops himself. For a moment he looks briefly shocked, as if struck. And then his features settle. Lips pressed tight, eyes down. He seems impossibly small inside this place, and not just because it's bigger on the inside. The light doesn't touch him quite so eagerly as it touches everything else. His very presence in her room casts a long, misshapen shadow which seems to crawl unnaturally across the floor, cutting through the glow of her fire until it's very nearly pooled at her feet. 

A chill follows. 

" Varric ." Ashara holds his gaze in silence until he looks at her. "Deiadre had Varric ."

Beside her, a candle flickers. "Yes."

Ashara reminds herself: his regrets made this place. They unmade Skyhold, and nearly the world itself. They will do worse to them both now, if she allows it. 

"She had Varric, Solas."

Even in the rapidly dimming light, she can make out the unsteady rise of his chest. "She had Varric," he echoes.

"And you have me."

Solas's face falls. But then the room brighten. A little. 

He lets out a long, unsteady breath and closes the distance between them. Her little wooden bed creaks under his weight. She shifts the blankets to better drape over his broad shoulders, and he reaches out in turn, hesitating before resting his hand on her thigh. He leans down to press a kiss to the gooseflesh raised on her clavicle, courtesy of the lingering chill.

"That you would offer such a thing at all is more a testament to you than any clemency I've not earned," he murmurs against her collar. He tilts his head up as if to look upon the room, though his gaze remains soft and steadily focused on her. "This is a gift, asha'era. I did not mean to undermine your efforts, or the feat of having made this. It is perfect, just as you are. But it may not survive my presence."

"Why not? I did." 

Now Solas looks away. She cringes; inhabiting the fade has done nothing to improve her eloquence. Quickly she continues, "But even so; if it does not, we'll just have to get over it and bring it back come morning."

"And do you think you'll feel the same a dozen centuries from now? Perpetually warring with my regret?"

"I know which side I'd place my bets in a fight between regret and love."

If he has a retort for that, he's wise enough to keep it to himself.

Time in the fade passes imperceptibly. Surely their kiss lasts days, and what comes after even longer. The candles are less a gauge for the passing minutes but instead the strength of her resolve when his own doubts creep in. When the light flickers, when the incense sours, when the wind outside picks up to a roaring howl; then she focuses her efforts. Her fingers scraping down his chest, a well timed roll of the hips, a kiss with enough tongue to remind him how much he used to enjoy using his own. And still does, apparently.

In the morning — or what, at least, finally feels like morning — the trees have dried up and grass outside their tent is dead. But the tent itself is warm as ever and the air outside feels crisp and fresh and, above her, if she squints, she can make out the faint but ever-present glint of her Samahl in the sky. 

The grass will grow back. She will see to it . . .

. . . Tomorrow. This morning, she would sooner crawl back into bed and see to other things.

[eggy-the-boy]

*poking my blorbos with a stick* 

[becca-e-barnes]

I’m literally drooling over the thought of sensitive Bucky whimpering and whining while fucking your tits and thighs he’s so pathetic and needy all he wants is to make you feel good and to fill you with his cum even if it overstimulates him

Okay, tit fucking is great and all but thigh fucking is SO underrated in my humble opinion. Could just be the fact I've got a small chest though lmao

It's so fun when you're already really into it and the insides of your thighs are all slick. I feel like Bucky would lose it, getting to see your face and look in your eyes and enjoy your body.

It's a nice one to do while laid on your side, facing each other. Although the angle isn't quite right for him to slip inside you, it's fun to explore the other ways your bodies can steal pleasure from one another.

"This isn't going to work, sweetheart." You can't help but laugh, having already tried everything you can think of to make the height difference work. There's no way to keep this romantic and intimate in that position because there's just no chance of aligning your bodies properly to allow him to press inside you.

"Maybe not. But it feels nice anyway." His eyes flutter shut, gliding his dick over the smooth, soft, warm insides of your thighs, encouraged by how slick and easy your arousal makes the movement.

You adjust yourself to bring your other thigh on top of his length, closing him in on both sides.

You're wet enough that friction doesn't impede his movement too much and there's something oddly romantic about it. Maybe it's his hand smoothing the back of your head or his other hand up your back, pulling your body closer to his.

It's so intimate, watching his face as he whines your name, rutting senselessly against your thighs. The little flush to his cheeks is beautiful and you can't resist kissing the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The thick duvet on top of you both, coupled with your combined body heat means the room is far hotter than you'd planned.

You take a second to reach between your bodies, spreading your wet folds and readjusting his length, letting him drag his cock against your neglected clit with each stroke and oh, that's pretty mind-blowing.

"O-oh my God." He whines, desperately fucking himself against your wet cunt, rather than into it. It's a different kind of pleasure to being inside you and while they're not comparable sensations, it doesn't stop this from feeling fantastic.

"Fuck, that's good." You groan, rolling your hips to meet his. Your fingers dip between you once more, gathering some of your slick arousal, using it to glide your fingertips over the underside of his shaft and over his balls.

"Holy shit, that's - fuck." Bucky's hardly got a coherent thought left in his head. He's closed in on both sides by your wet, soft thighs and now your fingers are giving him a different sensation underneath while pressing him against your soaked sex.

"I know, baby. Feels good, doesn't it?" Your fingertips trail lightly back and forth over the underside of his shaft, focusing on the inch or so beneath the tip.

"I can't... I need to cum." He groans, thrusting frantically, clinging to your body to keep you close. Within a few seconds, you feel his dick pulse under your fingertips, his cum coating the inside of your thighs in hot, thick, messy spurts.

He doesn't waste a second, kissing your forehead before kissing your neck and whispering "Good girl. Now let me watch you get yourself off with my cum on your fingertips."

[thatoneneuvichiliauthor]

Angsty musing of the night : Aventio/Ratiorine Soulmate AU where Ratio is oblivious to the real identity of his soulmate because the name written on his wrist isn't Aventurine, but Kakavasha. Aventurine, on the other hand, is perfectly aware that they're soulmates, but stays silent about it because he is so damn scared Ratio will suffer the same fate as his family if he starts getting attached to him.

(Then Ratio discovers the truth, either through deduction or by learning Aventurine's birth name, and finds just the right words to convince Aventurine that it's safe for them to be together, because I cannot stand unhappy endings, especially when it comes to those two)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Smell Check [Easy: Failure]

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 1 (part 2 - part 3)

[dirchristophernolan]

Charles Leclerc for Corerriere della Sera | 2022

[loadedberetta]

my brain cannot function until I write this out

Ghost has a one-night stand with Reader and she gets knocked up

TL;DR she can't find Ghost, all she knows about him that his name is Simon and he's a soldier since they knew each other for about an hour before hooking up.

Ghost leaves for a mission, isn't home for almost a year. in that time, she somehow, somehow finds a lead on him. (Christ maybe she meets Gaz's wife in maternal care while she's pregnant I'm unwell)

then she's introduced to Price and eventually brings the kid in a carrier when Simon arrives from a mission.

he's not mad she got pregnant, he's not mad she's asking him for child support, he's mad at himself because he didn't tell her his last name so the baby couldn't have his last name.

(he asks her out on the spot, nobody can convince me otherwise)

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

While insulting Jake, Essa 412 complimented Marco’s intelligence once in the book where he got the morphing cube. Which. Is never a good sign when a yeerk shows interest.

Oh, you're right! #53, Tom's yeerk says "Marco must be the one doing your thinking for you, Jake. You... never were that smart." Which is like, worse than a deep down, you and I are just alike speech. It's expressing a desire to be more like Marco.

Maybe the yeerk is just fucking with the Animorphs, because this is like 3 lines after he claims Tom thinks Rachel has always been a homicidal maniac and just before he says Tom is an empty shell with no volition left. But yeeeeaaaaah, it's not a great look for Marco. Real "You would make a good Dalek" vibes. (And lbr, #41 implies that Marco would in fact nail it as a visser.)