#prompt: scrape

[serickswrites]

I Can Handle It

Warnings: blood, wounds, field medicine, referenced kidnapping

"I can handle it," Team Leader said sharply as they pulled their arm away from Teammate One.

"You're bleeding. Heavily." Teammate One reached out a hand to Team Leader again. "Let me help you."

Team Leader stepped back. "I don't need your help."

"Please, Team Leader, let me help you," Teammate One tried again. Team Leader wasn't normally this angry. Wasn't normally this resistant to help.

"I said I don't need your help, damn it!" Team Leader stumbled as they tripped over a rock. They landed hard on their back. "FUCK!"

Teammate One knelt next to Team Leader. "Please, Team Leader. Let me help. I have gauze. I have tape. I can have it taped up and ready to go in under five minutes. Please."

Team Leader didn't respond as they lay on the ground. They pinched the bridge of their nose and closed their eyes tightly. "I can't do anything right," they said miserably. "It's all my fault."

Teammate One's heart sunk. Of course Team Leader blamed themself. "It is not your fault, Team Leader. We'll find them. We'll get them back. But you have to let me help you. You won't be any shape to find the others if you are hurt. So please, let me help."

[goodlucktai]

WAIT WAIT WAIT ok im sorry you can ignore this ask and the other ask too BUT I've been on a baby casey & f!leo fatherson kick brainrot lately and I just think prompt 27 would be heatbreaking and wonderful all at once, ok but fr love you big fan 💕🫂

dialogue prompts

27. “Breathe... breathe. Look at the stars, kid.”

it's @soldrawss birthday and i JUST found out because apparently i am a huge joke to her /j

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOL i hope your day was lovely and that you enjoy this small offering

x

They’re barely home for an hour when Casey’s breath catches in his throat. 

It’s sudden enough that he chokes mid-word and starts to cough, his body trying to clear its airway except that there isn’t any blockage there to dislodge. When he finally manages to suck in a breath that fills his lungs halfway, it rattles in with an audible reedy wheeze. 

Maybe no one noticed, he thinks hysterically, and lifts his eyes to find his entire not-family staring at him from their various positions around the room. 

“You good?” Mikey says, wrapped hands already up like he was ready to make the save if Casey keeled over. 

“Fine,” he says, or tries to. It comes out sounding so hoarse that he might as well have just opened his mouth and croaked at him like a mutant bullfrog. 

Mikey’s brow furrows beneath his dirtied orange mask and he whips around to look to his big brothers for guidance, the way he never really grew out of doing, even after the end of the world. 

Leo is already moving, pushing himself upright off the cot that Raph just set him down on. He waves the instant chorus of “Leo, I swear to god”s away and limps over to where Casey had stationed himself by the handwash sink. He starts to limp over, anyway, and one of his legs folds beneath him immediately, and he would have eaten concrete if it weren’t for all the hands that shot out from all sides to catch him. 

There are still hands to catch him here. It’s nice. 

The tightness in Casey’s chest is unbearable now that he’s given it a second of attention. What he mistook for anxiety and adrenaline was maybe not entirely that, after all. He’s usually better about catching the warning signs—if he’d run the system update that’s been haunting the corner of his HUD for the last week like he should have done, the program designed specifically to monitor his asthma symptoms would have thrown up its own red flag by now. Multiple flags in multiple colors, even, impossible to ignore and more annoying by the second until Casey admitted defeat and took himself to the medbay. 

As long as the update is queued, taking up memory, there’s a ghost in the CPU. As long as there’s a ghost, his family still exists somewhere. They’re not gone, they came here with him. They’re alive and the world didn’t end and Casey can breathe. 

Later, he’ll feel really stupid about this. Later, he’ll hate the way he snatched up Leo’s hands the second they moved into his line of sight and clung to him like a scared little kid. 

But right now he is that scared little kid. 

“Hey, Space-Case,” not-sensei says with sensei’s crooked smile. He almost definitely has a broken cheekbone, and two black eyes, and he’s smiling like he doesn’t feel any of it. “Sounds like you’ve been holding out on us. Slow and steady, life’s not a race unless you make it one.” 

Casey knows what it sounds like when Leo is worried, can hear the upset under the polished glass surface of calm. It shouldn't be comforting to know that, but it’s comforting to know him. He ekes in a breath, it scratches all the way down and it doesn’t feel like it makes a difference, but the success emboldens him to suck down another. 

“You were breathy on the ride home, I thought it must have been from all the smoke,” Leo goes on. “But I guess that was a trigger. Do you have an inhaler?”

“Y–” Casey starts to say, and coughs again, and Leo’s fingers tighten around his before he can panic. “Belt,” he gasps. 

“Okay, that’s enough from you,” Leo says a little shortly. Which isn’t very fair, Casey was just answering his question. Then he realizes Leo’s clipped tone is probably because Casey’s dizziness is overpowering his ability to stand upright.

“Going down,” Leo says to someone else, and instantly, Casey’s controlled fall is arrested halfway to the floor. 

The last time Uncle Rapha held him, he was much smaller and Raph was much bigger, but somehow it feels the same. He leans back in Raph’s lap, the solid plastron behind him bracing him upright, and clumsily tries to help Leo paw through the pouches on his belt. The third time Leo bats Casey’s hands away, Raph reaches around and holds them still. 

“Let’s let the boss work,” Raph rumbles softly. It’s a miracle that he has any softness to spare for Casey, of all people, who closed the door and left his brother behind it. Left his brother in the dark where the monsters live. “We’re still breathing, right, big man?”

“R—Right,” Casey says, but it’s barely got enough air behind it to count. 

“No inhaler,” Leo announces, already turning to address someone else in the room. “Donnie, metal cabinet by the door, third drawer down, should be one in there.” Turning back, he leans in and pins Casey to the spot with a look. “Keep breathing, Case,” he says. “That’s your only job. Don’t slack off now.”

“Why do we have one?” Mikey asks in a voice that shakes. Casey manages to split enough of his attention to regret scaring him. 

“Red used to have asthma when you were all just little turtles,” Splinter says quietly. “He outgrew it, but Blue always says—”

“It’s chronic, not curable,” Leo says in a falsely bright tone, the cadence of an ancient argument. He catches the box his twin throws over and wastes no time ripping it open and shaking the inhaler into his palm. Within seconds, it’s primed, and Leo is curling one hand behind Casey’s head and bringing the mouthpiece to his lips and ordering, “Deep breath.” 

He obeys, feeling the medicine go to work, and holds without exhaling for as long as he can. It’s not long, barely five seconds. Leo shakes the canister and has it ready for him again when he’s ready to suck in another desperate puff. 

“Okay,” Leo says, studying his face with back and forth flicks of bright gold eyes. “You’re okay, Casey. Breathe.” 

“Breathe… breathe,” sensei says, large fingers combing Casey’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. His hand is calloused from the hilt of his sword, rough with scars that didn’t heal well, and gentle. 

“Look at the stars, kid,” he adds, their family’s little joke. There hadn’t been a clear night since the war started, the skies overcast with smoke and ash and pollution from the Technodromes, but every single room Casey had ever lived in had glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling. 

“Look at the stars,” sensei says. 

There aren’t any, Casey wants to cry, maybe would if he had the breath to. There aren’t any anymore. 

Instead he inhales and exhales, carefully, counting each second in his head. The tension seeps out of the room like water through a sieve. Splinter is talking about hot drinks, April is talking about calling her mom. Four bright lights stay sat, a constellation that Casey is somehow in the middle of. 

“I haven’t had an attack in years,” Raph murmurs. He’s rocking Casey very slowly and doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it. “Since I was—six or seven, maybe. You kept one this whole time?”

“Correction, the medication expires, so he has consistently replaced one this whole time,” Donnie says, and sways disinterestedly with the force behind Leo’s disgruntled shove of his shoulder. 

“Oh,” Raph says. “But why?” he asks a moment later. 

“So I could say I told you so when you ended up needing it,” Leo replies disingenuously. 

Casey could say that sensei carried an inhaler in his kit every time he went into the field. Even after Uncle Raph died, he stayed in the habit. It saved Casey’s life once, the day they discovered he had asthma in the worst possible way. Sensei didn’t say I told you so to anyone. That was never the point.

“He loves you,” Casey says. “That’s why.”

For a moment, none of them speak. Then Mikey’s smile fills the room like stubborn sunshine finally breaking through rain clouds. Donnie says, “Intelligent beyond your years. I understand now why Future Me kept you around.” Leo seems to be considering the pros and cons of sinking into his shell and never coming out again, hunched small and embarrassed beside his big brother.

Casey can’t see Raph’s expression, but he can imagine what it looks like. He knows the feeling.

Casey was loved by Leo once, too.

[apoptoses]

Venice in winter is nothing compared to his homeland, but it’s still damp, oppressive. Outside the sky is a pale shade of grey and the wind must be blowing something fierce, as the little roundels of glass rattle in their iron panes.

But Bianca’s chambers are a hot house. Heat crackles in the fireplace, from the candelabras that dot the walls and tables. Steam curls from the surface of her bath and Amadeo watches the way the wisps of blond hair that surround her face curl with it. She tips her head back against the rim of the tub to look at him. Her cheeks are flushed as rose petals when she smiles, gone pink from the steam.

“You’ve made a terrible mess of my bed,” she says.

And so he has. Having no spare clothing here he’s had no choice but to yank the velvet covers free and wrap himself in them. He’s lying the wrong way, his feet peeking out near the head of the bed. He pushes them into a pillow and grins behind the auburn curtain of his hair.

“And what of it?” he asks.

“Does your master let you get away with such things?”

“No. He beats me terribly. I’m a victim of his punishments almost nightly.”

Bianca rolls her pretty blue eyes. “And you enjoy it, don’t you?”

He does. But she needn’t know that.

This room with all of its delicate things- perfume bottles, silk ribbons draped across her vanity table, Bianca’s little shoes and her combs for her hair and her vases of flowers- it’s not the place for that sort of talk. It’s like being inside a jewelry box. Like being beneath the sea, with the way the steam has collected on the windows and left them shimmering and wet.

Bianca toys with the golden end of her braid, searching it for split hairs. The pearl strands woven into it click softly as she twists and turns her hair.

Amadeo lives in a beautiful palazzo of unruly boys. He sleeps in his master’s strong, imposing bed. He’s been to brothels of all sorts, enjoyed their lurid sort of appeal but this place, this woman’s chamber- it holds such fascination. He watches her in awe as she lifts her feet from beneath the water, rests them on the opposite end of the tub, and he feels as though he’s under a spell.

“You look like a mermaid,” he mumbles.

Water runs down her legs. They’re pale, slender, and Amadeo wonders if he grasped her by the ankle if his fingers would touch where they encircle it. Pressed together as they are, water and soap bubbles clinging to her skin, they look like the appendage of a sea creature. If he blurs his vision the fine golden hair on her legs becomes scales.

“Oh?” Bianca flicks a bit of water at him. It lands on the tip of his nose. “And were I a mermaid what would you be? Some fisherman come to capture me? A prince lost at sea, desperate for saving like Odysseus? Come, wash my back and tell me.”

Amadeo rises from the bed. He leaves the safety of the blankets behind and drags her carved wooden stool over to the side of the tub.

Funny how they’re both naked and yet he feels all the more vulnerable for it. Bianca is otherworldly with her hair swept aside, her head tilted to expose the line of her throat, her shoulder. He takes the wet cloth, rubs the perfumed water into her skin, and wonders what a crude being he must be in comparison.

“Perhaps I would capture you and travel about with you, keeping you on display. I could charge a gold coin just to look upon your beauty,” he says. “You’d make me a rich man.”

He drags the cloth over the delicate ball of her shoulder. It’s white as a porcelain doll, soft in a way none of the other boy’s flesh is. Amadeo massages at her skin and takes in the musicality of her little groan.

“Mm, and would you keep me in a cage? Would you be a very strict master, one who never lets his little captive out?” she teases.

Amadeo nods. “A golden one, so that I might hand feed you through the bars. I could charge another coin for that, I think. Plenty of men would pay for the pleasure of passing you a little bite of fish.”

He washes her scapula when she leans forward, the ball joint at the base of her neck. Her breasts bob in the water, slick with soap, flushed pink with the heat,  and Amadeo can’t resist running the cloth over her clavicle. Down and down until his finger slides into the valley between them where her sternum rests. Her laugh vibrates beneath the bone as she slaps at his wrist.

It’s a half-hearted protest. Splashing just for the sake of getting him wet, and as Amadeo dodges her hand he pretends to accidentally grope her. The entirety of her breast nestles perfectly into his hand.

“You’re such a predictable boy. Would you have them pay to do this as well?” Bianca asks. Her voice rises into a gasp when he catches her nipple between his finger and thumb. “How many gold coins to molest your captive mermaid?”

She’s soft. Not like his master, who’s like caressing one of the marble statues that lines their courtyard. Bianca has warm breasts to squeeze, a roll of flesh that appears above her stomach when she sits hunched and naked like this. Amadeo rubs his palm over the swell of her stomach, his fingertips brushing the gold curls that cover her mound, and curls his other arm around her shoulders to clasp her wet back to his chest.

“None,” he says. “I wouldn’t charge them any, because this I would keep all for my own.”

The wind rattles the shutters of the palazzo. Rain lashes at the windows. It’s freezing outside but in here Amadeo is sweating. It trickles down his back as he grazes her thighs with his fingers. He’s damp under the arms, too warm from the fireplace, from his desire. Just like with his master, he feels monstrous from it. Lesser for the needy thing between his legs. An animal driven by lust.

Bianca struggles in his grasp. Not to get free, to rise up toward his wandering hand. But the position is awkward. Her ankles, perched as they are on the edge of the tub, they don’t give her enough leverage to lift her hips and so she’s trapped there; wiggling like a fish. Amadeo teases at the crease where her thighs meet. He traces it from knee to pubis and back again and listens to the quickening of her breath.

The cleft of her must be slick. She’s probably flushed pink down there as well but he can’t see it through the water, the way her thighs are clenched together.  But that’s alright. He’s submitted to his master, to the workers of the brothels. Amadeo’s not had anyone squirm for him and he’s finding he likes this game. Her shiver when he rakes his nails through her curls sets his blood alight.

He works his finger into the tight crevice where her thighs meet. He seeks out the sensitive nub between her legs and he knows he’s found it by the way Bianca tips her head back and inhales a sharp breath.

Amadeo tries to picture her as a sea creature. What folds she might have here, in this secret part of her. Whether she’d be warm inside or cold, slimy like the belly of a fish. He forces his finger further down through the squeeze of her thighs and teases at her entrance.

It’s torment, being outside of this bath, unable to plunge into her. In the excitement of the previous night he’d finished all too quickly, and it’s embarrassing, really. He’s dying inside to repeat his performance, to do better this time. But he owes her. Pleasure is the only way he can pay her.

Bianca’s hands grip his forearm like a vice. They’re slender, like a doll’s, and he likes to feel small but she’s the first to make him feel powerful. He rubs tiny circles at her and her nails dig into his skin. Glides his finger up and down and watches through the distortion of the water the needy thrust of her hips.

“Amadeo-“ she gasps.

Her knees fall apart. He clucks his tongue at her, stills his hand.

“You’re a mermaid, remember? Your legs should stay together, yes, like that.”

She lets out a whine, clenches her legs back into place. Amadeo touches her again, slow, teasing, and bites back a hiss when she claws at his wrist.

This is new, having someone fall apart in his arms. Taking her apart little by little with his fingertip alone is a rush that goes straight to his head. Like being drunk only better, because instead of a headache there’s a reward at the end. Falling upon her in her great golden bed. Or perhaps just the satisfaction of seeing her shake with pleasure. That alone might be enough.

The pearls in Bianca’s braid click when she tosses her head. Amadeo strokes her, up and down, again and again. Runs his finger along her folds and watches her toes curl at the edge of the bath. He presses at her entrance. Makes as if he’ll let his fingertip in and her toes point with anticipation. Then go lax again when he takes his fingertip away and seeks out the sensitive nub of her again.

“You’re a horrible tease,” she complains.

Amadeo laughs. “I’m your captor, aren’t I? It’s my right to tease. I trapped you for my own pleasure, after all.”

He traces a little circle over her clit. Bianca presses his cheek into the crook of his elbow, as though she means to hide her face.

“Most men would take their pleasure in other ways.”

There’s no hiding herself, though. Amadeo tilts his head, ignores the pain that comes with straining into such an awkward position, and takes in the way she’s panting. The rush of color to her cheeks, how she bites her lip when he touches just the right way. He keeps on that spot, repeats the motion, and he can tell by the way she squeezes her thighs that she’s squeezing tight on the inside too.

“I’m unlike most men,” he says, and kisses at her throat.

Her skin tastes like the perfumed water. Like salt because she too has begun to sweat. He rubs over and over, feels the rush of her pulse, and wonders if this is what his master feels with him. Whether making him squirm, helpless in his arms, makes him feel indomitable as well, and for a second he wishes he could rend her throat with his teeth. Amadeo wants to feel the stitch of her heart the way his master feels his whenever he bites into his flesh and takes his blood.

Slow circles. Over and over he spirals his fingertip. No change in the motion, no teasing now. There’s only one end to this and he means to achieve it as he drops kisses along her neck. Amadeo picks up his speed bit by bit until she gasps. There, there- the words are muttered out over the slosh of the bath, and he listens. Takes her advice even though his forearm is screaming at him, and-

Bianca kicks at the edge of the tub. Her cry sounds surprised, like she didn’t expect to be wracked with this much sensation, and she shakes with it. Her thighs squeeze so tight around Amadeo’s finger he couldn’t slip it inside her even if he wanted to.

And that’s fine. Good, in fact. This pleasure is for her sake and even if his cock is throbbing its need between his legs it can wait. Must wait, he decides. His master would scold him for taking her like a street ruffian not once but twice.

She’s lovely when she goes slack. Bianca’s hair is mussed from rubbing her face against his arm, a gold curl come free near her temple. Amadeo goes to tuck it back for her but she shakes her head.

“My hair will have to be redone entirely.” She plunges her wet fingers into his auburn hair and drags him down for a kiss. Her body is uncomfortably hot, sticky against his. “You’re right, you know.”

“About what?”

She nips at his lip, hard enough to leave it smarting. While Amadeo is busy rubbing at his mouth she rises from the tub like Venus from her shell. Arm covering her breasts, she reaches with the other hand and gestures for him to hand her a dry sheet.

“You’re like your master,” she says.

Amadeo cocks his head. He hands her the sheet without getting up from the stool, suddenly embarrassed of the thing throbbing between his own legs. He aches to throw her to the floor and take her.

“How so?” he asks.

Bianca enshrouds herself in white fabric. One neat movement, so well practiced that she hardly drips water onto the floor, and she’s perched on the edge of the bath rubbing herself dry. Arms first, then legs. She brings her ankle up to rest upon her knee and Amadeo can’t help but stare at the bone white jut of it. She’s pale as his master there. Her ankles never see the sunlight and so he can see the blue veins through her skin, and he wonders how they’d taste.

“Both of you are entirely unlike other men,” Bianca murmurs. Her foot with its pale sole, white as the belly of a fish, lands suddenly in Amadeo’s lap. She grinds her heel down and draws a gasp from him. “Now come to bed, Amadeo. I believe it’s time your captive takes her revenge. You’ll allow me some fun, won’t you? Before I release you back into the waters to swim home to your master?”

The pearls in her braid are loose. He ruts up against her foot and hears them rattle when she tosses her head back and smirks.

Amadeo is hooked. How easily he swings between such extremes. Misery and ecstasy. Dominance and submission. Shame and desire. He’s a being made of contradictions, and as he follows her to her golden bed he thinks he’ll do anything she wants so long as it keeps him here a moment longer. Safe from reality in her jewelry box room.

Safe from his sadness so long as he remains trapped in the net of want.

[toyybox]

Whumpee getting pushed onto the concrete, getting cuts all over their palms and elbows and knees. Tearing their clothes on the gravel. btw. if you even care.

[mantisgodsdomain]

Anyways, to those who have been wondering what we've been doing during our impromptu Tumblr Vacation or whatever we're calling it, we've been trying to find a playthrough of Baldur's Gate 3 that is made by someone who doesn't annoy the shit out of us, and also tormenting Karlach Cliffgate (as you do)

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

The other day I was having a "struggle day" with writing. Nothing I write is coming out fluid, it is sluggish and stilted. I spent a majority of my time writing outlines, trying to tether abstract images that flicker like a distorted slideshow across my brain to a more concrete tangible form.

But if I was to tell certain people in my life this, their first suggestion would be, "If you're struggling with writing, you should use ChatGPT to help you!"

Pushing past the ethics debacle aside for a moment, I don't know how to describe how much that doesn't help with my plight. As much as I dislike creating a rough draft, it is where the idea takes birth. It's through writing the initial scene where I discover a character's motivation or a facet of the world that never crosses my mind until I begin carving away at its rough edges.

The machine doesn't understand the way I'd take a plot point and expand upon it. The machine can't capture my exact phrasing. Technology hasn't developed enough to take a vague idea sloshing inside my skull and glimmer it into existence in front of me in exactly the way I wanted it to be.

I don't always enjoy the rough draft process, but it is a crucial part of the process. I don't want a "paint by numbers" experience. I want to start with a blank canvas and finish with a nauseating, illustrative kaleidoscope of my innermost thoughts and feelings. I want my hands to be stained by the ink and sweat of my own efforts.

I don't care if I get "lost in the past" for wanting that, I'd rather let my words be unfettered and untainted by the uniformity of what a machine thinks is the most "right" way of phrasing words based on trillions of words unrightfully seized by avarice.

[homebrewandhypotheticals]

Hypothetical for you all: You awaken to find that you have been transmogrified permanently into a dinosaur! You retain your full faculties, but you can't speak, your general dexterity is lower due to your inhumam anatomy (meaning writing, signing and most nonverbal communication is off the table), and you have the instincts of the dinosaur you've become knowing away at the back of your mind! Every once in a while, you'll find yourself engaging in appropriately animalistic behaviors associated with the dinosaur you've come to embody, typically happening when you're not particularly thinking about anything or otherwise not paying attention. You are stuck in this dinosaur body for the rest of your natural lifespan.

What dinosaur would you most and least want to become? Why? And what would you do if you found yourself in one of these dinosaur bodies? How would you live your life, going forward?

TL;DR: You find yourself stuck inside of a dinosaur body, you're mentally still yourself but you fully have the body of a normal dinosaur otherwise and occasionally do animal behaviors associated with that dinosaur subconsciously as it's instincts take over. What dinosaur would you most and least want to become in this scenario, why, and how would being these dinosaurs change your way of life?

[sashiavi]

I just got no inspiration today 😔

Not channelling my delulu enough-

I need help

Okok spitting out prompts rapid fire lmk how thEse feel I need to rot prompto augh

Wriothesley fucking your face with his thick cock while you ride his boot what??? Problem tho, this thEme is in an unfinished ask I haven't posted

Stupid dumb itto drunk on your pretty tits lapping up your sweet milk? OR sweet itto helping you get rid of the ouchy pain by milking you 😔

Soft sugar daddy Diluc praising you for doing such a good job - Problem is I already DID a daddy Kink fic

^ riding dilucs face and pressing his pretty nose into your clit smth smth

*sob*

[angry-australian]

Prompt# Crackfic

So we take The Dark Urge, but instead of fantasizing about The Horrors TM let's make it cuteness aggression.

Brought to you by;

My Himbo Lizard-man Dark Urge seeing Astarion cock his head judgmentally and their internal monologue is just "BITES YOU BITES YOU BITES YOU"

And

Them watching Gale mind rant about magic and viscerally fighting the urge to gnaw on him like puppy's first chew toy.

Or

Karlach *simply existing*

[get-prompted]

Dialogue Prompt;

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Your saving grace, dumbass.”

[serickswrites]

That’s Going to Be One Hell of a Scar

Warnings: blood, escape, wounds

Villain ran along behind Hero. “Run! Run faster!” They urged as they pushed forward. 

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Hero panted as they pushed forward. They just needed to get to the other side of the gate. Then they would be safe from Supervillain’s monster. 

“Then make it faster.” Villain’s voice was tight with fear. They were faster than Hero, but they couldn’t let Hero fall behind, so they put themself between Hero and the monster. 

They regretted that. 

“Through!” Hero said as they passed the gate and began to shoulder it closed. 

Villain dove, skidding along the last few feet to get away from the monster. They could feel the scrape along their side from their hip to their shoulder, but they didn’t care. They were through the gate. “Close it! Damn it!” 

As Hero struggled to close the heavy gate, Villain jumped up, blood dripping down their side, and shouldered the gate closed. The two collapsed, chests heaving with exertion. 

“You ok?” Villain asked as the wooziness began to set it once the adrenaline faded. 

Hero nodded. “Yeah.” They gave Villain a sidelong glance. “That’s going to be one helluva scar, Villain.”

Villain looked down at their own side as the world began to spin around them, black dots decorating their vision. “Y-Y-Yeah,” they said softly as they sank down further against the gate, all energy finally leaving their body. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Hero said, shaking Villain’s shoulder. “I need your help getting out of here.”

“‘kayyyyy,” Villain slurred as they blinked against the exhaustion that was sucking them under.

“Villain, stay awake. Damn it!”  Hero cursed as Villain’s head lolled forward. “Guess I’ll just have to figure a way for both of us to get out of here alone then.”

[zinogirl]

I don't think ai images and art have any real value tbh. Like do you do your thing if you wanna create Hot MILFs in your Area but using ChatGPT or whatever I don't care, but i genuinely don't think it should be grouped with traditional or digital art.

[achillvs]

'barbie' is lucky because it has a smart audience and that smart audience produces smart commentary, but love, none of that is in the movie, that's all you

[sanjisboyfie]

pookie.... pookie where are the fics.... pookie...... *dies*

omg is this what it feels like to be famous 😭😭😭 im sick rn so i only got to do these and theyre not even half way donneeee (it took me like two hours overall to write both AND NOW ITS 4 AM LORD SAVE ME) 😮‍💨 however !!! the wait will be worth it tho pls STICK W ME POOKIE BUTT BEARS ily guys smm

[faytelumos]

A grizzled old mercenary/soldier falling absolutely head-over-heels in love with a young reckless do-gooder in a very platonic and parental way.

[ebodebo]

hey, so…bull rider!simon??

more bull rider simon

“You come to wish me luck?” Simon purred in your ear as his hands gripped the back of your thighs and his body pressed onto yours, stabilizing you against the wall of a rundown dive bar’s back room.

“You’ve gotta be as dull as an ox if you think I’m here for any other interest than self, Beef-head,” you hiss as his fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, etching closer to slide your panties off.

“Beef-head, huh?” He murmurs against your neck as your hands fumble with his buckle, unclasping it before sliding the zipper to his pants down.

“Seems fittin,’” you prompt, as your panties slide to dangle around your ankles. He slips his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion. You slip your hand between the two of you to gently tug on his painfully erect cock.

You lean closer into him, lips barely grazing his temple. His sizzling breath fanning across your cheeks as you stroke him. “I bet this one gets taken care of when you’re tourin.’ Huh?” You tighten your grip around him; he releases an anguished groan, fingers digging deeper into your thighs.

“Ah—fuck,” he whizzes as one of his hands releases your thigh and instead braces against the back wall.

“Ya—I bet you find a pretty girl who's just jumpin’ at the chance to touch ya in every city,” your fingers move quicker on their volition, “you don't even have to try.”

If Simon didn't know you, he'd assume you were doing what everyone else does: stroke his ego, but he knew you.

You were majorily fucking with him.

“Fuck—don’t tell me you're—ah—jealous, babydoll,” Simon murmurs, his tone is dripping in arrogance. You let out a dry laugh, tugging his cock slightly harder, making him groan.

“Come on, Beef-bead. You know I don't have to do a damn thing before your comin’ up to me beggin’ for a taste,” you drag lips down his temple to his busted lip. “Beggin’ for a feel of me.”

He quickly moves his hand braced onto the wall onto your face, pulling your lips roughly onto his. He tasted of blood and Nicorette, which did nothing to tamper your reclusions.

Your teeth scrape against each other as the kiss becomes more fervent with each passing moment. The air is now dense and burning with desire.

His hand moves from your cheek to his erect cock still in your hand, cheekily pulling your fingers off to push himself inside your soaked cunt.

“Shit,” you wheezed, fingers digging into his shoulders. His hands wander, gripping your waist impossibly closer, back pressed tut with the cracked walls behind you.

“You’re right—fuck—been waiting to come back,” he pants as he increases his pace. “Just to get a God-damn look at ya,” he spits.

It’s almost pathetic. Almost.

“Suppose this ain’t half bad,” he brashly says. You find a slight smirk pulling at your lips at his quip, though your humorous expression quickly dissipates almost as fast as it came when he plows into you.

You lean your head into his neck, nipping at the flesh, then quickly soothing it with a swipe of your tongue. “Damn firecracker, you are,” he groans into your hair.

When you feel his impending orgasm nearing, you swing your legs down, easing his cock out of you. Slight regret passed through you at losing contact, but you would finish yourself later.

Simon hisses, gripping his cock, attempting to regain any ounce of stimulation, but to his dismay, it had passed.

“If I know one thing about you, champ, I know you don't like it easy,” you pant out. “So I’ll be damned if I let you think for a moment you got it easy with me,” your eyes lock to his.

You’re surprised to find his face paler and eyes smokier. Though they weren’t filled with anguish, it was more admiration.

“I didn’t get to finish last time, so you don’t get to finish this time round,’” you say, pulling your jeans back on and buckling your belt.

“Suggest you find one of your buckle bunnies to help ya out—with that,” you gesture to his now half-erect cock splayed out.

You reach into your back pocket, grasping a five-dollar bill, pushing it into his chest because you could at least give him enough to cover an ice pack.

He grips the money, an irritated smirk playing on his lips. As you leave, you approach the door, dipping your head to avoid catching attention.

You hear Simon murmur a faint, ‘Firecracker, my ass, that's a whole damn bomb.’

You smile because, well, karma is karma.

a/n: come on yk thanksgiving brings out all the freakies hence this!