#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."

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[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.”

[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

[riessene]

Oye, Idk your stance on AI generated stuff, but the 'art' from OP @/talonabraxas is AI generated. Thought I should give a headsup!

gah i thought it was photographs.. to the bin it goes

[fortune-maiden]

I have done it! I have written ficlets for all 30 days of Sicktember! (only posted 7 of them but I wrote all 30! :D)

Over the course of the month, I've written:

25,343 words (8053 words in posted fic)

23 Complete ficlets

Ficlets in12 fandoms

Longest fic was Day 2's Four Hours at 1850 words

Shortest fic was at 508 words, tied between Days 12 & 27 (neither posted)

[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.

[serickswrites]

Rope

Part 2

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture (unspecified), catatonia, blood, scrapes, hurt/aftermath

Whumpee sat in the passenger seat where Caretaker had placed them. Sat and hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't done anything but breathe. And stare at the raw rope burns on their wrists.

"Hey, hey, it's ok, Whumpee," Caretaker said as they rummaged through their trunk to find the first aid kit. "It's ok. We'll fix you up, good as new. I promise."

Caretaker tried to sound happy, to sound relieved, that they had Whumpee back. But they were afraid they had arrived too late. They had found Whumpee bound to a chair in Whumper's compound. Their collar was bloody and their wrists were raw and actively bleeding around the rope binding them. But Whumpee didn't say a word. Didn't look at Caretaker. Didn't look at anything but stare at the ground in front of them.

"I'm here, Whumpee. I've got you," Caretaker murmured as they freed Whumpee and dragged them from the room.

But Whumpee didn't say anything. They stared at their hand as Caretaker pulled them along. What had Whumper done? "It's ok, Whumpee. I've got you. You're ok." Caretaker said as they pushed Whumpee to sit in the backseat.

Maybe Whumpee still needed time. Maybe once Caretaker got them home they would realize they were safe. Maybe then they would realize they were free. Maybe then they would talk again. Caretaker repeated these thoughts over and over as they got behind the driver's wheel and drove home. Whumpee just needed time. It had to be that.