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#gifset (from the vault)

bylrndgm · 10 months

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i know i haven't been posting but! good news is that i am preparing something like 10 gifsets queued throughout the whole month of july, when i'll be on vacation. twice a week, every wednesday and saturday! 🤭 thank you all for your patience! 💛

#you'll even get to see some gifsets from the vault that is my drafts section

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fuckyeahisawthat · 16 days

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i rewatched Dune Part Two recently and one of the most striking shots for me was the one of the Fremen attacking the Sardaukar on wormback, while holding the Atreides flag.

Like, we just saw the Sardaukar forming up with their numerous flag bearers, even trying to maintain their flags raised after the nuclear detonation (in a shot that mirrored the famous "Raising the Flag in Iwo Jima" statue to me btw, nice nod to imperialism).

And then the Fremen arrive, but they're not bearing their colors, their flags, not fighting in their own names, instead it's the Atreides colors. The colors of their new, imperially appointed rulers. New pawns in the warfare between Great Houses, soldiers instead of freedom fighters. Urgh. Wish i could make gifsets.

Yeah yeah yeah it's horrifying!! You are watching a national liberation movement get successfully co-opted by a superpower and it's awful!

They did such a good job making it feel creepy and foreboding when the Atreides symbols and motifs start re-appearing in the last hour or so of the movie. The second Gurney shows up he immediately re-introduces the Atreides way of looking at the world, and it's disturbing how easily Paul falls back into thinking like that, seeing the planet and its people as tools to be used in an inter-imperial power play. (It's right after Gurney tells him about the family nukes that Paul has the signet ring out for the first time since the beginning of the second act and we're like OH NO.) This is before he drinks the Water of Life; he is already starting to think like a colonial duke again some time before he declares himself one.

After the opening montage where we see the piles of bodies being burnt, we don't see the stylized Atreides hawk symbol for most of the movie. The next time it appears is on a vault of nuclear weapons, which are never treated as anything but a curse. It's so important that Stilgar and Chani are with Paul and Gurney when they open the vault so we can see their horror at these weapons and the gleeful, casual way Gurney talks about them. Chani is also seeing an aspect of Paul that she hasn't really witnessed before--Paul, the Future of House Atreides--and she does not like it.

And then of course the whole ending battle is making the point over and over again with repeated imagery that Atreides and Harkonnens are exactly the fucking same. All the imagery from the initial Harkonnen attack on Arrakeen in Part One--which at least shows the Atreides as brave in the face of overwhelming odds--gets inverted into something that's supposed to make us shudder. That scene of Gurney hacking his way through the crowd of soldiers with someone carrying the Atreides flag behind him? Nightmarish.

All of this stuff is super important to what the movie is trying to say because it is very very easy for us to buy into the Atreides' propaganda about themselves being the good guys. If we're paying attention to what Chani tells us in the literal first 3 minutes of the first movie, we already know we should be viewing them with a bit of critical distance. And while I think there is plenty in the first movie to make us side-eye their noble image (Leto saying we will bring peace to Arrakis?? fucking yikes dude), it's easy to forget that because Leto generally seems like a good dude to the people close to him, and he dies tragically so we never get to see much of what kind of colonizer he would have become. And I think it's easy to start thinking well if only Leto the more reasonable parent had lived then things wouldn't have turned out this way.

But fucking desert power?? That was Leto's idea. This is Leto's dream being realized. The plan was always to use the Fremen as pawns in the power struggle between the Great Houses. Maybe not quite in the way that Paul does cause he definitely goes off with it, but the end result is just as much a product of Atreides imperialism as it is of Bene Gesserit religious colonialism. The Atreides aren't inherently any more noble or benevolent than the Harkonnens in their intentions, they just have better PR. But the end result is exactly the same: a pile of dead bodies being set on fire.

#dune #dune part two #paul atreides #house atreides #asks answered #thank you so much for this ask cause it gave me a chance to go OFF lol

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yeyinde · 3 months

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LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty.

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass.

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making.

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour.

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do.

Work. Yes, work.

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill.

You see it, and you flinch.

Good, is the sudden thought. Good.

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon.

Fright, dread. It looks good on you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose.

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest.

But—

Not for long, maybe.

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting.

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not.

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end.

But BROTHER was always chimerical.

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose.

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe.

You're too good for their eyes. For this place.

He'll kill them all, and come for you.

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup.

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through.

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt.

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest.

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door.

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion.

She looks just like you.

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple.

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers.

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives.

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling.

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name.

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable.

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing.

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious.

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable.

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar.

Ah, he thinks. Ah.

She isn't you.

He gets to work.

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign.

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar.

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all.

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake.

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you.

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway.

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens.

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach.

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual.

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be.

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences. He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs.

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come.

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone.

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins.

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls.

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end.

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow.

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door.

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room.

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath.

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart.

But it's not enough to keep him out.

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you.

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in.

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing.

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow.

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter.

They were in the way.

All of them.

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.)

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you.

How terrified you must have been.

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit.

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat.

“Does it matter?”

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet.

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't.

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged.

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name.

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?”

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman.

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home.

But there is a difference.

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of.

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged.

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy.

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his.

He found you first.

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you.

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him.

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in.

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants.

Whenever he wants.

And then he moves.

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him.

His hands, too, dwarf you.

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body.

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it.

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should.

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in.

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits.

It doesn't take long.

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry.

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles.

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest.

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in.

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart.

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain.

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back.

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder.

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex.

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter.

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace.

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow.

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to.

Puppy's puppy has fangs.

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal.

You don't flinch.

“Why?”

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe.

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet.

Kept. Chained.

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his.

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head.

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap.

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble.

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose.

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole.

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily.

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned.

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat.

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones.

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him.

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership.

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good.

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars.

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much.

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you.

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face.

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin.

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin.

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish.

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already.

And so, he follows through.

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare.

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly.

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare.

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright.

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible.

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later.

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest.

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising.

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining.

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too.

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine.

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you.

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once.

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him.

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours.

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high.

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns.

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can.

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish.

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck.

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear.

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop.

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut.

You're so pretty when you beg.

But that's not what he wants.

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger.

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver.

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape.

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate.

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air.

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin.

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him.

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half.

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage.

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs.

He wants you.

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust.

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy.

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head.

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream.

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach.

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him.

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy.

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal.

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him.

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you.

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem.

It's good. Too good.

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again.

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him.

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in.

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn.

You're stiff in his arms. Silent.

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his.

Just like you wanted.

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you.

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away.

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage.

Poor thing.

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers.

His cock.

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away.

He purrs.

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine.

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly.

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm.

You smell good. Like home.

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms.

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft.

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible.

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction.

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make.

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else.

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough.

He's sure one day you'll feel the same.

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you.

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his.

And no one else's.

There's no escape.

#Puppy (Ruiner) x Reader #Puppy x Reader #ruiner #huuuuu #imagine staying up all night writing unhinged smut for puppy from ruiner after seeing one gifset lmao #and doing it while the wips i've promised to finish weep from neglect in the background #am so tired and this is so so niche but i need to flex my smut skills for some upcoming fics and this was the best time to do it me thinks

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datura-tea · 12 days

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okey dokey! i just finished the fallout show! some Thoughts under the read more

tl:dr, the (bethesda) fallout vibes were definitely there. i liked it as a show on its own merits but as a part of the series canon... i'm mad, and that anger is kind of overriding the little i liked about it. overall maybe 2.5/5 stars and im being generous

things i liked:

visually, it's stunning - i could see scenes already being made into gifsets - the color grading is pretty good; even in dark scenes i could see and understand what was happening

the sets are soooo good!! costume design was alright too

title cards were fun and cute

they did some interesting stuff with the cultures of both vault 33 and the brotherhood of steel

they used the sound effects from the games :)

i liked the wastelanders!!! big npc and random encounter energy. i kind of want a whole show of just them. for example i love the marketplace and settlement in filly; it feels very lived in

the background characters weren't just young thin able-bodied conventionally attractive white people :) there's so many elders, which i loved!! ma june and barv were cool. i love gruff old lesbians

lucy!!! she was already kind of weird and a little off-putting even in vault 33 ("what's your sperm count" as an opener to the husband she was just arranged married to is WILD) and i like that. she's sweet and bullheaded and surprisingly competent :)

maximus is kind of an ass, but is also a pathetic nerd and brotherhood dickrider who actually doesn't really know anything. kind of a girlfailure

the ghoul was pretty cool too!! i liked him, though more for his prewar story than the one he has post-apocalypse

lucy's brother norman kinda grew on me. "i lack enthusiasm for every job that i do here" so relateable. also short king <3

THE DENTIST THAT BUYS TEETH. never thought that would be a Thing but now that i think about it, it makes sense

the monsters that we have were cool!! wish there had been more of them

MATT BERRY IS IN THIS!! i just really like him so i got excited :))

maximus and lucy's "wanna have sex?" talk LMAO

vault 4's various mutations!!

those giant unwieldy fuckass duffel bags that brotherhood squires lug around hahahhahahaaha

vault 4 and its genetic experiments because its main conceit is that it was ruled by scientists who hybridized humans. it's exactly the right amount of fucked up i want in a vault

i like that the protagonists regularly get captured and eat shit

FRED ARMISEN IS ALSO HERE

haha hacking minigame :) also chatting via terminals (and im assuming pipboys?) is canon now

they're growing crops in the wasteland + bustling trade + livestock + pets yay

robobrain was cute

things i was just ok with:

dane, the they/them brotherhood of steel aspirant who was fucked over so maximus can get their spot as a squire LMAO what a waste of a potentially cool character

IT'S SO FUNNY that there's yodelling whenever the ghoul comes into the scene ????? WHY

fight scenes.... pretty good but someone definitely had the bloody mess perk (i don't do well with gore so ew yucky). also lots of [VATS NOISE]

pipboy was not used as much as i thought it would be

cousin stuff... i get it, i guess in a vault you'd have a lot of cousins and not a lot of choice, so some incest would probably happen

the ghoul being vault boy's inspiration?? not sure what to feel about that tbh

the casual dismemberments... and equally casual attaching of limbs... not even prosthetic limbs.....

the vaulties eating good healthy well-balanced meals. giving out caviar in the welcome basket. kinda 50/50 on it

the vault 31 - 32 - 33 subplot couldve been more fucked up

have brotherhood knights always been celibate or did i miss the memo

there are regular chickens and... deer? for some reason?

the ghoul's design. it's fine in action but mostly it's meh

the vault 4 cult for moldaver

vault 4 as a refuge for shady sands survivors. im mad about it but like. i get it

that guys "elixir" (some altered jet??) fixing everything about thaddeus' foot instantenously AND GIVING HIM HEALING POWERS???

things i did not like:

lucy's plot premise is very much fallout 3 redux

lucy and maximus as a ship is very meh and kind of forced and not compelling. go give us nothing!!!

wilzig's head as a macguffin that everyone is after... ehh kind of just okay as a plot device

also the ghoul randomly eating that other ghoul???

the squire who bullied maximus calls himself fat but he isn't fat?? not even chubby??? hello????? just got a soft face

water chip being fucked feels very fallout 3 also but they kind of dropped it?

they definitely named cooper howard after todd. as tribute probably, which he doesn't deserve

fiend = cannibal now?????

maximus recognizing vault 4 as a cult but not recognizing the brotherhood as one lol

vault tec evil capitalism vs hollywood communists storyline was kind of basic. and bland. and weak

the enclave could've been established + explored better

no geckos or any other west coast-specific monsters

showing me ncr ranger armor when the ncr is gone

ghouls have healing powers?? WITHOUT RADIATION??

things i hated hated hated:

the ghoul needing drugs to combat the Disease That Turns Ghouls Feral

feral ghouls being basically zombies :/

IN EPISODE FIVE. THEY REVEAL. THAT SHADY SANDS. WAS BOMBED. THE ENTIRE NCR. WAS BOMBED. IN 2277. THE YEAR OF THE FIRST BATTLE OF HOOVER DAM

BASICALLY RETCONNED FNV?? IM PUTTING MY EARS IN MY FINGERS AND GOING LA LA LAAAAA

VAULT-TEC DROPPED THE BOMBS ???? BIG MT + MR HOUSE BEING IN ON IT????

THE BIG STUPID FUCKING REVEAL IN EPISODE EIGHT?? THAT THE OVERSEER BOMBED SHADY SANDS BECAUSE HIS WIFE DIDN'T WANT TO GO HOME WITH HIM??? FUCK THAT???

the brotherhood being the main faction of the west coast now. booo!! booo!!!!

the fucking last shot of new vegas being a burnt out husk. probably foreshadowing that hank is going to house's body but. UGH I HATE IT

to summarize: it came out strong! and stumbled hard falling face fucking first at the finish line. i would have liked it a lot more if it did not shit on the west coast as much as it did. because what the FUCK. if it was set literally anywhere else and left the ncr alone i would have liked it more, because on its own, as a self-contained story, divorced from the rest of the fallout series canon, it's not bad!!! it's fun, there's some good bits, it has the ~vibes~ but - and this is a big but - i don't know what it's trying to say. it's all very surface level and the very vague themes i picked up on are not really reiterated in the plot

it's like... the bits that make it fallout are there. vaults. the brotherhood. ghouls. a dog named dogmeat. but there's something lacking. it's like your usual sci-fi post-apocalypse show with a fallout veneer. idk. i like it for what it is but also i hate it for what it's emblematic of. that's all

#fallout show #spoilers #fallout show spoilers #shh peri shhh #i liked it but also i didn't #hope that helps!#watch it but probably pirate it i think #anyway it's 5am im going to bed #im trying to be positive. it's not all bad. but it sucks

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lewkwoodnco · 7 months

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Masterlist

hello I'm lily, 18! find me on discord (@/paraphernalia_05), twitter (@/lewkwoodnco also), letterboxd, spotify :)

Requests are open!

Add/remove yourself from my taglist here!

As a little treat, have u seen my FAV set of locklyle incorrect quotes?

my locklyle/l&c vibes playlist (follows the events in the books so spoilers?):

Lockwood

Mini series (can also be read as stand-alone oneshots)

Timeless (fluff, angst, happy ending, 900) Cruel Summer (Part 1) (angst, fluff, 1.5k) Cruel Summer (Part 2) (angst, fluff, happy ending, 1.6k) August (tsitp version) (angst, 1.3k) The Alcott (angst, happy ending, 1.9k)

1989 Vault Series

Slut!* (angst, happy ending, 5.4k) ⚡️ Say Don’t Go (angst, 3.8k) ⚡️ Now That We Don't Talk (angst, 3.1k) love to think you'll never forget (angst, 2.5k)

Oneshots

I Can See You* (angst, enemies to lovers, happy ending, 5.9k) ⚡️ and I hope it gets to you on some Pacific wind (angst, no happy ending, pining, 6.3k): sequel to I Can See You

You Belong With Me (angst, fluff, happy ending, 2.4k) ⚡️

False God (angst, happy ending, 4k)

Question...? (angst, happy ending, 4.8k)

Dress* (slight angst, 3.5k) ⚡️

You Are In Love (fluff, some angst, 2.4k)

Gold Rush (fluff, some angst, 2.8k) ⚡️

Safe and Sound (angst, hurt/comfort, 2k) ⚡️

get him BACK!* (fluff/crack? 5.4k)

London Boy (fluff fluff fluff, 3.1k) ⚡️

How You Get the Girl (angsttt, happy ending, 4.8k) ⚡️

Invisible String (fluff, 5.4k) ⚡️

only love can hurt like this (angsttt, lil fluff, happy ending, 4.7k) ⚡️

buy me presents! (fluffy fluff, jealous!lockwood, 2.6k)❄️ ⚡️ I got options, babe (moreee fluffy fluff, a bit of jealous!reader, 2.6k) ⚡️

tis the damn season (angst, estranged best friends to lovers, 5.1k)❄️

I take you like you do your tea, with lemon and with honey (fluff, bit of angst, Lockwood’s pov, 2nd person, 720 w)

Falling for You (FLUFF fluff, pick up lines overload, 2.6k) ❣️⚡️

so american! (domestic sweetness, established relationship, 3.3k)

Locklyle

Northern Attitude (angst, neutral ish ending, 2.1k) ❄️

I take you like you do your tea, with lemon and with honey (fluff, bit of angst, Lockwood’s pov, 2nd person, 720 w)

George

Wildest Dreams (slight angst, happy ending, 3.3k)

After Hours (mostly fluff, mild angst, happy ending, 2.7k)

Be More (baking fluff, lockwood n george bromance supremacy, 2.8k) ❣️

Edits

Timeless locklyle gifset

Figure you out locklyle video edit

L&C series gifsets: ep 1 ⚡️| ep 2 ⚡️| ep 3 ⚡️| ep 4 ⚡️| ep 5 ⚡️ | ep 6 | ep 7 | ep 8 ⚡️

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allamericansbitch · 7 months

Text

Hi everyone! Here’s the newest addition to my Creator Shoutout Series (september 17 - september 24)! I want to appreciate editors and their creations that i love from the past week. To track this series or look at previous shoutouts, please check out the tag on my blog *creatorshoutouts. Have a great week everyone!

narcos: javier pena gifset by @perotovar

the bear: sydney adamu gifset by @eatandsleepwell

yellowjackets: 1x01 gifset by @ordinarybarbie

taylor swift: album redesign edit by @sapphic-girls

barbie (2023): president barbie gifset by @venka

scream (1996): tatum riley gifset by @possession

the good place: the soul squad gifset by @nelsonnicks

barbie (2023) gifset by @marv-el-spot

taylor swift: foolish one graphic by @sombrewoodlandfairy

barbie (2023): gloria gifset by @strandtk

taylor swift: fall gifset by @cametotheshowinsd

barbie (2023) gifset by @morgots

yellowjackets: jackie and shauna gifset by @jynersso

taylor swift: 1989 tv vault tracks edit by @thehoax

barbie (2023) gifset by @kitconnor

taylor swift: slut! graphic by @cellphonehippie

barbie (2023) gifset by @zeindaya

chappell roan graphic by @bloodmoonlich

taylor swift: new romantics graphic by @andtosaturn

abbott elementary: tv tropes gifset by @goabbott

taylor swift gifset by @mikelogan

the last of us: pantone colors gifset by @belasdimitrescu

taylor swift: 1989 tv headers by @greatests-hits

#*creatorshoutouts

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marimayscarlett · 8 months

Note

That Adieu gifset you reblogged made me realize we didn't get any clone Richard closeups. Did he say no to being covered in slime? 🤣

Now that you're saying, you're right!!

From what we can see in the video, Richard only kneels in front of his supposed 'container' with his clone as Schneider bends down to comfort him. So we know there must exist a clone of him, but it's not really shown.

No idea why we didn't get any close ups of him, since everyone else got them. Maybe he either just didn't like the way he looked/was self-conscious, or health issues, dramaturgical reasons... the list of possibilities could be endless 👀

Adieu itself is such an interesting music video and I have to admit, I still didn't get the meaning fully. There are references to the Mutter album, to death and transience of life, success in life and how big/out of hand it can get, the guys in the containers could represent their clones for the future or maybe they're the real Rammboys and the guys entering the vaults are the clones...? Setting the supposed clones aflame - an act of freeing themselves or necessary for some higher goal? You see, my head is spinning with thoughts and theories about this, and now there's another one added on top with Richard not really showing as a slimy clone 😅

#spiralling down yet again into the Adieu-interpretation-abyss #most likely also won't find answers this time around #thank you for the ask!!#ask #Rammstein #adieu

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ruanbaijie · 8 months

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🌼 art

[x] just live as you please, then die a senseless death by @drenched-in-sunlight

[x] "this spot marks my grave. but you could rest here too, if you would like." by @drenched-in-sunlight

[x] high noon at july by @nootshell

[x] kimetsu stamps by @majubengel

[x] the archers by @den-ai-d

[x] six eyes on the past by @yuumei-art

[x] where shall we go tomorrow? by @juuxzi

[x] fokus by @littleskrib

[x] thirty-three by @cloudpalettes

[x] suguru by @3-aem

[x] eren yeager eye study by @gem1ny

[x] taxian-jun by @thekansta

[x] they won't let him go by @pillow-boi

[x] jjk season 2 release day gojou by @freyzrc

[x] the blood is the life by @brudnyalgoryrm

[x] lbfad anniversary by @thepencilgirlsv

[x] chu wanning by @maalidoesart

[x] lonely at the top by @pachimation

[x] aziraphale and crowley by @zivilzz

[x] crowley's fall by @bahoreal

[x] ofmd poster by @xenantis

[x] he is planning a stabbing by @somethingfrog

[x] sakura, northern lights and star cats by @apofiss

[x] floral-themed jjk by @munette

[x] sinking by @beeziedraws

🌼 edits

[x] inumaki toge by @gojosattoru

[x] satosugu by @ysukes

[x] getou suguru by @miwai

[x] there is no next year for us third years by @miwai

[x] winteam + 5 stages of love by @morkofday

[x] iwtv + a prayer for owen meany (john irving) by @fayevalcntine

🌼 gifsets

[x] getou suguru by @sugurusgetou

[x] tlou characters as tarot cards by @skyshipper

[x] steve harrington + dancing in the dark (bruce springsteen) by @ladyhawke

[x] glass onion's main cast + painted visages from the credits by @witcherz

[x] howl's moving castle by @reputayswift

[x] the speak now tv vault as books you can't put down by @reputayswift

[x] kinnporsche tumblr mafia bots by @spicyvampire

[x] rhaenicent + maggie nelson's bluets by @evelyns

[x] akari - jjk s2 ed1 by @crimsonrosee

[x] stranger things + discord profiles by @uservalerian

[x] kj brandman from paper girls by @taiturner

[x] denji x power by @bl-astoise

[x] power by @bl-astoise

[x] aziraphale and crowley in good omens: season two by @ughmerlin

[x] falling in love 101 with aziraphale and crowley by @ughmerlin

[x] anakin skywalker + taylor swift songs by @hayden-christensen

[x] if the prequel trio had iphones... by @cal-kestis

[x] here is your liberation. here is your chance for true freedom. by @thoresque

[x] daenerys targaryen + tropes by @padme-amidala

[x] heartbeat ep 13 by @xiaolanhua

[x] nancy wheeler as the final girl by @goodwitchs

[x] sadie sink as max mayfield + burned at both ends ii by motionless in white by @heroeddiemunson

[x] the witcher by @heroeddiemunson

[x] heartstopper characters page to screen by @nelsonnicks

[x] akk pipitphattana by @raypakorn

[x] barbie vintage inspired travel postcards by @fancykraken

[x] aziraphale and crowley + heaven help us (my chemical romance) by @meliorn

[x] the song of the lonely mountain x the hobbit by @jeonwonwoo

[x] the paris squad as taylor swift songs by @nick-nelson

#*shoutouts #creator shoutout

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pixelatedquarter · 8 months

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Day 33 of Tourdust:

This was perhaps an unexpected entry into this journal, aware of some of our very own tumblrines in the crowd but expecting them to get outnumbered by the Sports People, who were there for the Champion of the Centuries at best.

It wasn't so. The barricade filled like a small venue with emos and other alt people, who brought so much energy that it had Patrick and Pete scrambling, plotting things on the dead mics as we watched in concern for those of us at the frontlines, through our communication with mandie, an old friend of ours.

They didn't quite plan for this, but this didn't mean they planned to keep things to old singles either, after all these years keeping her in the vault, they're standing up for their right to cheat at the stadium's parking lot, presumably with Gritty. And while they did not call this day's tour debut an 8 ball, I Don't Care, we don't care. We're too busy recovering from all the growling.

Our sights have not yet turned to suspecting Patrick of being online, in fact if he was, despite all the flourish and energy of today he would probably have avoided all the gestures that call back to these past couple of days' recurring gifsets. The drummer-to-drummer communication enhanced by mutual sunglasses that lead to a (more restrained) deviltricklike humping of his guitar in front of known soul punk girlie* Andy and the sunglasses getting placed on his shirt, straining that neckline further like a taxi driver sweating an ocean as he was. Perhaps it's best if we say nothing about the re-circulation of the locker room photoshoot this morning.

And so the whispers continued, to dead mics and among us, who became VAR referees in determining if there was contact on today's lean. The verdict, with witness accounts and 3 different angles, is that we'd red card them but we don't want them to be unable to play next show.

Like I said, we were not expecting much today, less so than for the festivals, and yet, even after we got what we thought was the stealth 8 Ball, a question was presented. Not to The Magic 8 Ball, but to this crowd of emos who against all odds were not being pussies and instead being energetic and crowdsurfing like this was a 2004 show:

"We don't always do this, because sometimes when we play these shows the crowd is not here for it, but should we play Saturday?"

In Spite Of It All, unplanned, among whispers to dead mics, fueled by the crowd cheering them on so much, it became a Saturday saturday.

I leave now to tend to the wounded and enjoy of the rare buzz of activity in foblr with a show at this early hour. Perhaps we do have some things in common with the Sports people after all. I wouldn't know, just like Patrick I know nothing about sports.

#the tourdust chronicles

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more-better-words · 3 months

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Questions yoinked from @iamstartraveller776 (hope you don't mind! ☺️)

1. Do you have a word-count goal for the upcoming year?

I don't tend to pay attention to word count so much as completing chapters. So my goal is to finish chapters.

2. Will you participate in any fandom exchanges or fic challenges, etc?

I never have before, but @talshiargirlfriend is planning to do a small-ish one, so hopefully that won't be too intimidating!

3. Do you anticipate writing for a new fandom this year? Which one?

Only if some new-to-me media grabs me by the throat, which always a possibility.

4. Do you think you’ll stop writing for a fandom this year? Which one?

Well, once I complete The Place We Call Home, that will likely mark the end of me writing longform ST:ENT fic. I'm sure I'll still write shorter pieces and one-offs, but completing the Built to Last series will be a capstone for me.

5. Which WIP is first on your list to complete this year? Will you post a snippet?

The Place We Call Home!

She slumped back, her energy suddenly and absolutely depleted. Then Doctor Jimenez was handing her a very small form, placed against her chest. The baby whimpered, unaccustomed to this huge new world, and she lifted an exhausted arm to cradle her daughter. It's all right. Everything’s all right. I'm here, just like I said I would be. She looked up at Trip, whose eyes were huge and bright with tears. “Oh my God, T'Pol,” he murmured, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “She’s here. She’s perfect.” “She is,” she agreed. She reached up, brushing at the tears on his cheeks. “You should hold her.” With infinite care, he tentatively took their daughter in his hands, a marveling, awe-struck smile on his face. “Hi,” he whispered. “It’s me. Do you recognize my voice?” T'Pol looked at them, her mate and their child, and suddenly her entire being was filled with a triumphant, roaring love like a fire in her veins. She would do anything for them, because they were hers. Trip felt her eyes on him, and shot her a tiny, tearful, adoring smile. “You did it,” he said. “We did,” she replied. “We three.”

6. Which yet-to-be-started fic is first on your list?

The one that hasn't occurred to me yet. 😅

7. Will you change anything about the way you interact with other writers?

I don't think so? Do I need to?

*frets*

8. Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is this the year? Can you tell us about it?

Mostly followups to (much) older fic that never made it out of the outline/draft stages. But I doubt I'll ever return to them - not a lot of interest in the world of Baldur's Gate 2 when we have Baldur's Gate 3.

9. Short term goals… what do you hope to complete this week or in January?

By the end of January, I may have The Place We Call Home fully drafted. Maybe. Hopefully.

10. Will you keep a record of all the fics you write and/or post this year?

Other than my AO3 stats, no.

11. Would you like to try any new fanfic genres or tropes this year?

I finally took the plunge and tried my hand at writing...well, we'll call it smut adjacent. I think I'll keep at it, and we'll see how it evolves.

12. Will you change anything about the way you edit or rewrite this year?

I don't think so...my current system works fairly well. At least I think so.

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic?

I write because I'm no good at any of that other stuff! I'd LOVE to be able to create visual art, but...I'm just not wired for it.

14. Have you ever lost large chunks of your work in the past, due to not backing up your work? Will you change your methods this year?

I thought I'd lost two whole chapters a couple of weeks ago and I was distraught! Fortunately, I was wrong and my backups were still there.

15. Do you foresee any personal or professional obstacles this year, that would keep you from creating fanworks?

Unfortunately, yes. But I shall soldier on!

16. Do you have that one fanfic that you wrote a ton for, ages ago, but never posted? Will this be the year, come hell or high water, that it WILL get finished and posted?

The aformentioned Baldur's Gate stuff, and no. I just don't feel the compulsion, really.

17. Do you typically answer all comments/reviews individually? Do you plan to change the way you interact with your readers this year?

I try to! I absolutely treasure every comment and reblog - why would I change that?

18. Do you typically post multi-chapters as you write, or finish it all and then start posting? Would you like to change your posting method?

I keep a buffer of chapters - like I published chapter 13 of TPWCH a few days ago, but I've got chapter 14-16 basically complete, and I'm working on chapter 17 right now as of posting this.

It's a system that works pretty well for me, though sometimes I am left dying wanting to just share it all! Now! I want everyone to see it!

19. Would you consider non-fandom writing events, like NaNoWriMo or writing contests?

Probably not.

20. Any plans to work on original fiction this year?

I toyed with the idea of writing original fiction years ago, and I had a few ideas, but...I find it much more stressful that fanfic. Fanfic is my hobby. I like to tell stories for fun. I don't think I want to turn it into a job.

21. Will you try writing software, like Scrivener or those programs that won’t let you stop writing?

I use Word - I've tried more specialized software, like Scrivener and Focus Writer, but I just didn't get anything out of them.

22. Do you plan to take writing classes this year?

I have never taken anything that might be even in the neighborhood of a creative writing class, and I'm scared that if I did now, they'd tell me I'm doing it all wrong!

23. Would you like to go on a writing retreat?

That sounds fascinating, but I don't even know what that would entail lol

24. By the end of this year, you want your fandom to think of you as “that author who _______.”

Wrote the best darn post-Terra Prime Trip/T'Pol fic out there. The one you recommend to anyone suffering post-TATV trauma.

25. If you answered questions from this list last year, find your answers and compare your goals to your results. How’d you do?

N/A

#writer stuff #i am serious writer ask me serious questions lol

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vampirenaomi · 4 months

Note

8 and 13 for the new years writing asks 💜

8. Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is this the year? Can you tell us about it?

Back when I was into Hetalia I kept playing with the idea of writing a massive story about Germany and Prussia during the Cold War era, but the amount of research I would have had to do always kept me from even starting it. I've more or less lost interest in writing about Hetalia, so this story will never materialize.

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic?

I used to draw fanart when I was into Kim Possible, and sometimes I think about picking it up again, but I'm not good at it and don't enjoy the process of making art, so it probably won't happen. I like to fantasize about being really good and what I could draw, but I don't want to put in the work to get there, haha.

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bakageta · 4 months

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for the fanfic ask game: 8, 13, and/or 24!

8. Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is this the year? Can you tell us about it?

Follow ups to my cryptid Venom fic, Runalong. It's a very I wrote this for me fic and I'm pleased and proud of how it came out. There's more in my head, I may have even shared a snippet before here iirc... But I'm hesitant to write it for anxiety/what if it's not a good reasons. I could finish the bit that's partly written tho? IDK, IDK. I just have this outline in my head and I'm hesitant to write it down...

Oh and there's also some long-ish fic ideas, the Venom body swap fic and the reluctant god Eddie Brock fic. If I don't do anything with Runalong, I at least want to do something with either of those ideas. Even if it's just outlining one of them.

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic?

I have very, very, very idly thought about podficcing. But considering I haven't even listened to one I should probably start there first, lol. Find out how much sound effects go into it, do people usually do voices, ect?

24. By the end of this year, you want your fandom to think of you as “that author who _______.”

Still writes? Writes that weird biology stuff? IDK that I'd really care what my fandom thinks of me? I already don't know what anyone but my friends and a few regular readers think of me...

#ask me stuff or don't #ask meme #gallus-rising

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daydreamorama · 4 months

Note

For the New Year's Ask: 5, 8 and 13 please 💕

Thanks for the ask! the full list can be found here

5. Which WIP is first on your list to complete this year? Will you post a snippet?

I am currently busily working on my lunar new year fic exchange treat, but that's no fun cause I can't talk about it. So after that I hope to buckle down and get more of the wip titled 'hei Xiazi bdsm verse' (which is funny cause Liu Sang is the main character) I started it over a year ago, it's a BDSM, Firefighter AU with no set pairing/group, just a mess of relationship lines.

Here's a bit of a snippet from what will be probably part of the first chapter

Liu Sang had not been anticipating Xiaoge showing up at the dorms with his motorcycle, and he really had to kick himself. What had he expected? Xiaoge to drive Pangzi’s van? Liu Sang took a second to close his eyes and calm his nerves that had suddenly flared, he had been doing good at ignoring what was going to happen, then gingerly got on the back of the motorcycle. He placed his arms gingerly on Xiaoge’s waist, not wanting to be creepy, or encroach on Xiaoge’s personal space, but Xiaoge grabbed his hand and pulled and said, “Tighter.” So Liu Sang hugged him, and tried his best not to think about it as Xiaoge revved his engine and drove, slowly, off. Xiaoge only ever touched people when it was necessary, and Liu Sang had definitely never been this close to him. This felt way too intimate.

8 Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is this the year? Can you tell us about it?

Well I think after the dubcon Tentacle Porn I cowrote, bravery doesn't enter into it anymore :). (That said I do have a immoral slave owner Wu Xie (aka Liu Sang whump) piece... I have about 8k of it written aha).

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic?

Not really! I want to explore different styles of fanfic and different writings, but creating in other ways doesn't currently appeal to me. (though knitting something fannish does sound fun!)

#ask memes #about me

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