gnna put tags here, just keep in mind I don't usually tag triggers so keep it in mind love ya 🖤
also please dont put my stuff into ai super not cool...
(might occasionally contain cnc, kink, dubcon, other darker themes so mdni)
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@star-xx-dust
gnna put tags here, just keep in mind I don't usually tag triggers so keep it in mind love ya 🖤
also please dont put my stuff into ai super not cool...
(might occasionally contain cnc, kink, dubcon, other darker themes so mdni)
No thoughts just ghost who only touches you when the lights are off.
When he can't see his own skin next to yours. He stays hidden under long sleeves and and pants even when it's just the two of you. Ghost doesn't believe you when you tell him he's beautiful.
"Ugly fuckin' mug, should be a sin jus' to touch you." He whispers into your neck, bodies still sweaty, hidden in the dark. The web of burned tissue over his chest snug against your back.
"I don't know what you see in me." When your hands wander down the length of his arm. Fingertips jumping over neat rows of raised scars, broken by potholes made of shrapnel and bad nights.
"It's fuckin' disgusting, is what it is." When the side of his face brushes your cheek, his lips kissing your jaw. Words never form quite right with all the scar tissue pulling at his mouth.
He would rather tell you ten times over how wrong you are about him than to accept that you love him. You do. You love him. You love every inch of him, the hills and valleys of scars and the warp of ink over the worst of them, the way he laughs like a broken engine, the way he leans to the left side when he's tired.
You love him and it's never enough. You'll keep loving him.
something knight!merc ghost and fairy!reader stuck in a bond with ghost because he saved them from a spider web before he realized he would be stuck with a chatterbox until they saved him and the magic was sated
and! they have to burrow under his armor because!!! it's cold and rainy!!! and he's so warm and he's so unused to touch he doesn't stop them
Nikto who’s hesitant to be rough with you, he’s hesitant because the urge to crush you blooms in his chest. irrational, he doesn’t understand it. he would never dream of purposefully harming his lyubov, but his teeth and gums itch with the need to bite when you tease him. his nails uncomfortable, the need to sink them into your plush flesh, drag them across your skin. there’s an ache in his chest where he physically needs you to be, locked behind his ribs and snug against heart
Nikto who’s all rough skin and marred with scars, something he’s silently deemed unfit for your soft touch. he knows you’ll complain, that you adore how he feels. that makes his hands tense, whispers in the back of his mind that he should hold you close and never let go. sink his canines into your shoulder, lap at whatever marks he leaves. he knows you love him, it makes his stomach twist, uneasy that he thinks he should devour you whole
Nikto who gives in to your request, insistent demands, really, to play fight. childish, but endearing in a way that pleasantly clouds his mind. he’ll humor you this one time, kneeling down on the floor with you. if it makes you happy, he’ll pretend to wrestle you, his expression masking how warmth blooms in his chest. it happens again, the moment he pins you it crawls up from gut, searing his throat as he looks down at you. to crush you because his heart demands it, your laughter ringing in his ears. he would never hurt his lyubov, so he tames the wild feeling in his chest. he indulges though, the warmth in his chest comfortably dimming as he rests his weight on you. “We are done.”, he rasps out, content to let you writhe and complain under him
my bonnie lad
devouring devoured like a mutt
One hot and cool writing tip that I wish more people knew is... you don't have to write out people's accents phonetically. You just don't. You are not Dickens. You are (hopefully) not Rowling. There are so many other ways you can make someone's speech feel authentic to their background, or just make it clear that they're speaking in a certain accent, not limited to:
literally just saying 'he spoke with a Welsh accent'; sure, it's a bit blunt, but it gets the job done in a pinch. "He's completely drunk," he said, his southern drawl lingering on the final syllable as if to highlight the extent of the offence. Y'know, something of that ilk, but not as shit.
learning the specific vocabulary and syntax that someone with that accent might use. Sticking with the Welsh theme, because it's objectively the best accent*, there's a bunch of things that differentiate a colloquial South Walean accent, outside of our famed tendency to elongate a vowel to the point of death. The way we use prepositions (where to by is he?), the vocabulary borrowed from Welsh - saying that someone daft is twp, or something small is dwty - can easily signpost our speech as being from that specific area, without needing to type something like "'e's absolutely 'angin', man, pissed as a faaht 'e is!" Something less jarring, such as "He's absolutely hanging, he is." is just as clear. A character who says "Do you want a cuppa?" is coded or located very differently to one who says "You'll have a cup of tea, so you will."
ditto if there are specific ways that someone from a certain area might refer to a well-known concept. Regional words for mother and father, for example, or words that are class-specific; your character who calls his parents 'mater and pater' is likely inhabiting a different socioeconomic strata than your character who calls them 'mam and dad'. See if there's a colloquial way of saying 'yes' and 'no'; a lot can be signposted if your character says 'nah' rather than 'no', or 'aye' rather than 'yes'. A character saying 'couch' is inherently coded differently to one who says 'sofa'.
The reasons that writing accents phonetically is Generally Ill-Advised, In My Opinion are as follows:
quite simply, you're probably not being as clear in conveying the sounds of the accent as you think you are. Taking JK Rowling's work as the best possible example of this, her attempts at writing a Cockney accent phonetically come across like someone is chewing a mouthful of cheese curds and struggling to contain them. There's no consistency, no proper understanding of how to transcribe syllables into writing in a way that coherently conveys the accent she's trying to portray. I mean this so seriously, but what the flying fuck is: 'Well, 'e 'ad these 'ead pains and 'e was def'nitley nervous. Depressed maybe.' It's a crime, is what it is.
it's just plain hard to read. Trying to wade through sentences full of apostrophes and elision, parsing what's actually being said, gets tiresome. It asks the reader to do work that you're actively making harder for them. And that's not always a bad thing! Making readers Put Some Fucking Effort In can be very fruitful! But do you really want them to be struggling to understand every single thing that your Character B is saying for 350 pages?
which leads me onto the last point, and the most important in my mind: writing out accents like this always, always affects accents that are already in some way Othered. They're either racialised or working class, or associated with certain local regions that have negative stereotypes - think the deep South of the US, or the Welsh Valleys. They're never the 'default'. And this raises thorny questions about what the default is, what the standardised accent is, the accents that do and do not merit differentiation from the norm. You're relegating Character B to being hard to read because he's from, idk, Sunderland. You've decided that he isn't speaking 'properly', and therefore the reader needs to understand that other people think he's speaking weirdly. That, to me, is the principle issue. Because returning to JK Rowling (a sentence I hoped never to type), the only characters who speak like this in her work are working class, or they're from other countries. They're never from, you know, Surrey. Wonder why that is. And it's easy to be glib about it, but I do think it reifies class and regional boundaries in a way that's ultimately harmful.
This isn't to say that there's never a place for eye dialect in writing - Trainspotting, for example, wouldn't be what it is without it, and there's definitely a different conversation to be had when it's your own accent and you're making a deliberate point about identity by differentiating through eye dialect - but I think that the blanket assumption of 'oh shit, my character is from Ireland, I'd better type that out phonetically!' can actually be both damaging to your writing and to your character representation, and I think that instead doing the work to really understand the vocabulary, speech patterns and unique aspects of a language or dialect always makes a work feel more authentic and lived-in.
To wit, less of this shite:
There’s mony a slip, an’ I’m no losin’ sight o’ any o’ my suspectit pairsons, juist yet awhile. (Peter Wimsey, if you were wondering, and yes, that's supposed to be Scottish)
and more of this:
"Are we straight so?" "Aye, we're straight," said Jim. "Straight as a rush, so we are." (Jamie O'Neill, Irish, from At Swim, Two Boys)
*objective determination made via a sample size of one: me, in an elaborate hat.
Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
Mmmmmm….. knight!Simon who fell in love with whore!reader and promised he’d return when he had earned enough to buy her freedom and take her as his wife. He disappears, and you hear rumors of his capture, that he has almost certainly died. You weep for him— of course those romantic dreams were too good to be true.
Only for a knight in dark armor to approach your brothel on horseback, a skull plate welded to his helm, a sword with blood still flaking from its pommel at his hip. The madame has you all lined up, smacking those who dare to tremble in front of an honored guest with her riding crop. A bag of gold, far more than the price for a single night, gets tossed on the counter as a hand gauntleted in black steel points at you.
“Sir, this is more tha—“
“Not ‘ere to stay the night. Oi’m takin’ that one with me.”
Guy who is touch starved but emotionally repressed goading you into punching him for completely normal reasons
Price vs. Ghost Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 4
anyway ghost vs price makes no sense to me. “you’ve broken a lot of rules, price” sorry were you not all members of the international war crimes and murder squad?
Gaz showing up midway through the Ghost vs Price match
hopefully the whole Ghost v Price is just a fakeout for the people they're after (like all manufactured found family fractures where they need the Evil Guy(s) to believe the infighting so maybe they'll trust Trojan Horse), and inside that horse is Gaz and Soap, alive and well, and his whole death was faked because this convoluted plotline was the only way they'd get close to Makarov. and then they all live happily ever after to go kidnap some babes
Wir hatten keine Zeit zu duschen...
i stay awake and grind my teeth, i go to bed and walk around, around, around inside my head