#wrote something

[dkhbtfm]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, 18+, smut, bottom frank castle

Relationship: Frank Castle/Matt Murdock

Characters: Frank Castle, Matt Murdock

Summary: Matt gets distracted.

[merotwst]

remember | solomon

» angsty-ish; gender-neutral reader ; mentions of reader dying someday in the future and solomon having past lovers ; me being delusional and sleep-deprived and losing grip on reality (a cry for help)

you shifted your position so that your face was hovering on top of him, "someday, when I'm gone..." you said, gazing lovingly into his eyes, "i want you to remember me as your love that kept your lonely heart full in nights where the feeling of emptiness was too much. the love whose insuperable melancholy, no matter how heavy, would lift all of it off themselves to wrap their arms around you. you over everything else." your voice grew more stadily as you spoke.

"when I'm gone someday, i want you to think of me when you're wrapped up in a sweater and remember how i loved to knit them for us. think of me when the coffee is just a bit too milky because i like mine that way. think of me when you're alone and remember that my heart will always be with you, no matter where you would end up in." you leaned in to kiss him softly but with so much love, closing your eyes to savor the moment with him.

“remember i'll always choose you in any lifetime.”

solomon listened to every word. every whisper like a secret melody only both of you could hear. his hands on your hips as bare skin brushed over bare skin in sending intimately beautiful sparks over both of you.

his loves past, loves to be discovered throughout the course of his immortal timeline—he didn't want to think of them. he wanted you. he wanted the now to last forever more than anything. 'there couldn't possibly be anyone after you when you're long gone,' he thinks to himself, 'no one could ever compare.'

that's what he tells himself, but he knows it's inevitable.

he's still only human, after all. humans need love to survive.

you'll die someday and he'll live past you. another stone on the ground of someone he once loved, memories to be placed in a corner of his mind thay would be too painful to go back to for a good hundred years.

then it'll get better. and he'll meet someone who he treasures just as much as you and everyone that he'd given his heart to in the past. but you will always have a special place. you will always be a love he would never get over no matter how long and whoever would be in his arms because he knows he'll see you everywhere, hear you everywhere, feel you everywhere when you're gone. And somehow, the thought comforts him.

with your hand to his lips brushing over your knuckles so tenderly, eyes shut and savoring the moment, he whispers back earnestly and honestly.

“how could i ever forget?”

[ignorantof-time]

Clueless by ignorantoftime

1/1 | 1.7k | general audiences

“What do you mean they’re in love?” Scott asks, looking utterly clueless as he stares back at Lydia.

“Honestly Scott, you’re supposed to have heightened senses, how can you not tell?” Lydia gestures towards the two men in the next room. Stiles and Derek stand on opposite sides of the table, bickering about who’s plan is going to work better.

Scott follows her gaze, eyes squinting in disbelief as he watches his best friend and the beta. “They’re literally arguing, I wouldn’t call that love.”

[rvnzr]

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hey I wrote something

I mean. I've BEEN writing it I've been futzing with this story since like... at least 2019? 2018? not a short amount of time. it's turned into a pretty bloated behemoth in that time and I'm hoping to pare it back down to its original spirit.

I'm not done and I'm hoping that by throwing like the first half(ish) up here I can shame myself into seeing it through and actually getting it done.

content warning for uuuh climate grief, suicide, animal death, extreme isolation, and the ocean being creepy as hell. I think that's all the biggies.

01.

On a lonely stretch of beach at the end of the world there stood a drafty cottage, and in that cottage dwelt a woman called Elnora.

She had no family name to speak of, for the simple enough reason that she didn’t have a family. That was how she found herself in such a desolate place to begin with: only wards of the state wound up as shorekeepers, paying back the great generosity that had been shown in keeping them alive.

Elnora had often been told that she was one of the lucky ones, because she did well on her tests and had a “good temperament” for shore work. That was a hard and grueling lot in life, to be certain, but also a vital one that would save many lives and help humanity strike back against the sea.

Besides, it could be worse. Orphans who didn’t have a good work ethic grew up to sweep the streets or stand at factory assembly lines for hours on end, until their eyes seemed permanently empty and all their words came out in a jumbled mumble. You’d be put to work one way or another, Elnora thought, so you may as well try to be cheerful about it.

No one liked an ungrateful orphan.

02.

She was being watched by something in the wicked sea.

Elnora had first noticed this precisely one week prior, although she suspected it might have been going on quite a bit longer than that. Peering out her small window one night she had noticed something shining on the waves - no, scratch that: two somethings, bobbing on the waves.

Two eyes, obviously, catching the light from her cottage in the most unsettling way. Small enough that it must have been a siren, only one hundred or so feet from the shore.

She had taken to sleeping with a pair of soundproof earmuffs jammed tight over her ears, which was terribly uncomfortable and made it hard to fall asleep. Elnora simply brewed stronger coffee in the morning to compensate; lost sleep was better than the alternative.

On the eighth night of being watched she logged her daily reports - measurements of wind and wave and weather alike - and clambered into her little bed, snug beneath the extra quilt that had once belonged to a fellow keeper. His bed stood empty against the opposite wall now, untouched out of respect.

03.

The International Sea Patrol had been a well-oiled machine once, or so Elnora had been told.

She thought that was a funny expression, a holdover from a time when there was so much oil that people took it for granted.

Regardless, there was a time when things had run very efficiently. Keepers didn’t hold any post longer than two months, and would receive a month of rest and relaxation in between each post. They never worked alone, but no pair was together longer than a month to prevent them from getting at each other’s throats. The older keepers talked about this time with reverence.

Somewhere along the line, two months had started bleeding into three. The ISP was so short-staffed, people simply weren’t enlisting like they used to, all convicts and orphans now - but it was such important work. Surely the dutiful shorekeepers could be counted on to man their stations even if it meant staying put a bit longer than they were accustomed to?

Of course, said the shorekeepers. It would be an honor.

So two months became three, and three became six, and six became a year without anyone quite realizing how. And it became more solitary along the way, so having a partner was a lucky break rather than an ironclad regulation.

Elnora’s conscript had called for a year-long post on her lonely shore. By her count she was currently on day five hundred and forty five - and counting.

04.

The morning after the storm, Elnora saw to her daily tasks before going out to comb the beach. There was water to gather from her solar still, wind speeds from the night before to log, sand endlessly in need of being swept back outside.

For breakfast she made a mug of strong coffee and chased it down with a crunchy dehydrated mean. They tasted nominally better if you bothered to hydrate them first, but not so much better that Elnora regretted not making the effort.

The delivery drone was two days late with replenishments to her rations, which had never happened before, but Elnora was trying not to worry about that.

When she was fed, if not nourished, she pulled on the thick boots and gloves that would protect her from the ocean’s sting and grabbed the long, pointed pole that would allow her to examine things from a cautious distance. There were rarely any surprises to be found on her beach, even after a storm, but one could never be too safe when it came to the sea.

Outside, in the water gray light of dawn, she spotted at once the largest of the items that the sea had left her: a humanoid figure, skeletal and green, gills gasping against the air.

05.

Even in its death throes, with the fish all gone and the very water turned to poison, the ocean had refused to go quietly. From the depths it coughed out krakens to strangle ships and drag them down; leviathans that could ram through any hull; sirens, with songs that turned sailors into their own worst enemies.

These beasts were covered extensively in the training every scorekeeper underwent. If one was found washed up dead then it would be immeasurably valuable, for the ISP wanted nothing as badly as it wanted to learn the inner workings of its most dangerous enemies. Any viable specimen, no matter how small, was to be called in immediately for collection.

But first - and this was vital - the keeper must determine that their catch was really dead. For the ocean was a tricky beast, and all its children were the same, and wouldn’t it be just like the damned sea to lure them in close before it struck?

06.

The siren was in poor condition, but very much alive.

Its limbs were long and scrawny, which Elnora knew concealed an awful strength - sailors who got grabbed by their ankles found that the best way of getting free was often to cut their own limbs off, which was much easier than loosening a single siren finger.

Its face couldn’t be human for more than a passing glance - eyes too bulbous, nose barely more than two gashes for nostrils, thin lips unable to conceal its pointed teeth. Its skin was married with thick scars and acid burns, a reminder that even the ocean’s spawn weren’t safe from its wicked ways. Thick dark hair hung tangled down its back, and its chest was dotted with two pinprick black nipples.

Elnora tore her eyes away from that and focused on what, in her estimation, really mattered: the ugly gash in its side, exposing bone and meat to the unforgiving sky.

Overhead, a hungry gull drifted in for a closer look.

07.

The man who’d shared her post - his name was Meech, and he’d been there nearly a year when Elnora came along.

She’d liked him well enough. He was older, and very jaded, and sometimes ranted about how they were being abandoned to die alone on the sea. But he’d also been very gentle, and had a lot of poetry memorized, and he taught her how to knit.

The day before Meech’s year-mark a missive came over the computer: he’d have to stay a little longer, terribly sorry, shortage of staffing, etc. Elnora had sent back a very indignant message on his behalf - it was most unprofessional to not even ask his consent before extending his assignment, or even tell him when his new end date would be! - but Meech sank into quiet resignation. He started keeping odd hours after that, and Elnora often caught him in the middle of the night staring out at the sea.

One morning she had woken to the sound of screaming, or maybe weeping; it seemed somewhere between absolute agony and ecstatic exultation. She never found out what it was, only saw the end results: a swarm of sirens clustered in the shallows, a froth of red that had once been her friend Meech.

08.

The siren came to in the large metal tub that Elnora used to bathe, filled with saltwater that had been hauled inside bucket by bucket and was currently pooling on the worn-down wooden floor.

It blinked its big fishy eyes, which Elnora didn’t like at all.

“I live,” it said, sounding neither pleased nor displeased about this.

“For now,” Elnora said. “I didn’t know you could speak.”

“Unsurprising. There are hardly any things that your kind knows.” The siren looked around with idle curiosity, curling its wormy lip. “You live like this?”

“Shut up. As if you have it any better, living in the ocean.”

The siren looked at its side, the place where it had been gouged wide open, and pressed a tender hand to the wound. The noise it made was somewhere between pleasure and pain, entirely satisfaction. “Mmm. Yes. Mother Sea dragged me across the rocks last night, as punishment for being careless. Silly me, bad siren.”

“What do you mean, being careless?”

“Too close to shore when the storm came. Too distracted trying to watch my favorite shoregirl.” The siren flashed her a smile like a shark’s, all cruel sharp teeth.

“Oh, no,” Elnora said firmly. “I know how you work, getting in people’s heads. It’s not going to work on me.”

“And yet you saved me.”

“Yes. I did.”

09.

After Meech died she’d had a cat for about a week.

It was a pathetic-looking stray - hardly anyone had the money to spend on keeping animals anymore - with patchy black and white fur and one eye missing. It almost certainly had fleas, and maybe worms. Elnora had no reason to believe she’d be able to requisition medicine to care for it, let alone proper food, but she started letting herself fantasize about keeping it around all the same. She started spending hours sitting still so that it would feel safe enough to approach her, and toying with ideas for different names.

Of course that all came to an end when the poor creature tried to eat something that had washed up out of the sea. Elnora screamed and chased it away, but it was no good - she found it the next day stiff and dead, covered in flies, having apparently choked on its own vomit.

She buried it far into the sand dunes, having walked so far that she could hardly hear the waves, determined not to let the sea have it in death.

10.

“Your wound is looking better,” Elnora said that evening, after a long day of stubbornly ignoring the siren. Every few hours she’d splash a fresh bucket of saltwater into the tub, but she always averted her eyes when she did.

The siren stretched out in an indecently suggestive way, looking quite pleased with itself. “Rest and relaxation. All thanks to you, kind shoregirl.”

“Shut up.”

Elnora awkwardly set up the privacy screen that had gone unused since Meech’s death, fumbling out of her clothing and into her bed clothes behind it. She felt twice as clumsy as usual, sweating as she fretted that the siren might somehow be able to see right through the flimsy barrier.

“Shall I sing you to sleep?” the siren cooed, inhuman voice mocking. “Oh, please, let me do something kind for you. A little token of my gratitude!”

“You will not,” Elnora said, but she may as well have told the sun not to rise or the sea not to be deep and dark and full of things eager to kill.

The siren sang through the night with a voice eerie and inhuman, a sound meant to carry miles through the water. Instead it reverberated over and over against the inside of Elnora’s skull, sinking her into a clammy slumber of twilight dreams. She was startled to find herself blinking awake in the morning after sleeping through the night for the first time in months, feeling oddly raw.

“Good morning,” said the siren, smirking at her a few feet away. “Sleep well?”

“Mind your own business,” said Elnora, ignoring the throbbing between her thighs and hurrying to check the drone delivery pad.

Another day without fresh rations.

11.

On the beach at the end of the world there was a road, and that road had led straight to the drafty cottage where Elnora dwelt.

There had been a truck that carried supplies once, driven by a handsome young woman with short-cropped hair and calloused hands and the most terribly kind eyes Elnora had ever seen. The driver always stayed a little longer than she needed to, even though that could get her pay docked, and even started smuggling out cheap romance paperbacks after she learned Elnora liked them.

The driver had mentioned once that more and more trucks were being replaced with drones, and she said it with the kind of forced casualty that signaled she was deeply, terribly afraid. Elnora asked her what she would do if she lost her job to automation.

“Go south and fight the wildfires, probably,” the driver said with a shrug. “It’s crap work - ruins your body - but it’s what most of my family does anyway. And somebody has to do it. It’s all hypothetical, though. They won’t replace us, though. Your deliveries are too heavy, it’s too impractical to use a drone.”

That wasn’t the last time Elnora saw her; that would be too bitterly, perfectly ironic. Months passed, the truck came every two weeks like clockwork, and they both forgot about that conversation entirely.

Until one day a drone came in her place, without even giving Elnora a chance to say goodbye.

[oceansreducedtoshallowcreeks]

He knew he shouldn't have pressed the ad. He knew he shouldn't have. He knew about the missing people, the sketchy ads, the terror in general around the 'Find A Friend' ad. He felt like he was being teased, though. Now, as 2 hands gripped his shoulders, he sat thinking to himself; That was a terrible idea. And it was. Now, as the loud laughter rang out, he could do nothing but sit in terror as the being pulled itself out of his computer screen.

"HAHA! I'M SO HAPPY TO FINALLY MEET YOU!!"

He was terrified. The creature was vaguely humanoid, but it had no arms. It had 4 hands, 2 floating where they would be if he had his hands and non-existant arms relaxed, and the other 2 gripping his shoulders so hard he thought he'd bruise. The creature's head was a triangle with one large eye.

"Trikon, lovely to meet you, Alex!"

He was so terrified he didn't even register the person- Trikon- said his name. He started to scream.

"Oh, jesus- Shush! There's no reason to scream! Hush-up!"

Trikon clamped his 2 free hands over Alex's screaming mouth. Alex squirmed and tried to kick him.

"Shut. Just.. Be quiet. It's harder to struggle."

Trikon glared.

"You're my best friend now."

[microchive]

a horse named might’ve been

sitting out on the front steps feels like getting old. in this still, stagnant chill, tobacco spit gathering at the corners of the mouth and congesting. tobacco spit hack and blow is an old factory grate, carbon deposit. the night is the darkest spot of a bruise, smells like ozone, some strange angel hangs its hat on the hook in the sky until morning. skin wind-hardened, long past tenderized, there is nothing tender left about you: girl in the way a girl is a clenched fist. girl like the wall of a trench, collapsed under the lip of the earth, the weight of your brow, the hard line of your marching band shoulders. girl like not man enough. you suck at the filter of your cigarette like you’re fiending for the marrow.

there is another like you: hard as unripe plums, easy like a man should be. she’ll sit beside you some nights, shrouded save the occasional red rust flare of a cigarette cherry hovering like a firefly near her boyish face. you don’t speak most nights, legs spread broad, knees not quite touching. sometimes the membrane of space between her sweaty calf and the meat of your thigh fills you with fruit flies, swarming around the rotted blackberry remnants of love. or what could be love, if you cleaned your room. swept the cobwebs, called your mother. but by now your bones have set, wrong but set nevertheless, and your fists are permanent, and no lover’s soft-handed caress will unfurl knuckle from knuckle from palm.

in the end it is not a caress that knocks you loose but another fist to the face. roiling river of bodies kicking up dust, a hairsbreadth away from passionate embrace, and you’re so hungry for it you leave your defenses down and bruise like a peach. how different is it, really? to be picked up, feel fingers grip you with a violence that borders obsession. to be held so briefly against a warm, beating chest before you hit the floor. but to see the look on her face, afterwards, that is an intimacy you have never been granted. it lingers feverishly.

hit, fractured, groan and thaw. you’re dripping like spring stalactite. now that the hairline fissure echoes between your walls, it runs from trickle to stream, stream to flow, flow to rush, rush to surge, and every limb of the heart that has numbed from misuse prickles with heat, burns to be touched for longer than a brutal split-second.

and it’s enough. to jostle her shoulder, light her cigarette, call her brother. be aware of how her callused fingers tremble and how it sets your working teeth on edge, but sit in it. let it be enough. this cold night is better suited for two.

[warandpussy]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: รักโคตรร้ายสุดท้ายโคตรรัก | KinnPorsche: The Series (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Porsche Pachara Kittisawat/Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun Characters: Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, Porsche Pachara Kittisawat Additional Tags: oh my god this is just pure filth, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Come Eating, Dom/sub Undertones, Spit Kink Summary:

“Aren’t you meant to finger me?” Porsche asks, breathless, as Kinn smears lube around the rim of his hole. Kinn looks up, pausing his movements, and Porsche shifts slightly, almost unconsciously, as though trying to get him inside.

“Where did you hear that?” Kinn asks.  

“I watched some porn,” Porsche says, and Kinn raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. He remembers the kind of porn Porsche likes – shrieking women lying back and taking it from coarse, grunting men. “Gay porn,” Porsche clarifies after a moment.