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brilliantblasphemer · 3 days

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ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏɢ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ

ao3 | gender-neutral reader | no use of y/n | ghost and reader are lowkey toxic and decidedly a bit weird | cw: violence (minor), implied rough sex, no communication, unreasonable amount of em-dashes used

[i]

It’s a tale as old as time—he comes home and only feels comfortable enough to lay down to die in your presence. Docile with snarling teeth, like something sick waiting to be put down. You will not hold him when his body succumbs to injury. You will not pet his ears and dirty blonde hair in comfort. Instead you tug on it when his mouth isn’t greedy enough, when he needs to be eased into using his hands for something other than violence.

(His devotion will be the death of him, but it will not win him yours.)

You’d liked the routine at first, no matter how cruel—he’d return, sometimes together with you, and you would keep him from dying. It made you feel important, wanted. For a while that was enough, an exchange of mutual interest.

Now he comes home, and every time you find that you are overcome with longing for something you have never encountered.

(An end?)

(… no. Oh god, no.)

You are Sisyphus pushing the rock up a hill, and soon enough his blood is on your hands; his blood which trickles down his pale torso red-hot and much too fast and knocks the air right out of your lungs.

He’s bleeding out over your bathroom sink, and you are helpless against the implication that there will come a day when it does not stop, when all of your needles and gauze will be rendered utterly useless.

Your hand only shakes sometimes, but each time you apologise profusely to Simon, who does not realise you say it for your sake rather than his. Deflection comes easily to you both—which does not mean your heart doesn’t squeeze together in agony a little more when he dismisses your pain with a quip.

“’s not like I was a beauty to begin with.”

“Yeah, well, if I’ve gotta bury you, I’d at least want my handywork to look nice from the coffin,” you joke back weakly, not apologising for the shake in your voice.

“That’s a fuckin’ waste then, love, don’ you think?,” he laughs, and the tightness in his baritone raises the hairs on your arm.

“Really? You don’t want people to gush over how wonderful your burial was, with an open casket and all that bullshit?”

“Won’t ‘ave one,” he shrugs, much too casual for your taste and it has you halting in threading your needle through shredded skin.

“Why not?”

Simond hesitates to answer, and you are almost glad that he doesn’t. Think the painkillers might have finally kicked in, but when he does speak again, it is clear and cut, matter of fact in a manner that causes you to freeze.

“’cause I’ll be cremated, sittin’ in a right pretty tin above your bed,” he sounds almost proud of the sentiment, “Recon I’d be more useful that way.”

You wish you didn’t ask. The bile in your throat is easier to swallow down than the objective truth—there is no version of him that would give up on his life for you; just as there is no version of you that could make him.

So you scoff, tell him: “What the fuck makes you think I’ll keep it?”

If Simon sees right through you, he musters the rare amount of grace not to mention it.

Later, when the painkillers do kick in, you excuse yourself from your own bed to retch into the kitchen sink. Tears obscure your vision as your hands shake too much to find purchase on the counter. You spit bitter bile into the stainless-steel basin and you forget to wash it off the sides before crawling back under sheets too warm for the season.

Fear has made a home in your ribcage for some time now, occupying a space that once held Simon and before him had never been considered empty anyway.

You hold him through the night and ride him in the morning, his face obscured by the crook of your neck, and nothing changes.

The rock rolls back into the valley; the story remains as it always does—his blood on your hands; his blood trickling down his pale torso red-hot and much too fast.

(You want to tell him you are sacred of the ending, but you don’t. He wishes you would.)

[ii]

The sink is thoroughly scrubbed by the time Simon wakes up. Still a little dopey, his eyes crinkle against the mid-day light flooding your kitchen. It’s a good look on him, the repose still lingering in his shoulders.

(You note, immediately, that it is just as unfamiliar. Terrifyingly so. There is no good reason for you to know him like this—even less for you not to. You feels like an intruder in your own home.)

The cup of coffee you hand him has already gone cold.

[iii]

“Wouldn’t even get my urn, would you?”

(War never leaves his shadow; he tears through the silence with the precision of a trained killer. Grabs an end and pulls. You try to wish for something, but he is too fast.)

The tea in your mug has been steeped for too long, the bitterness provoking you to partake in Simon’s attempt at casual cruelty, “Suppose I wouldn’t.”

A grunt emits lazily from the back of his throat. The acknowledgement is all you need to set your cup down on the table and wonder how the fuck you even ended up here. It makes your skin crawl, the way he so carelessly picks your concern apart.

(An attempt to ease your worried mind, you try to not lose sight of that, but it is so ill-mannered and deluded that it creates a sting in your chest. Like you can’t breathe whenever he lies next to you, like you can only breathe when his death is the topic of ridicule.

No, you’ve got that wrong, surely.

As does he.)

“It’d end up with ma’ next of kin,” he adds, looking at you expectantly. His point eludes you despite it. So you add, helpfully;

“It would.”

“Want you to have it instead,” there it is.

You think that is all, that this is about his ashes on your shelf again, so you shake your head in disbelief, grin a little as irritation floods you for a short second.

“I told you: I don’t want it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?,” barking out a laugh, you are cut off by your throat threatening to close up, “That stupid tin belongs with your family, which clearly, I am not. So they’ll be the ones to get it.”

“Wha’ about you then?”

“I’ll be wherever they send me, and I will never hear a thing about your death unless it is by chance, and it’ll be fine.”

Droplets of spit follow the end of your sentence but you are much too fed up to be embarrassed about it. No one knows he’s spent the past year sleeping in your bed, drinking your fucking coffee. The silence festering between you like a nasty infection is more than enough proof that no one ever will know. Wide-eyed, his hands starts drawing shapes on your kitchen table.

You aren’t family, never have been. When he is gone, the only evidence that the two of you existed will be you.

Simon’s chest expands in a way that has you worried he’ll tear out his stitches all at once—sucking in air like he’s preparing to force the words out of his mouth by breath alone. You feel cruel watching him do it so intently.

(The kitchen floor is polished wood; it holds memories. You don’t want to remember him dying here.)

[iv]

“Marry me,” he says, at last. A statement, not a question, made from far behind that skull-plated monstrosity with as much detachment as any of the other pieces of conversation that you have to rip free from his massive frame.

(Spat out at your feet like he had chewed the meat of the words and decided that maybe today, you deserved the bones that even he could not swallow. He looks proud of it, too.

God, you’ve never see him without that mask.)

“Marry me,” he says, and you slap him square across the face.

[v]

You don’t see him until two days later, and he wears too much eyeblack then for you to tell whether you’d done any damage aside from scratching your hand on the cheap Halloween-aisle plastic of his mask.

The urge to stroke across his cheekbone is strong, if only to jab a finger or two into a hopefully cracked bone. The image of him writhing beneath the relentless ministrations of your hand is what you will think about later, alone. When he moves his hand to brush a stray hair from your face, you are already gone. He understands the hint. He does not honour it.

(For all his staring, he never sees you leave. Wistful thinking, perhaps.)

[vi]

He’s not menacing so much as he is just haunting.

(A dead man walking, unsure of where to go. So he lurks around, stays where he feels most comfortable, and it is not the notion of home that draws him in but the familiarity. He does not care that it means he’s simply grown docile towards his wounds. That ripping them open was always for his joy, not yours.

Bitterly, you note that you had liked this about him; in the beginning at least, when you still considered this to be kind.

This—whatever it even is; whatever it was supposed to be.)

[vii]

He corners you by chance, when you are taking your laundry to the washer with whatever strength your body can muster that late into the evening. One might call it impressive, how he moves with a kind of agility no man his size or weight should have, yet you are only agitated at his massive frame blocking your view.

“You’re overreactin’.”

The willpower it takes to bite back the mean laugh bubbling in the back of your throat should earn you at least two medals and a fucking raise. Instead, you are forced to make do with Simon towering over you.

“Apologies start with ‘I’, usually.”

“… ’m trying,” he grunts, and your eyebrows draw together almost as quickly as he admits it. He sounds pleading in your ears, disgustingly so. You distractedly wonder why he doesn’t just look for some doe-eyed rookie to fuck instead, but the genuine sparkle of hope in Simon’s eyes requires most of your focus.

(It isn’t enough; you hope he knows that.)

“Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t you think it’s a shame then? That you try, and this is the best you can do?.”

(You don’t just mean his dogshit attempt at reconvening; you hope he knows that.)

[viii]

If he wanted to threaten you into submission, into forgiving him, he’d do so outright.

(Has done it before, and the way your thighs clench reminds you that you liked it. Liked the way his hand had shoved you face first into the pillow while the other made fast work of bruising your hip. Short and hard; fingers squeezing around your throat until the lack of oxygen made you forget that his monstrosity extends beyond a rough fucking.)

But he just hovers behind you now, as if to catch your gaze by coincidence.

Look at me, it screams, please just fucking look at me.

You make it a point not to.

[ix]

“You look lovely today.”

The trick is old, but Simon refuses to learn new ones. You know how this goes by heart: he pretends to be nice to you, and you fall for the bait—not the compliment that is, but the invitation to get angry at him.

(By now you are aware that it is just a game to him. Gets rid of your scorching anger, the one he thinks is a joke anyways, to make way for his cock shoved deep inside you between dirty rags and a stinking mop.)

Your back is turned reflexively towards him to mask the expression of vitriol that flits across the planes of your face as his tone registers in your ears.

The cadence in which he talks sounds off, strained. Raw and raspy in a way you have hardly ever heard from him. Motherfucker.

He has the gall to sound tortured.

“Didn’t mean it, a’right?,” he tries again, different tactic this time, but the hope remains. You cannot recall when he had been so shy, so soft, last. Like ancient parchment about to rip. Like a bomb about to blow.

Didn’t mean what? Demanding you marry him at the off chance that his pathetic mortal remains might get a top-shelf view watching you have a wank after he perishes in some off-the-records campaign?

You don’t want to have this conversation, not when he pretends that it isn’t is fault you are in this position in the first place.

He’ll just fuck you and consider that enough of an apology. You will let him and neither of you will feel any less guilty.

(You want to scream, and cry, and tell him that he is just as hopeless as you are because how else would you even begin to describe what you feel for him if not as the dreadful absence of hope; and you don’t. There is no way out—no story in which the rock will not tumble down some other hill again, even if you manage to cross this one. His ashes are the shape of your likeness. You like to think you’ll toss them somewhere quite before they collect too much dust.

Had he asked you in the beginning, you would have said yes, doesn’t he know? You would have said yes.)

You sigh, washed out and weary to your bones.

“Move, Ghost.”

He flinches at his callsign, and you file away this memory, too, like all the ones of him recoiling from a different sensation.

You look at this sorry excuse of a man as you leave and you say nothing more.

[x]

(You know what comes next.)

[xi]

He sits at the edge of your bed with his hands uselessly dangling over his lap, waiting. His feet are planted to the ground perfectly parallel, a degree of accuracy he usually fails to exercise when he leaves his boots next to your door.

(One of the laces is flaked with rust-coloured dots. He still wears them inside the house. You’re not sure there ever was a moment when he took them off.)

Rigid back, steel-spine; the painful strain right beneath his shoulder blades doesn’t deter Ghost—your doorstep is the only place he dares lay down. Simon does not move.

[xii]

Dogs that bite get put down, and he thinks this is your way of breaking the news to him.

Given all the times he should have died in this place, Simon should have guessed sooner that you’d abandon him when it came down to it. He does not resent you for it.

He only resents you a little.

(Even dead, even dying, he still wags his tail at the noise of a key jingling before being put into a lock. It’s just the neighbour.)

[xiii]

You don’t come home that night.

(Or any other night.)

a/n: not proof-read or edited, parts of this i am not happy with but fuck it, for something that was made in almost its entirety at two in the morning this isn’t too bad. also fun fact, the numerals can be rearranged in almost any order and still make sense :) i think

#bri writes #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #cod x you #simon ghost riley x gender neutral reader #simon riley x gender neutral reader #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fanfiction #modern warfare fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon riley call of duty #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2

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dawns-beauty · 1 day

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Mod Organizer 2 and some handy plugins for it

I'm sure you guys know about the existence of MO2, but I still want to talk about my favorite features from it and the extra plugins for it that I love. It's not the most exciting mod topic, but the QoL improvements make up for that, imo.

If you're interested in trying it out, gamerpoets has a great setup tutorial, and even more tutorials on how to set up SKSE, CK, SSE Edit and more with it.

So, MO2 has a really nifty feature of showing you when loose files have a conflict (or are completely overwritten) with a little lightning bolt symbol next to the mod name.

Symbols left to right: Winning Conflict; Losing Conflict; Completely Overwritten

If you click the lightning bolt, a window showing two list ('Winning file conflicts' and 'Losing file conflicts') will pop up, showing the name of the mod it's conflicting with, and the conflicting file names.

From this list, you can right-click a file to go back to its source mod, or you can also choose to 'hide' the file from the mod you clicked on. This function adds a '.mohidden' after the file type, basically making the file invisible without deleting it, in case you change your mind later.

If the file is a texture, you can click on the file name and view the textures that are conflicting.

The other files you can't natively view, so this is where some plugins come in:

MO2 also has a nifty Profile system that lets you have multiple separate mod lists you can swap between (which is insanely helpful for figuring out mod issues, btw.)

To use these next two mods, you need to click the puzzle piece icon and click their names to run them.

Personally, I like keeping my orders synced for the most part and just activating what mods I need, so I recommend this plugin:

(Kezyma has made even more MO2 plugins you might find helpful)

So, MO2 two mod orders: the left side which is the mod files themselves and the right side, your plugins. It is pretty easy for the mod files and plugins to get out of order (which usually isn't a big deal, but it annoys me), so I suggest using this one:

For those who want even more organization, you can create separators, which you can expand and collapse and drag mods in and out of, to make scrolling your LO easier.

There are several mods for pre-made separators, I based my own separators loosely on this one:

If you have the Anniversary Edition, your CC plugins will not be automatically manageable with MO2. This plugin will help you with that, so if you want you can deactivate unused creations:

(you will need to run the tool, you can find it under the puzzle piece icon)

Another thing you may not know about the UI is that you can change the theme to something kinder on the eyes. You can find the options under:

Tools [wrench and screwdriver icon, next to puzzle pieces] -> Themes

There are already quite a few to pick from (ranging from simple colors, to paper, to a Skyrim themed UI, with even more choices on the Nexus.

Right: Default (with custom separators), Left: Skyrim

For modders who have issue compiling scripts in CK with MO2: this app has been a lifesaver for me:

And finally, while just a aesthetics thing, I like this splash screen replacer (there are others on the Nexus, but I'm a fan of the Sovngarde font:)

#skyrim #skyrim mods #mod recs #sorry idk how vortex works and i probably never will because mo2 is love mo2 is life #and if you're still using NMM for some reason... please consider mo2. it lets you actually rearrange your files without reinstalling.#plus it doesn't break mods/mod installs

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luvfy0dor · 3 days

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Hiya! How're you? Congrats for 600! You're an awesome writer and you deserve every one and more! For the event, may I please request 'Spiderman kisses' with Fyodor and Sigma (If you do gendered readers, male preferably but I'll go with GN too if that's easier!). For details... I have two (if you don't mind). 1. I want Reader to be the one initiating the kisses, please! And 2. Let's say Reader doesn't have an ability. Instead, he manages to hang upside down is because bro just chills in the cramped-ass ceiling vents system and he knocks down ceiling plates all the time to drop down into rooms from the ceiling as opposed to using the door like a normal person LOLZ-. Feel free to decline if not suited to your tastes, bye-byeee!

Sigma and Fyodor + Spiderman Kisses ♡

Warnings; might make you feel a little lightheaded, it made me feel that way lol

Sigma ★

Walking the halls at night in the aerial casino became one of Sigmas least favorite things when you wiggled your way into the ceiling and vents. You had popped out of no where one too many times for his liking, always giving him a mini-heart attack. He was walking back to his office when he heard the faint sound of thumping up in the vents. It was so quiet and minute that he almost thought a chipmunk had crawled up in there instead of his boyfriend, but when one of the tiles was popped out, he was proven wrong. "Sigma!" You said quietly, happy to see him but unwilling to disturb the visitors in the rooms throughout the hallway. "Ah, y/n, I was looking for you. Are you headed to bed?" He asks, those pretty grey eyes staring up at you. "Not yet, I don't think so. Not unless that's where you're going?" You respond, situating yourself so that you torso is hanging upside down from the ceiling with your legs keeping you from falling. "No, I'm going to my office for a little while longer, but I'll be back in the room soon." He gives you a smile that you return. "Alright, but before you go, I've missed you all day long." You say, cupping his cheek and leaning closer to him. "I haven't had a kiss yet today, you know that?" You laugh, to which he blushes and chuckles under his breath, letting you pull him in and kiss him. He didn't really know where to put his hands since your position was inverted from the usual standing, but he decided the back of your head was the way to go. He felt his nose press against your chin as he kissed your bottom lip, and your nose bump against his. He hummed into the affectionate action, his hand trailing up to caress the nape of your neck quickly before he pulled away. His breath was slightly shaky and his heart rate increased as he looked into your eyes. "Okay, I'll see you later!" You crawled back up into the ceiling and went on with your past times up there. He watched you disappear and smiled before heading off. Suddenly, having you pop out of nowhere every now and again wasn't that bad.

Fyodor ★

Fyodor knew if he needed to find you during hours at the DOA hq, there was no specific of guaranteed spot you would be. He'd have to find you hanging out of one of the cramped, tight vents somewhere by luck. He found it both confusing and interesting that you willingly hung up there all day, but each time he thought about it he understood just a little bit more. The silence and peacefulness of alone time away from interaction could be very enjoyable, especially if it was combined with a good book. He walked through the halls with his cape flowing behind him. With each room he walked by, he glanced inside for any sign of his lover. "Y/n? Where are you?" He calls out to you, listening afterwards for any rustling or thumping above his head. "Hmm..." He thought to himself, heading to the furthest room down the corridor and walking inside to find you hanging out of the vent. "Oh, I don't recall having found you in here before, darling." He says, drawing your attention. You lift your book from your eyes and smile at him. "Yeah, I realized I hadn't hung over here yet so I figured I'd try it. Not like it'd be massively different." You reply, watching him walk closer to you. "Is it time to leave?" He nods with a small smile of amusement. "Yes, it's best we head home now rather than walking through the dark later." You stare at him while he speaks, entranced by his beauty, even after a stressful day dealing with a clown and a naive manager. "Okay...you know, I always want to kiss you like this, but you never take the hint." You whisper, reaching out and brushing his hair behind his ear with a small pout. He hums and gently holds your hand over his cheek and leans in closer. "Well then, maybe you should have been more direct." You huff with an eye roll and pull him in, connecting the two of by the lips in a passionate kiss. Your thumb caresses his cheekbone and you can feel him sigh quietly. You quickly pull away when you feel your body start to heat up, hurrying to get yourself out of the vents before you loose your balance and fall on your head in front of Fyodor. "Hah...I shouldn't need to be more direct if you're as smart as you make yourself out to be." You say, slithering back up into the metal tunnel to backtrack your way out. "Maybe I just wanna hear it from your lips, Myshka? Is that so bad of me?" He grins and you feel yourself do the same. You definetly didn't think that was all too bad now.

A/n; Thank you so so much for the compliments and request!!! 💖💖 this was super duper cute, it just made me feel a little dizzy while writing it, but I wish I could hang out if vents like that thats so cool ^^

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just-late-roman-republic-things · 2 days

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Math, Roman Style

It's a lot of math involved in governing ancient Rome. First you gotta subtract all these voter bribes from your coffers to get yourself a consulship, then rig the lots to multiply your chance of getting a sweet, sweet province like Macedonia. No sooner are you done adding up the loot you extorted from the provincials, then you gotta divide it among the jury prosecuting you for the crimes you 100% committed. And to make it all worse, you have to do it all in Roman numerals!

MMLXVI + DCCXIX = PAIN

But never fear! The Romans found ways to work with their wacky numbers. Pretty damn cool ways, too. I promise you don't need any math skills for this post.

Let's recap the Roman numerals real quick:

I = 1

V = 5

X = 10

L = 50

C = 100

D = 500

M = 1000

If a smaller number comes after a bigger number, like in XII, you add them: 10+1+1 = 12. If the smaller number comes before the big number, you subtract it: IX = 10-1 = 9.

The trick to math with Roman numerals is that you don't write them out for equations the way you would with Arabic numerals. Instead, you put them on a counting board:

In Arabic numerals, each column is worth ten times as much as the one to its right. The same applies here. M is worth 1000, C is worth 100, X is worth 10, and I is worth 1. You mark how many units are in each column by putting pebbles on them. Since groups of 7-9 pebbles get hard to read quickly, the Romans also had half-columns worth 500, 50, and 5.

On the counting board above, we have two 1000s, one 500, one 100, four 100s, one 5, and three 1s. Added together, that's 2,648. To add or subtract, you just add or remove pebbles from the board. In fact, the Latin word calculus (hence "calculate") originally meant little pebble.

But what if those devious provincials flip your board over when you try to extort - ahem, tax them? Could you have a counting board in your hand?

Hell yeah you can.

That's an abacus, baby! (Or a replica, at least.) Here's how it works:

The pebbles are now built-in. Instead of adding or removing them from the board, you flip them up or down to indicate if they're "on."

The 5, 50, 500, etc. columns have been moved upward, and can only be on or off.

Instead of M - which only appeared for 1000 in medieval times - this abacus uses the older notation system of putting (parentheses) around a numeral for 1000, 10,000, and 100,000, or a |box| for "x100,000." The "M" on the far left is probably a muddled |X|.

Ignore the two rightmost columns for now, we'll return to them later.

If you're Japanese, this might remind you of the soroban, an abacus still used for math today:

Let's try reading this thing!

I've decided to read it soroban-style, so beads moved toward the center bar get counted. That gives us:

One 5 million

Two 1-million

One 500,000

One 100,000

One 50,000

One 100

Two 10s

Two 1s

= 7,650,122

However, scholars disagree on the exact method the Romans would have used. And some of the beads are only sort of up, so you might interpret the number differently. That's okay; this is just an example.

Incidentally, this is also why Europe went for so long without a numeral for 0. If you're using an abacus, "0" is represented, just by setting all the beads to the "off" position. If you're writing the number down, you just write "none."

The really cool thing is that you can do more than add and subtract with an abacus. You can also multiply, divide, and find square and cube roots. And those weird columns on the right are a uniquely Roman tool, to handle Roman measurements.

The basic copper coin in Roman currency was the as, which was then divided into 12ths (unciae), not 10ths. The Roman foot (length) and pound (weight) also divided into 12 unciae, which is where we get the words "inch" and "ounce." So the rightmost column is in base 12, to make math easier.

These 12ths could then be divided into 1/2s, 1/4s, or 1/12s again. The 2, 1 and 1 beads in the second-right column let you divide the 1/12s as small as 1/24, 1/48, or 1/144. A Roman abacus lets you do (limited) fractional math!

Once you've worked out the result, the columns are easy to translate back into Roman numerals. Then you stick this gadget back in your tunic, because it's quite small - literally a "pocket calculator."

My favorite thing about abacuses is that you get a concrete feeling for how numbers relate to each other, rather than just memorizing abstract symbols and multiply/divide tables. I've been using a Soroban app to practice, and it's actually pretty fun!

#jlrrt essays #math #roman math #roman numerals #abacus #counting board

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platonic-soulmates-gencest · 3 days

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okay so hear me out on this one. samndean get into a real shitty situation, right. and they're both pretty young. and john's out, and sam's bleeding a bit. and dean, with his limited knowledge of first aid, is like 'oh shit he needs a transplant, how do I do that though?' and he fucking. slices himself open and has little sammy suck blood out of him, and he kinda looks like he's nursing like a newborn would, and maybe dean gets a little feral over that, and maybe years later sam feeds from ruby and thinks of his dead brother. or like whatever idc

Thank you for the ask! This brought me many thoughts. And I think I went a bit overboard with this (it turned into a short ficlet) but hope you enjoy it.

Dean can go from eerily calm to panic mode in the short time of 2 milliseconds. And there's nothing that makes the transition faster than Sammy being hurt. It's like the alarm system in Dean's mind gets triggered and won't stop ringing if Sammy isn't okay again. Eight years of this and Dean knows it will never stop ringing for his little brother's pain.

It was an accident. Dad had been gone a week now and Sam wouldn't stop pestering Dean about how bored he was. That triggered an alarm in Dean's mind too. He had different alarms for each of Sammy's sad moods. But the one ringing for Sammy's pain was always louder.

He had agreed to take Sam to the park, despite the danger of anyone seeing them out alone. Dean had learnt the hard way that a twelve year old wasn't considered old enough to take care of an eight year old. And he couldn't let anyone take Sammy away from him. But it would just be half an hour. No harm done.

Then Sammy fell off the swing. No, fell was an understatement, he flew off the swing. Dean went from "anxious about someone taking Sammy away" to "ALARM, SAMMY IS HURT" in a moment.

Blood run down Sam's knees and palms. Dean gave a silent prayer that his head was safe and carried him on his back all the way to the motel, at a running pace.

Sam must have noticed how uneven Dean's breathing was and whispered reassurances. It's just bruises, Dean. I'm fine, Dean. It doesn't hurt that much. All lies of course. Sam cried all the way to the motel.

Dean had Sam sit on the bed and run to the first aid kit. His hands trembled but he knew he had to stay calm for Sammy.

Stop the bleeding. Disinfect. Bandage.

Dean repeated the motions both in his head and in reality, fighting to regain his calm.

When the bleeding had stopped and Dean had bandaged all of Sam's wounds, Dean finally breathed a little easier. At least until he looked up at Sam's face and saw how pale his baby brother was.

No. No. No. He lost too much blood. Dean had to do something. He couldn't go to a hospital. Not without their dad. He should call dad. But dad hadn't picked up the phone in the last two days.

Dean cradled little Sammy in his arms, his mind racing to find a solution. Sam lost blood. Sam needs blood. Sam and Dean have the same blood, because they are family. Dean could give Sam his blood. Dean needed to give Sam his blood. How could he give Sam his blood?

"Dean?" Sam said, big wide eyes on display.

"It's okay, Sammy. I've got you." Dean smiled for Sam's benefit but he still didn't know how to help his baby brother.

"I'm okay, Dean."

"No, you aren't. You need blood." Then Dean remembered that Sam was the smart one. "Say, Sammy, how can I get my blood in your body?"

"Huh?" Sam frowned but considered the question solemnly. "I could drink it...?"

Dean's eyes widened. Why hadn't he thought of that? He leaned down and gave a big sloppy kiss to Sam's forehead.

"You are a genius, Sammy."

Dean didn't hesitate at all as he sliced open his palm and made Sam lick it.

Dean loved the sensation. Sammy's mouth firmly attached to Dean's palm and suckling. Dean refused to accept how much it reminded him of those first restless nights after the fire when Sam didn't have a pacifier and was hungry and Dean had tried to breastfeed him. Sam had suckled on Dean's nipple for hours even if nothing had come out.

Milk he couldn't make, but blood he had so much. He would give it all to Sammy in a heartbeat.

***

Dean only learned that blood transplants didn't work like that years later.

Sam never voiced how much he loved suckling Dean's hand or how he didn't mind the taste of blood.

Dad never found out. No matter how many times the boys did it. It became more of a comfort thing for them than a practicality.

They never did it again after Stanford.

Sam had almost forgotten about it until Dean went to hell and Sam wanted to lean back to the comfort his brother provided.

He hadn't meant to start on the demon blood. But the motion helped soothe him. He would suck on Ruby's forearm and remember Dean. He would suck straight from her throat and he would remember Dean. He missed him. He missed his brother. And the suckling helped. The blood helped. He could pretend it was Dean, even if Ruby's blood never brought the comfort Dean's did.

But he could pretend.

The Dean came back and Sam had to fight tooth and nail to stop himself from slicing open Dean's skin and sucking him dry.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted. But he didn't. The demon blood raced inside him. He couldn't let Dean find out.

Then Dean found out.

Sam ached for it but he couldn't drink. He couldn't let Dean down again. So he sliced his own arms and sucked on them. It helped ease the urge.

Then Dean saw him. Then Dean broke.

Then Sam got Dean's sliced wrists and fingers thrust in his mouth. To help with the rehabilitation.

Sam never told Dean how this would become an even bigger obsession. Because Sam might have been an addict of demon blood but he had never craved it like he craved the comfort Dean's blood provided.

Sam got over the demon blood. He never got over suckling Dean's sliced open palm.

And Dean never stopped him.

(That's it! Hope I fueled your headcanon a little bit!)

//and I'm always open for headcanon asks anytime for all of you who want to see more of mommy Dean//

#gencest #samdean #weirdcest #mother dean winchester #mommy dean monday #spn fanfic #wincest #Technically this could also be wincest although I didn't write with that in mind xD #anon ask #mommy dean headcanons

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doodlinge · 11 hours

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my writing tips, that i think people will find useful:

- write dialogue first and THEN make a scene around it.

i like to do this sometimes for multiple reasons. first, if you’re in a flow of good ideas, getting dialogue done will be a future GAME CHANGER. you don’t have to be stuck fussing over little word choices because you just do it when you have a good idea, and it works! fuss over it now, save time for descriptions later. second, the characters you’re writing usuuallly wont be able to read eachother’s minds. we people do everything by communication and talking! so, map out what you want your scene to look like through dialogue! i like to do mine as a screenplay or movie script, so that way i can ensure that the characters are speaking Like Real People (tm). and THEN I READ IT OUTLOUD >:)

- map out your chapters before you start to write. seriously, do it.

so, personally, my favorite part of fanfiction and writing is the planning stage. and i like doing it on paper, but we’ll get into that after this. first, you get the idea, the spark in your brain that could make an AMAZING story, comic, or au. that’s the general premise to work off of! write that down, if you need. next, do a VERY rough draft of what you want to happen—specifically, the 3 main points of your story: the beginning event, the middle event or climax, and the ending event, or your point A, B, and C. work off of and build up (or build down) from each of these core events of your story, planning the small events that lead up to The Big Guy (or B). these ideas or premises for each leading event can and probably will be VERY, VERY rough, but once you’ve got the rough idea of what will probably happen done, you can get to work on MORE PLANNING (sorry guys. learn to enjoy it)

- PLANNING PART TWO BABY WOOO (plan out your chapters. and if it doesnt work when you’re writing it, that’s okay!)

this is what you will do before you write your chapters, that works for me way better than just going in with no plan. personally, when i started to write the fic i’m currently writing, i mapped out all the rough details that i want to happen in the climax chapter of my story, because most people find the middle the hardest part. since i already had an rough idea of what would have happened before the climax with my previous planning stage, i already was able to connect how all of the buildup would lead into the climax of the story pretty easily. every action in your story will have a consequence, big or small, and that all will lead up to your protagonist bursting into tears or the main couple confessing their love or the final, epic battle between the protagonist and antagonist! if, when you’re writing, the rough idea you had just isn’t working out, you can either a: redo it completely if it’s a huge problem, or b (my favorite): work around it in the moment and improvise. i ended up making my fic’s climax way better just because of the extra scenes i added in while writing, but since i had my original plan to work off of, everything was a lot easier.

- make every scene with a motive to accomplish

most people know this one, but i thought it was good to add in. whether it’s to flesh out the world around your characters with fun and shenanigans or to give the audience a little more insight into a character who will be useful in the future, every scene and every chapter should have a purpose. when people act, they also like to give their characters motivations, and for a while, i wasn’t sure how that could connect. however, now i understand. let’s say a character is trying to motivate another one to be brave and face their fears, but character a is actually only interested in their own interests. character a’s motivation is to be self-serving—they’re not as concerned with helping character b, but instead, they want to help themself. this shows a lot about character a! when you have a purpose for every story beat and a motive for each character, it can help you flesh out the character much better.

- show don’t tell (and what i interpret that as)

okay, so for a while, i had NO idea what show don’t tell even meant. i LOVE writing about my character’s thoughts, their interests, their perspectives on what’s going on around them. character analysis is one of the best parts, for me! but there are ways to show what a character is thinking without the use of heavy description. for example, take this part from the fic i’m currently working on right now:

the character i’m writing for had not mentioned her mom the entire chapter, but when you go back and analyze her character throughout it, you can see major hints that part of why she who she is stems from her trauma with her mother. when she connects to an older adult female figure and feels understood, the issues she has are shown and not told, clear as day. by using dialogue and trusting your audience to connect the dots about your characters, you can make a better-written story! remember motivations; sometimes, characters don’t even know they have the motivations that they do, and the audience has to figure it out based on context clues. leave room for intrigue and mystery! think; if you were this character in this situation feeling the way they felt, what would you do? what would you say? why would you say it, and what would that reveal about you?

- write one story beat per day and WRITE ON PAPER

the word count, for me, doesn’t matter. if the quality of your writing is good, and the pacing gives audiences room to breathe, then that’s enough! quality over quantity, in my opinion. if you’re not up for writing, PLAN CHAPTERS! plan scenes, plan events! plan dialogue, make it fun! that is writing too. for me, when i have the planning done, i go with the One Story Beat Per Day Rule. if you get one small event done each time you write, you’ll be finishing The Big Event you wanted to accomplish in no time. and if you’re in the middle of a big story beat and you just need a break, i’d say to take one…. and later, come back with a notebook and a pen and think. paper has helped me write better because the flow of thought just keeps going when i’m focused, and i think it might work for a lot of people.

- remember, YOU CAN DO THIS! MAKE IT FUN!

writing and finishing stuff is really, really hard. but if you get one small thing done for the characters in your story, comic or au each day… you’ll eventually have an amazing, finished story. make it fun for yourself. listen to music, act out the scripts, use color theory, analyze your characters and don’t make it a chore! every small step contributes to getting to the top. make something you will love to write, and that you will love to read. make something for yourself, because in the end, if you enjoy it, the audiences will enjoy it.

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tianhai03 · 2 years

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hey everyone sorry for the silence, i was trying very hard to catch up with school work that i didnt manage to hand in on time. anyway i made a full body 3d model of my oc lucifer for a digital sculpting assignment :)

i posted a lot of the making process of this on twitter and i’ve also compiled everything into a moment that you can find here! go take a look if youre interested in watching me and lucifer suffer <3

(and also bonus dmc5 render looking pic of him bc a friend asked me to do it as a joke. my son is a dmc5 character now)

#he took abt 1 month and half to finish bc not only was i new to modeling and sculpting humans i also kept procrastinating lmao #i learned a lot though! and despite almost having multiple mental breakdowns over this it was fun #it was always a dream of mine to make my own 3d model of an oc so this is literally a dream come true im very happy for lucifer #i'll definitely be doing more with his model in the future; im planning to optimize it (bc the polycount is like. 8mil) and then rig it #so i can make him do all sorts of cool poses. maybe even mod him into some games. like idk. dmc5. who knows #anyway thats all from me for this week im fucking tired and i need to rest. i literally stayed up to 2am for two days just to finish him lol #i'll go back to posting art soon hopefully </3 #my ocs #lucifer(oc)#how should i tag this so i can find him easier in the future...#lucifer becomes 3d #yea ok there we go i'll just use that. if i ever post any more 3d stuff with him i'll use that tag lmao #okay now lucifer's gonna hibernate for 3 months after the suffering i put him through and im gonna go back to drawing. see u guys later <3

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elgaravel · 4 months

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okay jasper brainrot again

#i need to replay soon but i can't stop thinking abt how felix and mason are like. the first people that jasper ever feels truly #comfortable around. i think it probably comes first and easier with felix given his personality and jasper just feels really drawn towards #it. knowing there's something 'off' abt all of them from the beginning but hardly ever feeling human themselves so taking it in stride and #enjoying it above all bc it makes them feel more at ease #and the situationship with mason. they care soooo deeply about him but don't rly fall in love with him until a little later on than the #books describe. they see him as a friend first and just find his personality (beyond the prickliness) so refreshing and comforting bc he rl #doesn't care what the others think and just kinda deals with everything as it comes and doesn't bother trying to live in denial #just him being like “yeah okay. i love you.” and it not being a super big conflicting ordeal is really touching to them despite their own #inner conflict #idk!!! just ub being their found family (despite probably never truly repairing their relationship with rebecca) makes me so :')#i wrote wayyy more than i intended jfkdslfj i forgot how much they mean to me 😭

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elektroyu · 2 months

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Spent the last 2 days programming a cute lil website for my kinda-sorta-comic projects, just because I feel it could help with inspiration. Which I think it DOES, judging from what's going on in my head rn, but now there are more important things I have to do so it's a bit of a waste to have to let all of this potential-idea energy go 😂 Hopefully it'll work in the future without me first spending 2 days programming stuff tho lol.

#random stuff #mura's voice #feline fabric #however I think I'll go back to where I had Sann in MV originally before I threw her out #it just makes a lot of things easier plot wise #at least in the beginning #idk I need a lot of time building focus for these things #and this website making thing does the job beautifully for some reason #also maybe I can use all of this later at some point #especially with what's happening to the internet it can't hurt to have all of my stuff accessible in one place that's easy to find #website

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biromantic-nerd · 1 year

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I think representation in characters is so funny bc some people are like "I'm [rep] and that is the WORST rep I've ever seen" and some people are like "I'm [rep] and this rep is so important to me this is exactly my experience"

and by funny I mean no character is going to match every single person's experience simultaneously. Someone might criticize a character for being a stereotype and someone else might recognize themselves in that portrayal. And vice versa, etc, and so on and on forth.

#literally i hate what the show Monk does to Monk - sets the audience up to laugh at him #but i LOVE Monk #first character with OCD i've ever seen and he made my life easier just by existing #i love him #absolutely hate watching the later seasons of the show though bc they don't even pretend anymore #that the show isn't about shoving him into situations that distress him #and it's not framed as upsetting. it's framed as comical. look at how ~weird~ his OCD is. our main autistic character with OCD.#like bruh you MADE that character.#anyways i did not vote for Monk in a poll #and i thought it was interesting bc i saw a tag about not liking him #(hi myth 💕)#but i DO like him #don't like his writers though :( they deliberately try to make him ~cringey~ for neurotypical people and it's like okay thanks #i still like him.#he is not exactly my experience #no i WISH i had a helper my life would be sooo much better off i really do need a helper #watching it and finding one solution for an issue i had was like - i don't even care how ableist this show is. this show helped me.#a real life person.#like you can say what you want about bad rep not being better than no rep but i thought it was good rep since it HELPED me.#HE was good rep. the show was bad at framing it bc they wanted you to laugh at him. hope that makes sense.#anyways.#Monk ily. sorry i never kept watching bc i couldn't bear to see anymore of the situations they were putting you in.#i could not reblog the poll with my Monk tags without letting this go. I know I voted for Dirk but I do love Monk but I hate his writers

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sage-nebula · 1 year

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I've written about Tails' backstory before, so now I'm thinking about Sonic's. Unlike Tails, I think that Sonic's parents are still alive. They just don't want anything to do with him.

It's nothing personal, exactly. It's just—you know how some people think that life has given them a checklist they have to follow, like, graduate, get married, have kids? That's what his parents did. They were pretty young still, just barely adults, and they had a kid because that's just what people do. They grow up, fall in love, get married, have kids. That's another milestone checked off, they're making great progress.

Except as often happens in these situations, these two hedgehogs weren't cut out to be parents. Or maybe they could have been decent parents to a normal kid, but Sonic is not and has never been a normal kid.

To say that he was a little hell raiser is an understatement. All kids are energetic and like to get into things, but he was energetic and liked to get into things with super speed, which his parents very decidedly did not have. Who knows how or why their child was born with super speed, certainly not them, but they weren't equipped to handle it. The house was a mess every single day. He was constantly running—literally running, as soon as he could walk or run upright—off. And after a couple years of this, his exhausted and stressed out young parents were like, okay, you know what? If he wants to Get Gone so badly, he can Go. That's fine with them.

So what they did was, they took him to South Island. He was maybe four? And they dropped him off there and were like, go on! Have fun! And Sonic, being four and full of energy after a really boring boat ride, took off immediately. Just sped off into Green Hill Zone. And his parents looked at each other.

"If he's not back in fifteen minutes we're legally allowed to leave, right?" his dad asked.

"I don't think so," his mom said, "but no one's around to see it, so . . ."

So they left. And sometimes they felt guilty about it and wondered what happened to him, especially when news broke of Dr Robotnik attacking the island. But mostly, they were just very relieved to no longer have a kid to worry about.

Of course, Sonic's exploits would make the news over time. Sonic remembered that his name was Sonic, even though he didn't really remember his parents, so his name was the same and they would have recognized him anyway. There aren't many blue hedgehogs the exact age of their abandoned child with super speed, after all. But while they low-fived each other on producing a child that ended up being a world-renowned hero . . . they also had no desire to make contact again. If anything, he's even more of a little hellion now. They have enough common sense to know that trying to parent him would do nothing but cause them an immense amount of stress and financial strain. Also, he's fine! He's a hero! Clearly he has done just fine without them, they have no reason to feel guilty anymore. And if they run into him in Station Square, no they didn't, they're very pointedly looking in the other direction.

Not that it matters. He barely remembers them. And they aren't wrong that he doesn't need parents; he was happy to explore South Island, and when he went back to where they were and found them and the boat gone, his immediate reaction was, "Cool, now I get to run around some more!" figuring they'd be back at some point. And then they weren't . . . but the flickies and rickies helped him find food, and he was able to find shelter, and the loop-de-loops were REALLY fun to race around on, so . . . it was fine. If anything, now that he didn't have someone always telling him "no" and "stop" and "go sit in Time Out for the tenth time today for breaking yet another thing with your super speed" he was much happier.

So although Sonic wouldn't recognize them either, if he did . . . he would also look in the other direction, not wanting them to see him. Lots of avoided eye contact here. And his parents probably did not have any other children, because what if they turned out like Sonic? They couldn't take that risk, and living the Dual Income, No Kids life suited them much better anyway.

So that's the story. His parents are alive . . . somewhere . . . and they are steadfastly pretending they never had a kid, what, you must have mixed them up with someone else (though their genes together could produce a superhero just saying they know it's true but don't ask them how they know this). And Sonic doesn't remember what happened to his parents, and that's fine by him. Tails is the only family he needs, anyway.

#sonic the hedgehog #Christmas Island is no longer Sega canon so I can just happily ignore it #but if you want you can imagine he was still born there and then just abandoned on South Island when he was four #that's fine too #fic fix #not really but that will make it easier to find if I ever need it for smth later #anyway he got put in Time Out a LOT #like he'd get put in Time Out #then bc he was a wee one & full of energy & short attn span he'd leave early #& then would get yelled at & put back in Time Out AGAIN for even LONGER #. . . his parents were not good parents tbh. probably for the best they abandoned him #sth

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