#Wrote this a week ago

[sillyzombiedelusion]

To start with, Theon is a bad guy, but more importantly, a boring character. I actually stopped reading the books because of him (because the books were suddenly like, "here's what Theon's doing", and I was like, "the fuck? Who is that? I never heard that name before in my life. I better watch the TV show so I have faces to help me remember").

This doesn't make him a bad character, this means you personally weren't interested in him, which isn't a universal constant you can claim 💀

You could certainly do something with his split loyalties and bad decisions, but the TV show never made me interested. His choices never felt driven by his inner conflict, just by him being stupid and greedy.

So you didn't examine his character's nuance? Or the fact that someone being "stupid and greedy" doesn't make them uninteresting??

But then, and this is crucial, he has the worst redemption arc possible. First of all he kills two kids. We later learn that these kids were not actually the main characters we thought they were and the show treats it as if that made it okay, but no, it doesn't. And then he gets captured and horrifically tortured and mutilated and eventually gets released. Throughout this he barely makes any decision, nor does he ever give the impression that he might reconsider his actions. The show treats it as redemption, but he doesn't seem to have learned anything other than "Boltons are bad". The way he interacts with Sansa's storyline, portrayed as the hero even though he does almost nothing to actually help her, is particularly egregious.

I mean if you actually read the book you would have a better understanding of theon's character arc, but apparently you decided he was too boring 💀

I don't personally love theon's development throughout the show, but claiming that theon didn't show any remorse for his actions or help sansa is an unusual reach. He doesn't "make any decisions" except for, you know, killing miranda and deciding to help sansa escape winterfell. He's also... been tortured to the point that his mental state has almost completely detiorated.

(Not that Sansa's storyline was all that great to begin with, it took way too long for her to become a politician who proudly has her enemies murdered. That should have happened at least a year or two earlier.)

Not even gonna analyze this, this is just wrong.

Now you might say, isn't that literally the same exact redemption arc as Jaime, who is a great character who everybody loves? Yes, that is true, with one key difference: Jaime has charisma and charm, and he seems actually affected by what's happening to him. Not just in an "ouch ouwie ouch" way, but it genuinely makes him think and reconsider, and his relationship with Brienne is genuinely fun and interesting in a way that the few moments Sansa and Theon share absolutely aren't.

Once again this is your personal opinion and not a universal constant. Also you just admitted the thing huh 💀 "a redemption arc isn't valid unless I personally find the character charming" is really your whole argument here. Also, it's insane to me how you appear to be going almost completely off of show canon, but somehow insist that jaime is better than theon because he "actually changes".

Theon sucks. Theon deserved worse than what happened to him. Theon is boring, his redemption is completely unearned and also boring, and the pains and tribulations on his way to his redemption are also boring and annoying. I watched all of the last season and I still think Theon is my least favourite part of the show (mostly because there's no way to pretend that his story wasn't canon and doesn't count). Fuck Theon. Vote Zuko!

"I find this character boring so he is actually a horrible person and horribly written, and this cannot possibly just be my own personal opinion".

[thewhimsyjaxcenteral]

Hearing Vincent Benitez say “I am what God made me” felt like what hearing Born This Way by Lady Gaga for the first time should’ve felt like

[essektheylyss]

I really am not gonna get over Keyleth/Verin as a ship because like, they are WILDLY compelling for having come out of nowhere:

Verin will at the very least live another six hundred years, and is quite possibly functionally immortal via consecution.

They can commiserate about being thrust into the responsibility of commanding a force against extraplanar existential threats at a young age due to the (temporary) death of a parent in the role before them. This really does feel like a two nickels situation, if I'm being honest.

What are air magic and graviturgy if not different methods of achieving the same effect?

He's even a dramatic, long-haired goth with a complicated relationship with a fate deity and, if we're being honest, mommy AND daddy issues. Look at his Netherdeep art. Don't tell me Vax wouldn't approve.

I cannot bring myself to classify this as a crack ship because it is genuinely, bizarrely compelling in character.

[nerdsandbabyteeth]

[mymessyfandomlibrary]

The Hand That Feeds

Featuring; Sevika x AFAB!Reader

Rating; 18+

Other Notes; Mutual pining, strangers to kinda-friends to 'yeah, we fuckin' -> Porn with plot. This was a gift that I wrote for a friend's birthday. I already shared it with them and got good feedback, so, I'm unleashing it to Tumblr.

Content Warnings; Smut, reader is AFAB, if you don't like the nickname 'princess' my condolences. Smut won't be until the second NSFW banner.

Word Count; 3.3K

Link to Masterlist

You have a tradition. 

Every new moon you would sneak out of your aunt’s residence — she was a kind lady and took you in and gave you free reign — and travel across the river into Zaun.

Yet, despite what others may have thought at your regular travels, it wasn’t for thrill seeking or for nefarious activities. Part of it was out of sheer boredom, as Pilotver, while being the city of progress, was also a city of bureaucratic stillness and policy. A dreadful place when you needed a bit of chaos and authenticity.

Which is how you found yourself in The Lanes time and time again. But it wasn’t purely out of sheer boredom and wanderlust that you kept on coming back into the Undercity. 

While many people had their own interests at the forefront — both in Piltover and in Zaun — you mainly came to help; bringing in fresh food. Bread, fresh vegetables and fruit, and cured meats. You used the bit of wealth that you had left from your family to give to others less fortunate. To those that had no one else to turn to. 

You had been doing this long enough that you knew familiar faces and even some names. And tonight was no different in that regard.

You may not be from Zaun, but you have been to The Lanes enough to also recognize people who stuck in the background, watching.

For the past five months, a woman always stayed in the background, leaning outside of The Last Drop. She never approached you, but when your eyes crossed paths, you knew that she had been watching you give food to those that you could.

The past five months when you had come into the city she had only watched, assessing what you were doing. Seeing if it was for some ulterior motive. 

Was the food spoiled? No. 

Was it poisoned or traced with something? Also no. 

As far as she could see and from the information that the people gave her about you, you did this for no other reason than you wanted to. And Sevika knew from when she first saw you that you weren’t from the undercity — there wasn’t the same edge that the people here had, you were sweet.

You were giving food out and this time she approached you. The dim lighting from the flickering neon signs reflected on her metal arm, catching your eye. Giving a little boy enough food for the day — as giving them too much would make them a target for theft — you turned to the newcomer.

She didn’t say anything, just giving you a once over, still assessing you.

“So,” she cocked her chin to the side a bit, talking down at you in a guarded yet curious tone, “how long have you been doing this for, topsider?”

Topsider.

You knew that you didn’t really fit in in The Lanes, but most people didn’t give you any trouble, just giving you a side glance before minding their own business.

A small smile, born out of the expected politeness of Piltover, graced your face. “Years? It’s hard to say.”

Sevika quirked her brow, “Why?”

“Why not,” you answered back.

Sevika’s mouth twitched in both amusement but also annoyed at the answer. Amused because you said it genuinely, as she was expecting a bit of sass and entitlement. Annoyed that you seemingly had no ulterior motives.

“Alright then.” Sevika just stood there for a moment, and you resisted the urge to shuffle as she continued to assess and try to come to a conclusion. Your eyes once again cross paths and she turns back and goes into The Last Drop again, leaving you alone.

Strange.

You were back in The Lanes and the sack of food had been emptied, all of it being handed out.

Ever since the woman with the metal arm had been keeping an eye on you there were fewer people who tried to push you around. It could also be the large visible knife that you kept strapped to your thigh, but having her presence around also kept people with ill intentions away, letting you be able to help the people you needed to and wanted it.

She was at her usual spot, standing by the door of the pub. Watching. 

It has become a part of your routine. You had come to expect her to be there. Even though you didn’t even know her name, she had become a comforting presence in the background, like she was watching your back.

She wasn’t there tonight though.

No one had tried anything, as the knife was good enough deterrence for now, but it felt off without her there.

Placing the empty bag in your personal satchel you took the time to explore The Lanes. This was the original reason why you came into the undercity, but upon seeing how much worse the conditions here were, you sought to try and help where you could. People were just trying to survive and make ends meet.

“There’s a fight–” a guy bumps into you and keeps on walking, talking to his companion.

Around the bend you could hear a commotion, and curiosity got the better of you and you followed the noise.

There was a fight in full bloom, and the woman that you had expected to be silently watching you was in the heart of it. The fight was reaching its end though, both parties looking worse for wear, but the guy she was fighting was way worse off. The thing about having a metal arm is that it does a lot of damage to whoever it hits, and Sevika may have had some of her blood on her, but most of it was from the other guy.

He hit the ground, unconscious, and Sevika crouched down and whispered something in his ear before getting back up and walking away, but not before she saw you in the crowd. She paused for a second before continuing on, walking away from you. She had changed direction, like she was avoiding you. Going against your better judgement, you followed her, going into a dimly lit pub and looking through the sea of faces before you spotted her at the bar, ordering something.

You don’t know her. Why are you doing this? This is a stupid thing to do— 

You sat down next to her and she gave you a sideways glance.

She had a cut on her face and a bloody nose. There was definitely going to be a large bruise on her arm by tomorrow. And despite being just in a fight and looking worse for wear, she was taking a long drink like this was nothing. But it probably is nothing to her.

This was also the closest that you had gotten to her, and despite her being beat up and the shit lighting in the pub, she was a very — pretty isn’t the right word, she was more than that — handsome woman.

“What are you doing,” she asked, slightly turning her head so she could properly look at you.

“You’re hurt,” and I wanted to make sure that you’re okay. But you don’t add that. You two don’t know each other. You aren’t friends. Hell, you don’t even know her name!

Sevika huffs, amused. “You saw the other guy.”

You had. “Still.”

She puts down her drink and fully turns to you, leaning forward a bit. “Listen, sweetheart, I can handle myself.”

Sweetheart. The nickname, while meant to be demeaning, made you … you didn’t know what it did, but you liked it.

She leans back, pays for her drink and leaves the pub, leaving you alone.

Sevika was back to standing guard over you. She had picked it up after hearing the silent murmurs about a topsider frequenting The Lanes.

In the months that she’s been watching — far longer than you had started noticing her — she knew a few things.

You always visited during the nights of the new moon, using the darkness as a cover.

You carried a large knife on your thigh. You never had to use it, since people knew she was keeping watch, but she saw how you would twirl it around when bored — it wasn’t just for show.

You were kind. She may not know your name, but she mentally called you Sweetheart. It seemed fitting.

And a new forth thing: you apparently made it a habit to be in the same places that she frequents when you really ought not to.

The fight had been by accident, but she hadn’t expected you to follow her into a pub. 

Then again when she was making rounds — you had crossed paths with her and you gave her a nod before continuing on.

Once when she was coming out of the brothel that she frequents when pent up — something that was becoming more often as of late. You didn’t say anything, but you did walk past faster than usual, and Sevika felt a tinge of disappointment.

She had come to expect you. As much as she was an expected presence in your routine, you had become one in hers.

Tonight was the new moon, and Sevika was standing where she typically did. Waiting for you.

But you don’t show up.

Some of the regular people ask her where you are, as whenever Sevika is watching guard, you aren’t far behind. But she didn’t know. She didn’t like that she didn’t know where you were. It lingered in the back of her mind the next night.

This time you do show up, and when the last bit of food gets handed out she walks towards you, determined.

“Where were you last night?”

You turn around, not expecting her to really take notice that you were missing last night, but also she noticed. 

“There was a blockade last night. The city is on high alert, so I couldn’t cross last night,” you answer. 

It was true. Due to recent events, Piltover was on high alert. You couldn’t have crossed, not without suspicion or your monthly visits coming to light, so you decided to wait it out.

Sevika runs her tongue across her teeth, trying to think of something to say, but all that she knows is that she’s relieved to see you. She accepts your answer though, giving you a grunt.

You both stand there for a moment, as if waiting to see who would say something first. Who would break the slightly awkward tension. Hell, it was worse than the time you had bumped into her after she came out of a brothel — that was awkward.

You lick your lips, “Did something happen last night? When I was gone?”

No, nothing happened. “No. People just missed you.” I missed you.

Sevika caught the motion of your mouth and she also noted your appearance. She had always thought you were pretty, hell, beautiful, but she never made a move. Why, though? 

She was a cautious woman, especially with those she let close. “Be careful, sweetheart.”

There’s that name again. This time you felt something warm in your chest, but she had already walked away.

You had finally learned your mystery woman’s name. Sevika. It had been several months — a year to be exact, but like you were keeping track of every time you saw her (you were) — and you finally knew her name from asking one of the bartenders at The Last Drop.

You were standing in her usual spot. You were early, the sun just starting to set, and Sevika was not expecting for you to be waiting for her.

“We need to talk,” you said, getting up from where you were leaning.

Sevika crossed her arms, not expecting the bold move. “About what?”

You walked over to a more private area, a back alley, “You keep watch over me. You have been for a while. Why?”

Ah, you finally asked the question that Sevika had been asking herself. Now, she could be honest about it — which would shed light that she had taken an interest from the rumours and then taken an actual interest in you — or she could keep it simple. Uncomplicated. 

And then she remembers your answer to her question all those months back when you had first talked. “Why not?”

You pause, looking at her. You hadn’t expected that answer. You hadn’t expected her to be giving you an intense longing look that screamed more than just wanting to talk. 

Fuck it.

You stepped forward and did something that you’ve wanted to do for months, placing your mouth onto hers.

And Sevika’s mouth slotted against yours, reciprocating the kiss you initiated. Once given the permission, she threw caution to the wind, finally doing what she had also been wanting. The reason why she was so pent up. You. 

She ran her tongue across your lip, asking for silent permission to enter your mouth and once you did, your tongues moved against each other and she groaned into the heated kiss before breaking away. Her eyes were simmering with want, and like hell she was going to continue what you started in a dank alley.

“Didn’t know you felt that way, sweetheart,” she huffed, breath hot against your ear, making the hair on the back of neck prickle in a pleasant way.

You groaned when she pulled back. You had finally started to get what you wanted only for her to pull away. “And you feel the same way.”

It wasn’t a question. You knew. It was damn telling the way that she took over and led the kiss that she wanted you the same way you wanted her.

Sevika hums at your answer, her hand playing with the ends of your hair gently, “Do I?” 

She usually wasn’t a tease, but she enjoyed seeing your reactions, wanting to hear you say the words. “What do you want, sweetheart?” She asked, nearly purring.

This woman will be the death of me.

You place yourself to where one of her legs was in between yours, “You.”

Sevika ground her leg into your core, sending some much needed friction to where you wanted her. “You’ll have to wait for a minute, princess.”

Like hell she was going to ravish you here, so picking you up, she went to a better place, using one of the back doors to get into one of the private rooms of the pub where no one would intrude — thankfully this one had a bed. 

Once the door is locked, you’re both back to being on each other. Hot mouths clashing. And then the back of your knees were hitting the mattress.

You sat down, bringing Sevika with you, and she began kissing down your neck, leaving you wanting more. 

A thought came into her mind, and she left a rather sharp nip on the space between your neck and shoulder, her thigh slipping between yours and flipping your positions to where you straddled her thigh. “Ride it, sweetheart.” 

The timbre of her voice made you shudder and a pool of heat to form again at your core. You began to grind yourself against her thigh, annoyed that you were both clothed but wanting some sort of release. “Clothes,” you mutter, trying to control how desperate you were for her, “off.”

Sevika chuckled, amused, but obliged, taking off both of your clothes — again, leaving hot kisses on your shoulder. Once her damned pants were off, you began grinding on her again, and she could feel how wet you were and she grinned.

She could tell that you wouldn’t be able to get off just with that, but you were putting on a good show for her. “You’re doing so good, baby. You feel so wet. Fuck.” She groaned, popping one of your nipples in her mouth, and rolling the other in her mouth.

You keen, arching into her touch, wanting more. While the friction from her muscular thigh was delicious you needed more. “Sev, I –” you slightly push her head down, silently asking for her to go down on you.

Sevika put her hands on your hips and dragged you up towards her mouth, “I know.” And she placed a kiss to your inner thigh before tracing your cunt with her tongue, taking your clit into her mouth.

“Fuck,” you moan, finally getting the friction you so badly wanted. Your hands tangling in her hair for something to hold on and she groaned, the vibrations just adding to your pleasure.

Slowly, Sevika added a finger into your cunt, probing until you arched when she found your g-spot. She could tell that you weren’t sitting so she nipped your clit when she felt you hovering, “Sit.”

Once you put your full weight on her face she hummed, satisfied, and added another finger to reward you, putting extra pressure there. 

With her fingers going in and out of your cunt and her tongue tracing your clit, you were reaching your climax, feeling your thighs clench up when Sevika removes her fingers and slows down on your clit, delaying it.

“W-why did you stop?”

Sevika hummed, taking the fingers that were once in you into her mouth, cleaning them off. “I didn’t.” And she moved you higher up so that her tongue was now in you and her nose ground into your clit.

She loved seeing you like this, fucked out on her fingers and her tongue, and if her tongue wasn’t doing the most mouthwatering movements in you, she would be telling you how gorgeous you were. Praising you and your body — mind you, she fell for you for how you treated others first. 

You grabbed for her hand, the one that was just in you a moment ago and placed it on your neck, and Sevika carefully squeezed, choking you in the right way. “You’re doing so good, princess.”

You were reaching your high again, and Sevika was not slowing down, if anything, feeling the way that your thighs tensed on her face made her push forward. The slight pressure on my airway made you melt in her hands, and did a particularly mean nip to your clit before continuing eating you out. You were sweating by now, and moaning into her touch.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby?” She groaned, and added a bit of pressure to your lower stomach, her tongue going in deep. 

Tugging a bit more harshly at her scalp you felt your breathing hitch, your eyes roll back, and you shuddered as your high finally came.

Sevika didn’t ease up, instead taking the hand that was on your neck back down to your cunt, adding three fingers inside you this time as her tongue continued on your clit. That move during your climax and the stretch alongside the pressure on your lower stomach had you seeing white and Sevika groaned as she felt you release.

You whined a bit as Sevika slowed down her movements, sensitive from your climax, working you down from it. 

Giving your inner thigh a kiss, she laid you down next to her on the bed, before getting up and grabbing a warm damp cloth to clean you up with, even though your release was still on her face. She licked it off of her lips and dragged some down from her cheeks to her mouth before using the same cloth to clean her face and thigh, laying back down next to you.

She placed a hand on your face, tracing the planes of it.

You snaked your hand downward, but Sevika stopped you, bringing your hand back up, “You don’t worry about that.”

“I want to make you feel good,” you breathed, annoyed that she had stopped your wandering hands.

Sevika traced her tongue over her lip, looking at you, “You did.”

Oh. Even though she had literally just eaten you out within an inch of your life, hearing her say that she was satisfied just by giving you pleasure made you clench your thighs. 

That movement didn’t go unnoticed, “Mmm, you’re still sensitive, sweetheart.” Her hand travelled down your body, promising another round once you weren’t so sensitive, although she wouldn’t mind seeing you cry from it.

[searchingforserendipity25]

exorcising my list of unwritten conclave concepts from a few weeks ago i haven't written much since, in case the list is all there ends up coming out of it or anyone wants to welcome any of them into a good home:

cardinal lawrence and sister agnes won each other’s respect and trust during ratzinger’s papacy (liberals who leak church scandals to the justice system and the press stick together). everyone lowkey thinks they are having an affair. they are not, but they do keep sneaking into corners to gossip during the conclave. leaning fully into the reading of sister agnes as the late pope’s intelligence expert. incredibly jaded vatican spy. aldo is not jealous. benitez finds lawrence with the yellow canary eating from his hand and going back to his side after short flights, and has a number of franciscan emotions about it. the whole thing would ideally be about their friendship, different views and thoughts on power, what it looks like, what it ought to look like. responsibility, and doubt. also: how horrible it is the only non smokers in an european workplace.

(does this change anything materially? possibly the adeyemi and trembley situation is revealed much sooner with lawrence and sister agnes working together earlier and sharing intel, which in its turn makes him seem more competent and aggressive in taking down competitors, ergo more votes, ergo more influence? maybe bellini supports him more overtly earlier idk.) 

cardinal lawrence is dead. as a matter of fact, cardinal lawrence has been dead for a few days after the pope dies; unlike the pope, he keeps coming back to do his job. the curia covers up his death, because the dean of the college of cardinals is a ghost who apparently hated his job enough that is it his very literal purgatory is both hard to explain, and bad for the press. the fate of his unliving soul is very much at risk when steering the conclave, which is, uh, fun. cardinal tedesco's vape smoke now strongly smells of sulfur to him, which is probably not satanic in origin but then again might be. people keep voting on him and their belief in him corresponds directly to how much he can interact with the world, which is a very straightforward way to test one’s moral limits and otherwise a great torment. the one silver lining is that he can walk through walls and scoop out corrupt dealing easily, and no one can really tell he is dead. well, barely anyone. cardinal benítez and his ability to walk easily between the liminal spaces and certainties of the world is an outlier, and should not be counted.

dean lawrence keeps getting kidnapped, poisoned, blackmailed and otherwise threatened. this is an unfortunate if occasional part of being the vatican’s manager of two increasingly liberal and unorthodox papacies. it is considerably less fine and unfortunately far too normal for innocent xiv, who has a non-zero number of experiences with friends being kidnapped, poisoned, blackmailed and otherwise threatened. 

bellini/lawrence full on established relationship nonsense. as in, they have been together for thirty years and counting. conclave rewrite?? 

innocent xiv’s phone messages get leaked. innocent xiv’s phone messages consist of selfies with turtles sent to various friends and family, a good deal of memes in the santa marta groupchat, and daily jokes, complaints and affectionate messages to dean lawrence. the media has thoughts. aldo bellini, newly in charge of the papal media strategy, also has thoughts. and prayers.

a glimpse at all the people that Did vote for benítez from the start, and how much his work is or is not known outside the hermetic sphere of the vatican. he's kind of famous in religious activist circle probably! he has fans! he has a wide network of people he regularly approaches for information, resources, mutual aid and donations to his clinics and dioceses! he keeps dropping insane facts about horrifying personal experiences with unnerving serenity!

vincent benítez soft doms cardinal lawrence into taking a rest during the conclave. this incidents turns into a habit and gains new dimensions, as per the forthcoming changes in job status

pope john has an ongoing crisis of faith and also a gigantic imposter's syndrome. unrelatedly, pope john would really really really rather vincent benítez did not die in kabul and/or cause a diplomatic disaster. how convenient, then, that he is now a benevolent religious dictator who can arrange (read: wholesale invent) a number of postings and duties only benítez can accomplish. if anyone ask, this is a long-delayed move on part o the church to develop a deeper connection to on-the-ground aid organization. this can’t possibly last forever, though, can it? 

friar lawrence has shed all politics and chosen an abbey who keeps a vow of silence. friar lawrence is genuinely having a lovely time of things in his little abbey post canon. for like, uh, two months? friar lawrence keeps accidentally gaining more and more influence. manager-guy who cannot not manage. six months in he’s in charge of shelters and social associations. one year on, and he’d be archbishop again, if he were not aggressively trying to clamber down the church hierarchical rung. his friend, innocent xiv, who went from being a non-entity to one of the most famous men in the world, is sympathetic but also thinks this is very very funny. epistolary fic?? email epistolary? there is a little cat in a friar's habit and this is the most important part.

possibly related: cardinal lawrence comes back from his enforced sabbatical in a peaceful retreat freckled, healthier and smiling. people have thoughts on this, and emotions also. 

turtle pov of benitez/lawrence. literally: turtle pov. is the turtle an angel?? unclear if the turtle is an angel.

cardinal tedesco must die au.

[the-amazing-animated-circus]

One image per page next time. I'm tired.

forgot to add my kofi god damn it

[b33zlebubz]

Rare-ish take but i looove Ghost with a higher-ranked reader. You're intense and put-together but without the same terrifying bravado that Simon carries from room to room. It draws him in, how he sees himself in you, feels himself growing some-what starry-eyed at how well you carry yourself.

You both fall into such an in-tune rythum its scary; jobs finished before Price can blink. Cold and quiet, you don't give out compliments unless they're well-earned, much less a smile. Silently draw yourself so thin for so long Ghost can't help but want to make things easier for you, prove that you can rely on him time and time again.

Ghost relishes any amused huff from your mouth at his jokes. Any soft, thankful sigh whenever he places coffee (just how you like it) quietly on your desk before you even ask. Likes being the one who can draw a laugh from you, relieve the tension wound tight in your shoulders with just his presence. It brings him more of a sense of acomplishment than any mission well-done, earning that first drink with you after he does an excelent job on your first mission together.

Praise from you makes him feel embarassingly hot under the collar, makes him stick to your side like a guard dog ready to growl at any sign of disrespect thrown in your direction. And he's happy doing it if it means you'll give him that smile and nod you don't give anyone else.

[serpentface]

Pylidaigh

(A story to teach children about winter safety.)

Thirty years ago was the worst winter in living memory. Even in the lowlands the rains came only as blizzards and pelting sleet, and in the mountains the snow was so deep it almost came up to your knees, and the cold was so bitter that you could feel the blood freezing in your cheeks. The winter barley was dead before it could be born, and cattle and horses starved and perished in huddled, shivering masses. Many people died that year.

I speak now of one of them. He was a stubborn old man, still quite fit in body and defiant to the point of foolishness, and so he had deigned to travel even in these conditions. Only a short distance, mind you, a path between two villages that would be a breezy two hour's walk in good weather. But this was not good weather. The journey had taken up most of the daylight hours, and there was still a good ways to go. The sun was setting red across the low plains far to the west, and a mass of dark cloud loomed in the east. The old man was growing very, very tired.

He passed into a thick copse of pines where the snow was shallow, and he considered stopping to rest until morning. It would be a miserable night, to be sure, but he could tough it out. He had the warmest of woolen coats, and there was plenty of fuel about for a fire and good shelter if the weather turned. But now, in the distance of the valley beneath him, he could see the lights of his village. He was so close! He would just have to trudge his way down a little longer, and then he would be bundled in blankets in front of a warm hearth with some hot mead, and this sorry excursion would be no more than a bad memory. A little snow couldn't defeat him.

So he set out with renewed vigor, leaving the trees behind him. The eastern wind whistled past his ears, picking up now, and a crow flew right in front of his face and lit itself on a lone pine. It cawed three times in warning. He cursed at it.

And soon the wind had turned into a gale, and it carried with it a terrible storm. The snow fell again, heavy and wet, and the lights of the village were lost to him. And the wind only blew harder, and the blizzard became so thick he could barely see the hand on his outstretched arm. His clothes were becoming soaked down to his very skin, and he shivered ceaselessly. There was great fear in his heart now, for he could grudgingly acknowledge that he had made a terrible error. But there was still hope. If he could just keep moving downhill!

But his fate was decided, for the cold madness began to take him. Even as he trembled, the old man felt as if his flesh was burning. He took off his hat, then his coat, and then his tunic. He took his boots off, then his pants, until he was walking through the blizzard naked as the day he was born. He felt none of the cold though, only a terrible, bone-deep weariness. He lay down in the snowdrifts and curled up into a ball. The old man died where he laid.

The blizzard raged on for two bitter days and nights. When it was over, the bad weather broke and the day became was sunny and mild. But the reprieve came too late. The old man’s corpse was completely covered beneath the snow. His very soul had frozen over.

Those in the village below had been looking for his return on the night he died, and by now were quite certain of his fate. His family wept and mourned for the beloved old fool, but none dared to go look for his body, for this had its own dangers.

"We will search for him as soon as we can, but not yet," the old man's son said. "If he froze to death in that storm (and he certainly did), waiting a little longer won't make any difference. We will find him when the snow has melted."

But the dead man's grandson had inherited some of his grandfather's obstinate bravery, and was having none of this cowardly talk. The day was beautiful and clear, and so fair that he could have gone out bare-chested with little discomfort. This was hardly the kind of weather in which one was met with an icy death, or any of the worse things that a bad winter can bring. So he set out, in secret, along the path to the upper village.

The youth did not have to travel very long before he found signs of his elder. There was a hat blown up against a shriveled old oak, and a boot stuck out from a snowdrift. But there was no sign of the old man himself. The boy had already stepped right through the place where the man had lain dead, but he noticed nothing. There was nothing for him to notice. The body was gone.

He kept on walking and looking for signs. And as he traveled, he started to hear something. It was the sound of footsteps, crunch, crunch, crunch. And the sound of something dragging over the snow, sssssss. The youth saw nothing when he looked around, but the sounds continued, growing closer and closer. He grew more fearful, but he could make out no movement against the white snow until the footsteps were almost upon him.

There stood his grandfather, but not as he knew him. His naked flesh was so pale he could barely be seen against the snow. He was little more than skin and bone, looking more like a skeleton than a man. His arms were longer than he was tall, and they dragged behind him as he walked, quickly now, crunch, crunch, crunch, ssssssssss.

The youth started to run, and the pylidaigh ran after him, crunchcrunchcrunchcrunch sssssssssssssss. He was a strong and athletic young man, so he began to gain a lead. But then the hissing stopped. The next thing the boy felt was cold hands wrapping around his chest. The pylidaigh had grabbed him, and it reeled him in with its terrible arms. It was much stronger than the boy, and he was pulled helplessly against the ghost’s freezing, shivering chest.

A pylidaigh is not a truly evil spirit, you see. There is little malice within it. There is little in it whatsoever, save for the endless, horrible cold, and dim memories of what it was to be alive. It remembers what it was like to feel the sun on its skin, hot tea in its stomach, the warm touch of a hand. A pylidaigh can never feel this warmth again, and yet is consumed with a terrible desire for it.

So it held its grandson close, but it wasn’t enough. The heat from the youth's body could not warm its frozen skin. It had to have more.

It pulled him in tighter and tighter, so tight that the boy's bones started to crack and his tongue squeezed out, and it still wasn’t enough. It had to have more.

So it sunk its teeth into its grandson’s neck and ripped out his throat. The hot blood sprayed out, all over the pylidaigh’s skin and the snow around it, and it still wasn’t enough. It had to have more.

So it sucked out all of the blood, until the boy was almost as pale and shriveled as the pylidaigh. And when that wasn’t enough, it bent down, frenzied, and slurped up the rest of the spilled blood from the corpse, and from its own frozen skin, and from all the snow around it.

The pylidaigh was swollen up like a tick now, but not even a man’s entire lifeblood could warm its frozen body. It had to have more. So it left what was once its grandson dead in the snow, and wandered towards the fires of the village.

It arrived in the cover of darkness. The people heard it before they saw it. First, a brave dog barking, then a long, terrible silence. Then a sound outside- crunch, crunch, crunch, ssssssss. It approached each and every hut, seeing the lights of warm hearths within. But it could not gain entry. The villagers had wisely cleared away the snow from their doors and windows, for winter spirits cannot cross over the bare earth. All the same, it scratched at the doorways and reached through open windows from a distance, its arms searching blindly through the air for anything that breathed and bled. Old men and small children alike huddled in far corners, and wept at the sight of its empty white face and black eyes.

The night passed in horror, but the ghost was gone by the morning light. The next day was even warmer and sunnier than the day before. A few days later, the snow had melted until only little patches remained, and so a search went out for the remains of both the old man and the young boy. But there was nothing to be found, not even of the poor boy, for he had frozen beyond help too. The two ghosts had fled high into the mountain, where the snow still lay in thick sheets, and where they could wait in hidden, icy grottoes through the summer's heat.

Neither has been seen again by any who lived to tell of it, but they are not gone. In winters when the snow falls thick and lasts long, pylidaigh come back down the hills. The wise do not wander needlessly, stay inside at night, and keep their doorways clear of snow. But on nights when the snow falls heavy, you may hear them outside. A scratching at the door, the chattering of teeth, slow footsteps, crunch, crunch, crunch, and a dragging hiss, ssssssssss.

[lovelyalita]

Making Dinner ♡

Think of this:

Your husband has been hard at work all day, and as his diligent wife, you wanted to cook him a nice meal. Considering you'd been under the weather the past few days and had been resorted to eating ample takeout, you wanted to surprise him with a nice meal. Plus, he was receiving a great recognition at work, so you wanted something to celebrate his success.

You're midway into attending to all the pots on the stove when you feel a pressure build up in your lower abdomen. You hadn't gone in three days, on account of your illness and having been stopped up from all the takeout you ate, and now you realize just how heavy your bowels felt after three days of build-up. While you previously wished to be free from the aching confines of constipation, you now regretted praying so hard for it, because you were getting what you asked for.

You groan as your stomach churns, and you grab at your abdomen, digging fingers into the flesh. You really have to go, it's getting dire now, but there's absolutely no way you can go now: you have too many things to attend to on the stove. Plus, you want your hubby's dish to be just perfect; you'd be so upset if his nice congratulatory meal was overcooked or gummy in any way on account of you needing to stop for a simple toilet break, and you couldnt afford to remake anything since he'd be home at 5:10. You were a grown woman capable of holding her bowels; you'd attend to the rest of the meal while it finished cooking in ten minutes, and then you'd escape to the toilet.

While your game plan fills you with inspiration and self-assured confidence at first, it quickly wavers on account of your cramps growing more intense. You groan harder and lean on the stove as a particularly crushing twinge travels through your colon, pushing the mass even closer to your exit. You can feel the walls of your intestines ripple around the bulking mass, your sweaty anus puckering in preparation for passing it.

Perspirstion builds up on your brow, and you have to swallow back a tad bit of nausea. It's getting worse, the urge to go, but this dinner matters more. Your meal has to be just perfect; you want to give him nothing less. You don't want to let him down.

The next wave sends you folding over, gripping the handle of the oven for dear life. Your bowels spasm, making it evidently clear that they'd like you seated on a toilet by the way the mass starts to prod at your sphincter.

You whine as your bowels involuntarily start pushing harder, trying to carry out its instinctual processes of waste disposal. You grip the bar harder and focus everything you've got on sucking the log back in, which has started to poke at the fabric of your white polyester underwear.

With some degree of success, you succeed, and manage to fend off the pushing until the wave subsides. Already your tailbone feels sweaty from the exertion, and if that was the kind of force you were left to fight, then you hoped the food would be done soon. You will your shaking core and legs to make you stand up straight, swallowing the excess saliva.

You lift lids and stir and adjust the temperature as needed, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom and burns and ruins the warm meal your loving husband deserves. You clench and whine some more as the pressure begins building again, gripping the front of your apron and twisting it.

Here it comes, the urge to push and the mounting pressure builds back up again, more forceful than before. You gasp, slamming your legs and involuntarily sticking your butt out as the cheeks start to spread again, this time erupting with a decent bit of the first hard log managing to escape, plopping into your underwear after getting pinched off. It's still connected to the rest of the piece inside your rectum on account of how dry and packed the waste is, so you use that to your advantage, clenching and willing for it to not stretch your underwear beyond just the tip that's pressing into the fabric. This was happening whether you'd like it to or not.

The wave starts back up again, and as you frantically slam the lid back onto the pot to steady yourself against the oven as the load starts slowly easing out more and more, slowly stretching your anus to a size you're sure you've never experienced before. Strong ripples travel up your spine as you gasp again, failing to fight back the rest of the exiting load. You can only stand there in horror as the large log pushes past your cheeks, finally passing the rest of your hole before collecting in the seat of your panties.

Another log starts emerging right behind it, and you decide to succumb to nature, bracing yourself as the next large log starts to pebble out atop the last one. Your anus sputters with trapped gas and softer, newer waste that was trapped behind the old build-up. You groan in relief as your body keeps expelling the waste.

With the worst of it over, you shudder and pant, finally being granted the ability to stand up somewhat straight again. You're pretty sure your panties are ruined at that point on account of all the heavy waste sagging in them, but you did what you had to do.

Dinner is ready in two more minutes. You continue stirring and attending to each pot, eventually flipping each burner off one by one as they come to a rest. Now that you no longer have to worry about dinner potentially being ruined, you can finally leave the kitchen.

As you set the wooden spoon down and head down the hall for the bathroom, you can't help but knead your stomach one more time as another tangling ache comes on. Now you could finally get cleaned up and get rid of the weight, but it looks like there was still more in there to be expelled…

[azzo0]

You sat on the couch, mindlessly scrolling through your phone, when you caught your boyfriend approaching you. Shirtless. Seeing Sero hanging around your guys' shared apartment without a shirt wasn't anything new. You were quite used to it, in fact. But it was the look in his eye that made you put your phone down. It's not every time he looked at you like that. 

Half-lidded eyes, head tilted slightly to the side with raven hair falling on his cheek, slow steps, taking his sweet time to walk over to you. You couldn't fight the heat that had crept up your face as he looked down at you from where he stood. He kneeled on the ground, hands on your knees, bringing his face dangerously close to yours, hot breath hitting your lips. He forced your legs apart, settling in between them. 

Your heart raced, and you leaned a little closer, only for him to sit on the floor and turn around so his back was facing you. You looked down at him in confusion as he massaged the back of his neck. 

"Ahh, babe, can you please massage my shoulders?" He asked, "They hurt so much." 

You felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water over you. All that drama, just for a massage? Half-heartedly, you put your hands on his shoulders. 

Sero was well aware of the effect he had on you. He couldn't help but smirk to himself as you gave him a massage. He knew what you wanted, and he was going to give it to you. But only after teasing you a little more <3

[butchdiaz]

the rush of slumber party kissing

buddie | E | 3.2k

inspired by a spotify wrapped prompt sent by @gayeddieagenda — 27. naked in manhattan by chappell roan <3

“Okay, Uh—“ he racks his brain for something else Buck has done that he hasn’t. “Never have I ever kissed a man.” Buck doesn't put his finger down, just cocks his head curiously. “Damn, six months without even a kiss, no wonder Tommy left.” Eddie mutters half under his breath. It causes Buck to snap out of his daze and give him a half-hearted middle finger. He’s still thinking, though, eyebrows scrunched together in that adorable way they used to whenever he tried to help Chris with his elementary school math homework. “What, Buck?” “Never?” Buck asks. “No?” Eddie answers. He doesn't know why it comes out as a question. Buck sits up sharply, swinging his legs over the bed and leaning forward like this is suddenly the most important conversation in the world. “Not even like…in the army?” “No, Buck.” Eddie feels his cheeks heat under his scrutiny. “Huh.” He’s staring, eyes piercing into Eddie's fucking soul. “What's that supposed to mean?”

read on ao3

[anchoeritic]

simon riley being the type to tease you before slipping it in, making sure to rub the tip against the most sensitive place between your folds. "look at you, baby. so beautiful under me." getting you needier and needier with every word, whispering the sweetest praises just to get you going.

a warm hand of his set on your hip while the other is used to press into you, almost sliding inside of you. your whimpers and whines are incoherent, breath going shaky just thinking about how good he'd be stretching you out. "mhm, please.."

"uh huh, that's my girl. isn't that right, sweetheart?" he's mumbling under his breath, sucking one in just watching how nicely you wrapped around his cock and feeling your tightness. his grip on your hip growing tighter as he sinks deeper into you, letting out a couple quiet groans along the way. "taking me s'good. can feel you clenching already, baby."

"want more, please. wanna feel you so deep." refusing to move, he chuckles to himself watching you and your needy hips. finding it cute how needy you had become for him and his cock, moving back and forth on your own to feel more than just the stretch.

you wanted to feel the rough thrusts simon only granted you when you begged. "let me hear you beg, baby. want it so bad, you can whine all you want." if only it was so easy for him to break, you would be falling apart on his cock right now.

[cattewife]

i know we're all horny for the "i'm gonna sn- heh!- EXKSHHIEW!! sneeze-" type interrupted announcement but lately i have been mad for, like,,,

a fully unanticipated (for the observer) "oh, i'm going to sneeze-" announcement, and then they get that faraway, sneezy look and then start to hitch wildly--

it's about the moment of surprise for the observer, then the anticipation; watching and listening so closely the whole time because they were warned... & the long, rising tickle the sneezer must feel, to deliver that whole warning ahead of time

[eastbluecrewed]

a comic about comics, ft. cora and law

i don't do comics so umm i hope this is passable

[sugarskies]

diversion (bob's pov)

summary: bob tries to stop john from doomscrolling and somehow ends up pinned underneath him. because why not. word count: 1,424 notes: this contains implied sexual content but nothing explicit. click here to read john's pov!

“Walker.” Bob couldn’t have been more than three feet away, yet John gave no indication that he had been heard. A pang of concern struck Bob’s chest. “Walker, you good, man?”

John nodded and dragged his thumb over his phone. It was open to Bluesky; the screen filled with short yet nasty messages. He always scrolled the same tag: #AntiJohnWalker. Bob sighed, stepped around the couch, and held out his hand.

“Need something?” asked John as he clicked off his phone, his blue eyes wide with phony innocence.

“I know what you’re doing,” said Bob. “Give me your phone.”

It was weeks before when John caught Bob with the pills and they made their agreement: John would stop Bob from using, and Bob would stop John from doomscrolling. It was part of the deal that they weren’t allowed to tell each other “No.” If Bob asked for John’s phone or John asked for Bob’s drugs, they had to hand them over.

At the time, Bob hadn’t thought of how the rule could spiral. Then again, nobody could have predicted how they ended up distracting each other.

(John was the one who started it, Bob remembered—he was the one who kissed Bob when they got into that fight over his pipe and Bob couldn’t stop shaking so John grabbed his hands and kissed him, and he forgot about the drugs in a second.)

“No.” John crossed his arms and hid his phone in his elbow. Bob’s gaze lingered on John’s biceps before they landed on the half-covered phone. It was unfair how good he looked in a tightly fitted t-shirt.

“Come on, Walker.” Bob wiggled his fingers. “You asked me not to let you doomscroll so I’m stopping you from doomscrolling.”

“I wasn’t doomscrolling, I was just— what the hell, Bob?”

Bob jumped back and tucked his arms behind him as soon as he got John’s phone in his hand. John stood up and tried to grab it but Bob slid out of the way. He kept his hands out of John’s sight as he stepped back.

“All right, all right, that’s enough.” God John was hot when he was annoyed. Bob let himself soak it in for a second before he caught sight of John’s wedding ring and looked away. “Give it back.”

“Give what back?” Bob tucked the phone into his back pocket, then held out his open hands. He moved back around the couch as John followed him at a safe distance.

(He couldn’t help himself from teasing John. Secretly, Bob liked it when John got frustrated and pinned him against the wall; when he grabbed Bob tight and close and exhaled just heavily enough that Bob could feel his breath.)

“You’re not as funny as you think,” said John, but a small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Last warning and then I’m taking it.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John moved so quickly that Bob wasn’t even sure how he got knocked on his back. He let out a light gasp as he hit the ground, the throw shockingly gentle and controlled. John grabbed Bob’s sides and swung his left leg over his torso. The way he held Bob in place read more like a wrestling move than anything sexual, but Bob’s brain did not care for that logic.

He blinked away any unsavory thoughts as he reached into his back pocket and grabbed John’s phone. Bob threw his arm over his head and stretched it as far as possible. John would not be able to reach his phone without leaning down to the floor or letting Bob go.

(Admittedly, Bob was hoping for the former but in his defense, John was obnoxiously hot. The only place better than underneath John was on top of John; John’s fingers in Bob’s hair as he swallowed the sounds stuck in his throat, as he shut himself up on John’s lips so no one would know what they did.)

It took a long second for Bob to get his voice back, to remember that he had a goal besides getting pinned down by John’s thighs.

“What are you gonna do now?” asked Bob teasingly. He smiled, his mouth barely open, and then John preyed on his ultimate weakness.

Bob didn’t know when John had learned about his oral fixation, exactly. Maybe he caught on because Bob was always popping Zyns or because he chewed his nails or because he used to live with a pipe in his pocket. Or maybe he hadn’t realized until their still-unlabeled relationship unexpectedly turned sexual and he saw the way Bob couldn’t keep his mouth to himself.

John’s fingers landed on his chin as he slid the tip of his thumb into Bob’s mouth. Bob’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes widened, his back arched just barely off the ground. He closed his mouth instinctively as John pressed his thumb against the back of his lower teeth. John tasted like dust and sweat, and Bob didn’t care because it was him.

(There was something about his built shoulders and soft belly that made Bob want to chew on his skin all day, despite their well-broken agreement not to leave any marks behind. Besides, John was the one who broke it more often by sucking him raw in multiple places.)

It would be a lie to say Bob had never thought about being under John before it all started; that he’d never fantasized about John grabbing him like he had in the vault. He bit down softly on the base of John’s thumbnail, his heart pounding as their eyes met. John’s own mouth fell slightly open; his face having dropped most of its irritation.

Bob was winning.

A soft moan escaped Bob’s lips as he gasped for air when John slid his thumb out and set it on Bob’s chin. He tightened his knees around Bob’s waist and leaned down, his face approaching Bob’s both too fast and too slow. Then they were less than an inch apart and Bob could feel John’s hot breath on his lips, his cheeks.

Bob’s body melted as John’s slightly chapped lips hovered over Bob’s, his slippery thumb holding him in place. Suddenly, Bob regretted the Zyn he wedged in his lip earlier, worried the minty flavor would make it hard to taste John. He wanted to pull him down, to stop the teasing and seal the damn deal, but he didn’t get the chance.

John pulled back and rolled off Bob before their lips actually met. He held up his phone and smirked, and Bob let out a groan. John had successfully distracted him just long enough to get it back, then rolled off Bob, laid beside him like he’d left nothing behind.

“God, you’re easy,” said John with a snort.

And then Bob was embarrassed because he was aroused and flustered, and John didn’t care one bit. The unpredictability of their situation was the hardest part for him. Sometimes they cuddled on the couch like a real couple, sometimes they fucked without real words, and sometimes they acted like they were nothing, like everything they’d shared meant nothing. Bob rolled his eyes as he shot back, “And you’re an asshole.”

“You’re the one who stole my phone.”

“If I knew you were going to be such a dick about it, I would’ve just let you keep—”

He was too busy yelling to notice that John had crawled back on top of him until their lips met. Maybe Bob should have been surprised but he wasn’t.

(Because shit, that was how it started and that was how it kept happening. Of all the times they’d caught each other, all the things they tried, a kiss never failed to silence the thoughts of drugs and doomscrolling and pain.)

Bob wrapped his fingers around the back of John’s head, pulled him in deeper until his tongue snaked inside John’s mouth. He nibbled on John’s bottom lip, his disappointment embarrassedly audible when John leaned back without warning.

“The others will be back soon,” he noted, his eyes on the nearest clock. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

A shyer person might have suggested they move to a private room, but Bob was not that person. Not anymore. He set his hands on John’s and guided them to his waist, his lips curling upward when John’s thumbs instantly hooked into the waistband of his boxers.

“Then stop wasting it,” Bob breathed, and John did as he was told.