#pretty sure this is from the tempest

[cinemaocd]

This photo was tagged "cutie patotie" on pinterest...

[ktempestbradford]

I have been on a Willy Wonkified journey today and I need y'all to come with me

It started so innocently. Scrolling Google News I come across this article on Ars Technica:

At first glance I thought what happened was parents saw AI-generated images of an event their kids were at and became concerned, then realized it was fake. The reality? Oh so much better.

On Saturday, event organizers shut down a Glasgow-based "Willy's Chocolate Experience" after customers complained that the unofficial Wonka-inspired event, which took place in a sparsely decorated venue, did not match the lush AI-generated images listed on its official website.... According to Sky News, police were called to the event, and "advice was given."

Thing is, the people who paid to go were obviously not expecting exactly this:

But I can see how they'd be a bit pissed upon arriving to this:

It gets worse.

"Tempest, how could it possibly--"

source of this video that also includes this charming description:

Made up a villain called The Unknown — 'an evil chocolate maker who lives in the walls'

There is already a meme.

Oh yes, the Wish.com Oompa Loompa:

Who has already done an interview!

As bad (and hilarious) as this all is, I got curious about the company that put on this event. Did they somehow overreach? Did the actors they hired back out at the last minute? (Or after they saw the script...) Oddly enough, it doesn't seem so!

Given what I found when poking around I'm legit surprised there was an event at all. Cuz this outfit seems to be 100% a scam.

The website for this specific event is here and it has many AI generated images on it, as stated. I don't think anyone who bought tickets looked very closely at these images, otherwise they might have been concerned about how much Catgacating their children would be exposed to.

Yes, Catgacating. You know, CATgacating!

I personally don't think anyone should serve exarserdray flavored lollipops in public spaces given how many people are allergic to it. And the sweet teats might not have been age appropriate.

Though the Twilight Tunnel looks pretty cool:

I'm not sure that Dim Tight Twdrding is safe. I've also been warned that Vivue Sounds are in that weird frequency range that makes you poop your pants upon hearing them.

Yes, Virginia, these folks used an AI image generator for everything on the website and used Chat GPT for some of the text! From the FAQ:

Q: I cannot go on the available days. Will you have more dates in the future? A: Should there be capacity when you arrive, then you will be able to enter without any problems. In the event that this is not the case, we may ask you to wait a bit.

Fear not, for this question is asked again a few lines down and the answer makes more sense.

Curious about the events company behind this disaster, I took myself over to the homepage of House of Illuminati and I was not disappointed.

I would 100% trust these people to plan my wedding.

This abomination of a website is a badly edited WordPress blog filled with AI art and just enough blog posts to make the casual viewer think that it's a legit business for about 0.0004 seconds.

Their attention to detail is stunning, from how they left up the default first post every WP blog gets to how they didn't bother changing the name on several images, thus revealing where they came from. Like this one:

With the lovely and compact filename "DALL·E-2024-01-30-09.50.54-Imagine-a-scene-where-fantasy-and-reality-merge-seamlessly.-In-the-foreground-a-grand-interactive-gala-is-taking-place-filled-with-elegant-guests-i.png"

"Concept.png" came from the same AI generator that gets text almost, but not quiiiiiite right:

There are a suspicious number of .webp images in the uploads, which makes me think they either stole them from other sites where AI "art" was uploaded or they didn't want to pay for the hi-res versions of some and just grabbed the preview image.

The real fun came when I noticed this filename: Before-and-After-Eventologists-Transformation-Edgbaston-Cricket-Ground-1024x1024-1.jpg and decided to do a Google image search. Friends, you will be shocked to hear that the image in question, found on this post touting how they can transform a boring warehouse into a fun event space, was stolen from this actual event planner.

Even better, this weirdly grainy image?

From a post that claims to be about the preparations for a "Willy Wonka" experience (we'll get to this in a minute), is not only NOT an actual image of anyone preparing anything for Illuminati's event, it is stolen from a YouTube thumbnail that's been chopped to remove the name of the company that actually made this. Here's the video.

If you actually read the blog posts they're all copypasta or some AI generated crap. To the point where this seems like not a real business at all. There's very specific business information at the bottom, but nothing else seems real.

As I said, I'm kinda surprised they put on an event at all. This has, "And then they ran off with all our money!" written all over it. I'm perplexed.

And also wondering when the copyright lawyers are gonna start calling, because...

This post explicitly says they're putting together a "Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory Experience" complete with golden tickets.

Somewhere along the line someone must have wised up, because the actual event was called "Willys Chocolate Experience" (note the lack of apostrophe) and the script they handed to the actors about 10 minutes before they were supposed to "perform" was about a "Willy McDuff" and his chocolate factory.

As I was going through this madness with friends in a chat, one pointed out that it took very little prompting to get the free Chat GPT to spit out an event description and such very similar to all this while avoiding copyrighted phrases. But he couldn't figure out where the McDuff came from since it wasn't the type of thing GPT would usually spit out...

Until he altered the prompt to include it would be happening in Glasgow, Scotland.

You cannot make this stuff up.

But truly, honestly, I do not even understand why they didn't take the money and run. Clearly this was all set up to be a scam. A lazy, AI generated scam.

Everything from the website to the event images to the copy to the "script" to the names of things was either stolen or AI generated (aka stolen). Hell, I'd be looking for some poor Japanese visitor wandering the streets of Glasgow, confused, after being jacked for his mascot costume.

HE LIVES IN THE WALLS, Y'ALL.

[sleeepydraws]

If I may butt in with my 15 years of playing and gaming experience...

Don't! worry about memorizing all of your spells and abilities.

Do! look over your sheet before the session and ask questions if you need to. :) Coming prepared (with your stuff) shows the DM that you care, and makes me (at least) hella motivated.

Don't! worry about being an amazing player or role player at the start.

Do! try!! We love to see it, and the comfort comes with time. It's awkward until it isn't, and we've all been there.

Don't! wait around silently after your DM explains a room, NPC, etc. (it makes me hella awkward at least )

Do! feel free to:

restate what they said (for clarification)

ask questions (for spelling, distance, details, etc)

and/or ask others what they'd like to do (helps make the game more group oriented)

For combat...

Don't! space out so much that you don't know when your turn is. (Some spacing out is understandable since it takes a bit.)

Do! keep an eye on when your turn is coming up and what your friends are doing. I learned how to play the game by watching others do their turns. This is also a great opportunity to ask other players to help clarify any of your spells, skills and/or abilities that you're thinking of using.

Personal recommendation! I like to have a "default turn" where if I can't think of ANYTHING ELSE to do that's more applicable, I do the default:

Walk to baddie

Smack baddie (until dead)

(if dead) Smack another baddie (if multiple attacks)

Apply whatever weapons etc you have. Having a default like this makes me so relaxed during a session because when in doubt... I already have my turn planned.

Don't stress! Do have fun :)

Do you have any tips for someone who’s about to start playing DND? It’s me, I’m someone who’s about to start playing DND

Ehh I'm not an expert per se, but I'd say don't worry too much about memorising every detail and every spell etc - if your DM is a nice one they'll be okay with you fumbling things until you get the hang of it 😅

Also maybe don't have your character too set in stone? I personally find it easier to RP a character with some room to wiggle for the first few sessions (leave aspects of their personality or background to fill later) so that I'm not too conditioned by the fear of being OOC while I'm warming up to them

[comatosebunny09]

how to stop the rain | sylus q.

— summary: you just wanted to catch bugs. but the rain had other plans, forcing you to wait it out in your home where another tempest brewed inside, spurred by your unlikely company.

— cw: female reader, female anatomy described, animal crossing au (the animals are human-sized & you don’t look like adorable chibis, just regular-degular people), vanilla-ass, penetrative sex, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, friends to lovers, jealousy, silliness, romantic dribble, profanity, terms of endearment, consent king, praise, sylus is just a chill dude who likes you, like one bestiality joke, mdni

— notes: fueled by this blurb & this one & @alfredosaws & @asirensrage inspiring me with their comments. as always, thank you for reading, turtledoves.

— now playing: stale cupcakes - sleeping phoenix

It’s raining.

You can’t say you didn’t anticipate it; Isabelle forecasted it in her daily announcement. Still, you insisted on foraging for materials and hunting for bugs, dragging an indifferent Sylus alongside you. 

You were about to capture a monarch butterfly, net poised overhead. Sylus watched you with quiet amusement, leaning against a cedar tree when the first clap of thunder shook the sleepy island. The resulting drizzle quickly morphed into a downpour, chasing the island’s other inhabitants inside. 

“Not a word,” you clipped when Sylus snickered beside you, kneeling to help you gather your tools. You weren’t sure what irritated you more—the rain’s uncanny timing, Sylus’ teasing, or the pretty, cyan monarch fluttering just out of reach of your net. You had been hunting that thing for days!

The pair of you fled the forest as rain pelted down, your curses and laughter intermingling with that of your heavy footfalls splashing in errant puddles. Sylus used his coat as a makeshift umbrella, but it didn’t hold for long. You were both drenched, your clothes matted to you like a second skin, by the time you reached your doorstep. 

Swathed in the pale haze of your entryway, you pant as your mirth peters out. And as the silence of your home takes over, you become keenly aware of how close you are to him. How warmth radiates off his skin, scorching you to the bone. And the scent he carries is reminiscent of bonfires and sea spray, an aroma you’ve learned to associate with home. 

Your eyes slide over the contours of his torso, defined by the wet cling of his shirt. He’s a far cry from unsightly—you first noticed how handsome he was when he appeared on your quiet little island some months back, swept in by the idle drag of the tide. 

Your study ends at his face where your gazes interlock, his scarlet eyes creasing with mirth to match the cant of his lips. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You quickly look away as heat creeps into your face, evoking a chuckle from the center of your ruminations. 

“Clothes. I’ll get you some clothes,” you utter, feeling along the wall for your light switch. 

The confined space floods with warm light—your saving grace. You maneuver through your home, drip-dropping onto the hardwood floors in pursuit of your bedroom. With a towel draped over your shoulders, you return to the figure standing in your living space, a dark, regal cutout amid your minimalistic decor. 

You clear your throat, more so to cast away the dreamlike fog that had befallen you. Toss a towel at his head, avoiding the inquisitive arch of his brow as you deposit sweatpants and an oversized shirt into his hands.

“Clothes from an old fling?” Sylus pokes, something new coloring his typically flat tone. 

You shrug as you make for the hallway, ignoring how a bit of you sparkles at the prospect of him being jealous. You are merely friends—you showed him the ropes when he was disoriented and irritable, helping him find a place on the island when he finally accepted that it was his new home. 

As time passed, you found it more challenging to deny your attraction to him. Sure, he appeared rough on the outside. But as he settled into the humdrum of your lifestyle, his rigid edges started to smoothen, and you discovered there was more to him than his sharp quips and shady origins.

You retreat into your room once more, your waterlogged clothes puddling around your feet. You settle on a shower. Its soothing spray eases the tight coil of your muscles. Washes the grime from your skin. When you’ve thoroughly scrubbed off the day’s adventures, you pour yourself into something comfortable, towel-drying your hair before emerging in your home’s main lounge. 

It’s serene here. Warm—you lit some logs in the fireplace to chase away the biting cold the rain ushered in. The pop and fizz of the fire merge with the sound of rain patterning your rooftop. The shower in the guest bathroom sputters to life. Sylus must have had the same idea, his clothes folded in a neat pile atop your dryer. Briefly, you tango with the imagery of him in the shower. Skin flushed from the hot spray, water easing over the ridges of his body, lips parted with a relaxed sigh pushing through them, his back muscles—

You chuck his attire into the dryer alongside yours, deciding that a pot of tea would be a lovely distraction. 

Seated at your dining table, you smile as you watch the rain beyond your window, the warmth of your mug bleeding into your palms. With your finger, you draw nonsensical shapes into the condensation collecting on your windowpane, falling into a bout of normalcy.  

You hardly register the guest bathroom door opening, nor do you notice the figure moving through the quiet tranquility of your abode until he startles you with the click of your electric kettle placed back on its base.

You’re met with a defined, warm ivory stretch of skin panning in. With scarlet eyes tuned to you beneath alabaster locks pasted to his forehead, wet from his shower. He towels off his hair as he slides onto the chair across you, legs crossed, and you owlishly blink as he sips your tea from one of your mugs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

No matter how often you’ve invited him into your home, you'll never get used to this. How massive he is in comparison to your humble kitchen. What audacity he has, making himself comfortable as if it’s his second home. And shirtless, no less. Bloody shirtless and shameless, and your throat grows dry as you force your eyes elsewhere, grip white-knuckled on your cup’s handle. 

“Was the shirt too small?” you ask to assuage your nerves, knocking the ceramic lip of the mug against your teeth. Smooth. Real smooth.

“It was,” he replies with a twitch of a smirk. Perches his elbow on the headrest, and you try vainly to ignore how such a simple movement boasts his bicep. “I don’t necessarily enjoy wearing another man’s clothes, either,” he adds, pensively looking down at his sweats. They’re a snug fit, the hems cinched around his shins. “A small one, at that.”

You sputter into your mug, tea flying every which way. Bite back a smug little smile as you blot your mouth dry with your sleeve. Sylus’ brow quirks. Never mind if the pants don’t quite fit him. He’s jealous, isn’t he?

Who would’ve thought your companion possessed such a trait? And for you, of all people? Perhaps you’re not as friendly as you perceived, and the notion makes you brim with muted glee. 

In all honesty, the clothes are yours. You have a penchant for loose-fitting, oversized things. But you decide to play up this newfound insecurity, feigning nonchalance as you sip from your mug. 

“Who else has been here besides me?” prods Sylus, voice fringed by bitterness. “As far as I've gleaned, we’re the only two humans on this island.”

It’s endearing, really—how up and arms he’s getting, bristling like a wet cat, leaning slightly over the table to interrogate you. Scarlet eyes narrow beneath pinched brows, something of a pout tugging his lips southward. 

You shrug, spurred by his envy. “Who knows? It could’ve been the mailman, Saharah, maybe even—ow!” You flinch, rubbing your forehead. You fix Sylus with a scowl. 

He smirks, leaning back in an easy slouch against your chair after flicking you, arms crossed over a virile chest. “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it, sweetie.” 

The term of endearment rolls so effortlessly off his tongue. You forget how much your forehead smarts, your petty greed for revenge. He’s called you his ‘sweetie,’ or some variation of it, for as long as you can recall, rarely addressing you by your given name. 

You sit up in your seat, clasping the steadily cooling mug between your hands. Drum your fingers against the crisp ceramic as a quiet smile rounds your lips, and you chuckle, fondness blooming like lotus petals in your chest. You decide you quite like this side of him, his usual cockiness traded for something fragile, childlike. 

Just when you’ve decided to forgive him and reveal that those pants he’s wearing are yours, Sylus has to open his big, stupid mouth. And suddenly, you don’t feel so bad for giving him the piss.

“You don’t peg me as one for bestiality, so I doubt you’ve done anything with the animals on this island. Unless—”

The rain. When the fuck was it going to stop raining?

—

You’re not entirely sure what leads to it—your breasts, warm and soft beneath the might of his chest, your breaths intermingling as you study each other on your floor.

Perhaps it began whilst seated on your couch, your thighs occasionally touching as you listened to the rainfall, filling the hushed space with idle quips and chatter. Or maybe it started when Sylus draped an arm about the back of your sofa, unconsciously scooting closer, watching your lips form words so intensely. Could it have started when he grabbed your chin, canting your face towards his under the guise of swiping some lint from your cheek?

Or could it have been something long-forming? Something bubbling like sea foam between you, building over the span of six months spent in each other’s company. Playing this silly game of keep-away, like your feelings for each other weren’t branded into your wrists for all the island to see.

Who knows.

You haven’t much time to dwell on the source because his mouth is panning in. Petal pink and soft, dark lashes bowing over peach-tinged cheeks. And you’re quietly awaiting the union of your mouths. Polite as your eyelids shutter, your palms gently perched on his traps. 

He’s kissing you before you know what’s about. Lips a tender yet insistent pressure against yours, sending your heart soaring into the stratosphere. His soft groan vibrates your lips, furls in your chest, your veins pumping liquid fire. You draw away from each other carefully, and your bleary eyes crack open, ingesting the sight of scarlet irises smoldering like liquid spilled over hot coals. 

He sifts through your gaze, wordlessly asking to kiss you again. You don’t deter him, lifting your head to meet him halfway, guided by your arms slowly snaking about his neck. He kisses you again, full-bodied and assured this time, chest deflating as he presses more into you. His lips part, a sweltering tongue easing out, seeking out the slippery glide of yours. When you return his attention, he groans something bitten-off, the sound of it reminiscent of thunder churning in the horizon.  

You lose yourself to the feel of him, to the pressure of his lips and his hips notching between your splayed-open legs. He’s heavy, mooring you to the floor with half his weight settled on his elbow beside you. You don’t complain, feeling so very safe, your fingers gliding between the warm, silken strands of his hair.

The kiss grows more feverish as the seconds pass. And you’re distracted from the devastatingly possessive slant of his mouth when his fingers creep like spindly spider limbs over your body, pushing up your shirt until the supple skin of your side skates beneath his fingertips.

He breaks away with a sticky click. Lips distended, curving into a smile. Affection colors his countenance, a side of him you’ve rarely witnessed, and the sight of it siphons the air from your lungs. 

“We can stop,” he murmurs, voice gritty like sand caught between your teeth. “We can stop if you’d like to.”

“Never,” you breathe, snatching him into another lip-lock.

He laughs into your greedy little mouth, murmuring between each sticky grind of your lips. “Are you sure—” Kiss. “—your ex-boyfriend—” Kiss. “—won’t mind?”

You fix him with a deadpan look at his callback to your baggy clothes, to which he smiles, fragile and unguarded, and you feel it pulling in your chest. 

Silence stretches between you, pulled taut like a bowstring, whilst you scrutinize each other’s faces. The atmosphere grows heavy with yearning and something more nestled in between. Something like love. For a moment, nothing but the distant rain and the violent pulsing of your heartbeats fill the space. Your lips quiver. His eyes fall to your mouth.

Sylus takes your wordless cue, sneaking his arms beneath your waist to draw you closer, and you’re giggling like an enamored adolescent as he hauls you up with him, your ankles intuitively crossing at the divot of his back. He carries you through your home, toeing your bedroom door open before laying you amongst the crisp, doughy comforter of your bed.  

He leaves you breathless and starstruck as you sit up on your elbows, watching the focal point of your affections sluggishly pull the string of his sweats free. He observes you with a mischievous glaze to his eyes, chin tilted up, bottom lip caught between his teeth as the muted glow of your bedroom outlines the rigid contours of his body.

He moves tortuously slow, tugging the waistband of his—your—pants southward, the neat beginnings of a silver trail catching your sight. He maintains some modicum of modesty, his girth prominent yet concealed by the loose hug of his briefs once he’s divested himself of your sweats. 

Your mouth hangs open, throat dry. Something warm spills into your belly, puddling in the apex of your thighs. Your gaze flits back to his, and he moves like a soundless beast through the haze, pushing you back against your mattress with a kiss, your legs instinctively parting to make room for him.

He’s blistering your neck with kisses now, eliciting the cutest little sounds from your throat. Nipping, licking, claiming his way down, concluding his mouth’s excursion at your collarbones. Your fingers rove over the tight cords of muscle in his back. And you sigh, hot and wanton, shutting your eyes with your head thrown back when he bites down, sure to leave pretty splotches of purple flowering on your skin come morning. A marking, a branding, a claim on the off chance that there really is someone else. 

His desire prods the inner cut of your thigh. You burn hot as your hips conduct a shy rhythm of their own accord, undulating off the bed to grind against him. Sylus hisses something sharp, sticky. Exhales all slow like he’s trying to rein himself in. Palms, broad and possessive, mold around your waist, anchoring you down, halting its tantalizing dance.

You whine petulantly, meeting the molten wash of his gaze. 

“Are you sure this is what you want,” he whispers, open-mouthed against the column of your throat. The fragility of his tone makes your heart pinch. “Are you sure I’m what you want?”

You nod vigorously, biting your lip. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more. You’ve often craved this closeness—this level of intimacy with him. You were too afraid to act on your sentiments in case he didn’t reciprocate them. Would rather waste your days quietly pining for him at his side instead of running him off with your feelings.

“Your words, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “Use them.”

“Yes. Yes, I want this, and you. I want you.” 

The words flee from betwixt your lips without nary a thought. And the muggy air of your bedroom shifts again, something of danger tinging it. His lips crook with a smirk. He sits back on his haunches, heavy hands scrubbing down your quads, over your knees and shins to close around your ankles. 

“In that case, sweetling, we should get you out of these clothes.”

You move so comically fast, tearing your shirt from your shoulders, shimmying out of your bottoms and underwear to kick them off. Sylus can’t help but laugh, and heat branches into your neck. He swoops in to capture a pebbled nipple between his lips, corking whatever words of protest you planned in your throat. 

You bow into him on an exhale, fingers sifting through his hair as a pleasant pressure curdles between your thighs. His gaze never relinquishes yours, and having him watch you so intensely makes you throb. It’s as if he’s already attuned to your body, a devilish hand easing down the ripples of your rib cage, past your navel, to cup the radiant heat of your muff.

He groans when he feels you. Sweltering and slick, dribbling into his palm. Two fingers curl inward, stroking through your folds in search of the pucker of your cunt. When he finds it, he teases its sticky perimeter, the tips of his fingers easing in and out with an obscene schlick. He moves to pay similar homage to your other nipple with his mouth, and the sensation of it on you, coupled with the slow press of his fingers and his thumb meticulously circling your clit, drives you to the brink of insanity.

“Sylus, please, just—fuck.”

“Mm?” he hums, sluggish tongue swirling about your nipple in his mouth. 

You clench around him, trying vainly to trap his digits within the warm clench of your cunt. You whine when he draws his hand back, your slick painting your inner thigh like a gooey, translucent brush stroke. He’s going to make you beg—you just know it. 

Swallowing your pride, your inhibitions, your bashfulness, you grab a fistful of his hair, and he shudders, releasing your nipple with a lew pop, all bleary-eyed and panting. 

“Too much?” he exhales, his countenance awash with sleepy desire.

“More. I need more,” you relent, acutely aware of how tightly you’ve gripped his locks. You quickly release him, feeling bad for pulling to the point of pain. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine, sweetheart,” Sylus soothes, taking your hand and guiding it back to the delicate hairs at his nape. “I quite like this side of you. So beautiful when you beg. When you use me like this. Can’t get enough of it.”

His lashes shutter as he kisses down your stomach, agonizingly slow, mouth hovering dangerously close to where you radiate heat. He kisses each inner wind of your thigh. Noses the bulge of your clit, sending pleasant shockwaves rippling throughout your body. 

“Here?” A kiss where outer labia meets thigh. “You want me here, sweetheart?” Another to the other side, the warm musk of your sex causing his eyes to dip into a mysterious shade of garnet.

You nod drunkenly, your fingers twitching in his hair. 

“Words.” Sylus teases your cunt with a flattened tongue, drawing it back into his mouth when you’ve barely registered the sensation.

“Yes, fuck. Right there. Right there.”

He wastes no time licking you open thereafter, his long fingers splitting your cunt wide in an upside-down V. He groans with each swipe of his tongue as if thanking you for the meal. The gratified rumble of his voice, accompanied by the skilled flit of his tongue, pushes you closer toward that slurry edge. Closer to that blissful void where the world falls away, leaving you tenuous and weightless.

“Come for me, sweetling,” he urges against your cunt, employing his fingers to help get you there. They curl and twist and piston, the coiling sensation brewing in your stomach, slowly unwinding. And with a final nudge to your clit with his tongue, the world opens up and swallows you whole, making way for a blissful white, your tendons shaking, lips quivering around the vowels of his name. 

He strokes you through your orgasm. Kisses and licks until the stimulation borders pain, and you pull on his hair, quietly urging him to stop. He reluctantly draws away from your sex, towering over you, chin shining with your nectar in the gray hue of the light filtering in through your curtains. 

Your chest heaves as you greedily suck in oxygen. He strokes soothingly over your skin, watching you with all the fondness of the world. Pinches one of your nipples, and you wince, the aftershocks of your orgasm dragging over you like waves licking the shore. 

When you’ve fully sunk back into your skin, you’re reminded of how painfully hard he is, his girth pressing against your thigh, a dark patch of pre-spend staining the slit of his briefs. 

You sit up quickly, eager to please. Eager to reciprocate, fingers hooking beneath the elastic band, tugging down, and your mouth waters with the prospect of being wrapped around him. Of ingesting the briny edge of his pre-cum, sucking him sweetly into your mouth. But he stills you with a hand clasped around your wrist, a laugh dredged from his chest as if he’s perused the catalog of your thoughts. 

“Later, sweetheart,” he teases, splaying your fingers over his chest, where his heart beats a wild cadence just for you. He holds your gaze, scarlet irises brimming with tenderness. “For now, I want to ensure you truly desire this.”

He’s fucked you within an inch of your life on his tongue, on his fingers, and still, he seeks reassurance as if your mind will change with a sudden bout of whiplash.  

His mouth hinges open with the effort of breathing as your fingers ghost along the taut stretch of skin between his pectorals. Your hand eases down, wrist still ensnared by his pleasantly warm fingers, yet he doesn’t stop you this time when it dips into the slit of his underwear. He watches you as you tug him free, his turgid length slapping against his abdominals, a pretty, pearlescent strand of pre-spend catching in the low light, oozing from the tip, honey-slow.

Saliva puddles in your mouth at the sight of him. Red, swollen, and pulsing, and you guide your hand to the base of him, evoking a stifled sound and a shiver from his person when your fingers swallow him at the hilt. 

“I want you, Sylus,” you assure with all the conviction of the world. And you stroke him so good, his length hot and sturdy in your palm, twitching with each possessive tug. You’re enamored by the hoarse noises you evoke, each sound seemingly pinched from his lungs as if he fears pleasure. As if he’s never received it. 

Wordlessly, you lean back into your bed, guiding him against your slit. You coat his tip with your slick, sucking your lip between your teeth, watching him with lust-laden eyes as his carefully-constructed composure starts to crumble.

“You feel so good here, Sylus,” you laud, shocked by the low gravel of your own voice. How you mustered the courage to praise him, to tease him like this, your breaths collectively catching when the tip prods your opening. “So, so good. Need you…here.”

“Careful, sweetheart,” he bites off, catching himself on his palms, roosted on either side of your torso. Pressing his hips against you, testing the swollen barrier of your cunt. “If you keep talking to me like that, you might start something you won’t be able to finish.”

Your eyes shine with mirth, contrasting the terribly distracting thing you’re doing with your hand—with your pretty, sticky cunt. “Try me.”

Sylus snorts, swatting your hand away. You watch with bated breath as he tugs his briefs down, kicking them off to join your clothes on the floor. He anchors you to the bed with the welcomed weight of his body, his cock dragging through your folds, saturating the shaft with your slick. “Shall I go shake a tree for a condom before we get started?”

You blanch, whacking him on the chest. And he laughs something hearty, throaty, full-blooded, apologizing with a kiss as he feeds his cock into you, pushing into the tight webbing of your cunt. You share an exhale. Exchange a look with your foreheads pressed together, his eyes searching for any signs of discomfort as he strokes into you, easing his way home. 

You find he’s massive in more than just stature. And you feel so very full. So complete, shaky breaths in, ankles instinctively locking around his waist.

Once he’s fully slid home, hips rucked up against your pubic mound, he stills, mercifully granting you time to adjust. There’s a crease to his brows. A downward twitch to his lips as he scrutinizes you. You lure his mouth to yours to kiss away his concern, clenching around him once you’ve settled, signaling for him to move. 

You swallow each other’s groans as he fucks into you. Steady strokes at first, tempering the pace. Always such a gentleman, putting your needs first, his desires pushed to the back burner. He’s selfless in everything he does. You’ve already had your fill, the tang of your sex still emblazoned on his tongue as he pushes it into your mouth, and your hips surge off the bed, meeting him stroke for delicious stroke. 

He tears away from your mouth, straightening. Looms over you like something beastly, one hand clasped around your ankle, holding you nice and open for him whilst the other eases between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with laser precision. 

His weighted balls knock against the cleft of your ass as he quickens the pace, twitching inside you, panting. Reveling in the love-drunk look on your face, how your mouth hangs open, words left unbidden on your tongue.

“Feels so nice,” he breathes betwixt each knock of his hips. “Never wanna stop. Taking me so well.”

Your hand slides down to press against his stomach, and you crane your neck to watch the union of your bodies. You feel like you’re in a dream, still in disbelief of what’s transpiring. This stranger who had dismantled the barrier you erected around your heart and pilfered it, rocking into you, the headboard cracking against the wall, chorusing with the thunder rolling over the horizon outside. 

That sparkling sensation builds again. Creeping like ivy through a lattice fence. You throw your head back, shutting your eyes. His fingers slip between the interstices of yours, pinning your hands to the bed as he fucks you, driven purely by instinct. By the sensation of you quaking around him, greedily sucking him in, never wanting to let go.

With one final snap of his hips, he comes undone, painting the gummy mesh of your cunt a sticky white, cum oozing down your inner thighs to stain the sheets below. He continues thumbing your clit as he pants, inching you off that plinth with him. 

“Another, sweetheart. Just like that. Give me one more,” he dotes, still buried deep inside you. You clench your teeth, rocking your hips in time with the swipe of his thumb. “Give it to me.” Your walls finally shudder around him, phosphenes dancing behind your lids, the world full of static and floating around you. 

You come undone for the second time that afternoon, this one lazier than the last, but still all-consuming. He falls against you, your bodies coated in a fine sheen of dewy sweat as you laugh. And you squeeze him in an embrace, ignoring how he crushes the air from your lungs with his weight. You could die happy like this, your affections reciprocated, desire sated.

He unsheathes himself from the hot suction of your cunt once your breaths have evened out. You groan from the extraction, feeling so lonely and empty when he disappears from your bedroom. But he returns shortly after, gently cleaning up the remnants of your lovemaking with a towel, chuckling now and again when you tease him with one of your terrible jokes.

The remainder of your day is spent swathed in his embrace, your hips notched up against his groin, until sleep claims him. His steady breaths tickle the sensitive skin behind your ear. With a smile rounding your lips, you watch the rain fall through the gauzy sweep of your curtains, lulled into a sleepy haze by its gentle symphony, by thunder stretching across the skyline, yawning like a sated cat.

You might not have caught the butterfly you’ve been hunting all week. But you’ve captured something much more appealing in its stead, you think, twisting in Sylus’ arms to admire him, gathering his cheeks in your palms, easing your thumbs over the tender swell of his lips. 

You watch his lashes dance with sleep, stroking the divot between his brows away with the pad of your thumb. You pan in to kiss him, something chaste and adoring, and his lips twitch upward against yours. He pulls you tighter against him, murmuring something incoherent before burying his chin into the hollow of your shoulder, a content sigh pushing through his nostrils. 

[muntitled]

omg hi pookie bear , hru ?

i’m going feral and have a request <\3 hmm what if anton hasn’t seen his gf in a few months because she stays in the states . they usually make sure to call and check in with each other every night but maybe for the last few days she hasn’t been responding too much but only because she’s flying to go surprise him ! so basically a bit of angst then fluff at the end loll (and a little smut if ur up to it 🤓👆🏾) .

also, can i be 🎀 anon ?!

Of course, my darling! Thank you for the lovely request, I literally had so much fun writing this omg.

𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 | 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐞

- Pairings: Anton Lee x Fem!Reader

- Warnings: Language, Established Relationship, Codependency, Angst, Jealousy, Relationship Paranoia, Possessiveness, Manipulation, Smut (+18, Minors DNI), Spitting, Size Kink, Praise Kink, Dry Humping, Unprotected Sex, Needy Sex

He wouldn't call himself obsessive.

That's not the correct word. Infatuation would probably best explain the tempest of emotions rattling through his brain when his phone rings, signaling a video call from you.

Sungchan's chest rises and falls with the extremities of their evening workout. He barely keeps himself toppling over when he and the rest of the group watch Anton lumber to his bag in large, quick steps

"Yo?" Sohee asks, anatomically defeated as he races to catch his breath.

"Carry on, without me," Anton throws over his hunched shoulder. He is cupping his phone with both hands when he enters one of the many bathrooms peppered throughout the gym, letting his feet guide him almost robotically into a stall while his finger swipes to answer the video call. At the sight of your relaxed smile, Anton exhales lightly.

He knew it's particularly bad to form dependant relationships, but he couldn't exactly help himself, can he? Your voice is just so light when you say, "Hi," and his is equally shy as he replies with his quiet "Hi yourself."

Anton can not help himself from being so incredibly infatuated. He's diving headfirst into codependency, but hey, at least he is aware.

At least he is aware that he would do quite literally anything for the girl in trapped in his phone, and you would do the same for him, therefore it is of no surprise at all when he airly says, "You're so pretty,"

His voice is barely above a whisper and his eyes are bright as he buries the lower half of his face in the comforting fleece of his black sweater. "Really pretty,"

An airy sort of chuckle escapes the confines of your lips, and Anton's pulse begins to race as he takes note of your tongue swiping over your bottom lip. "Anton, did you hear anything I just said?" If it weren't for the slight hesitation that pollutes the sound of your beautiful voice, Anton would've gladly kept staring at your lips. But his heart sinks imperceptibly as he gazes back at you apprehensively.

"Uh- no," he says, "I was too busy thinking about how excited I am for you to get here." The panic only begins to set when your smile wavers.

"Oh... about that-"

"No," he whispers, "Please don't do that-"

"My boss hasn't exactly cleared me for a vacation day-"

Anton is livid, but his voice remains stable. "We have spoken about this for 2 months!"

"You know how my boss can be," you reply, "He hasn't given me off, Anton. I have no one to cover my shift, I'm sorry!" You exclaim, as the dreaded guilt begins to trickle into your voice. Anton's eyes narrow, and he brings his phone closer. Temporarily ignoring his whirlwind of negative emotions, Anton instead skeptically asks, "Where are you?" That doesn't look like your bathroom."

Anton's heart only sinks lower into the pit of his stomach when he notices a quick hint of alarm flash through your eyes before you're pulling the camera back into a more intimate aspect ratio as you prattle on. "Yeah, I just decided to head to the movies to make myself feel better. Maybe you should do the same," your voice is tight and layered with anxiety as if you were... lying to him.

Anton cannot imagine why you would want to do that, least of all to him. He knew when you lied because you both did it together. On myriad occasions.

He made you call up your part-time job on multiple occasions, rubbing smoothe, encouraging circles on your belly while you feigned an illness just to spend more time with him.

In high school, you had both lied to each of your parents about 'studying together' when in actual fact, those 4 had been excuses to make out messily in your sheets. Exploring confusing emotions until a simmering heat flowed through the both of you while Anton's large hands began to pet over new, various spots on your body.

He had never been on the receiving end of your dishonesty, not even since he left the country. But here you are, evading eye contact, stuttering over your words and lying...

to him.

"How's the team workout been, big boy?" He notices with grave finality how quick you are to not only change the subject, but to weaponize a nickname that you knew would have him melting for you.

Is this what you have both become?

Was he seriously being manipulated?

Was he...

Perhaps...

Being cheated on?

The thought sent a wave of nausea threatening to spill out of his badly pursed lips, and perhaps you realize, from years of studying Anton's non verbal expressions, that he was thinking of something very grave and very bad.

"Hey, didn't you say you only had five minutes?" Your voice is like the tingling goosebumps left in the wake of your nails raking across his skin and he shivers slightly.

"Yeah," his voice, although characteristically quiet, is guarded and you frown, perhaps noticing that you have a lot of making up to do.

Anton suddenly, quite literally out of the blue, asks, "Remember when you said you went bra shopping the other day?

"Yeah?" You ask, completely oblivious to the darkened thoughts polluting your boyfriend's mind. You watch his eyes tare into yours as he monotonously asks.

"Are you wearing any of the new ones right now?"

"Anton, aren't you in the middle of-"

He immediately cuts in, voice impatient and snide, "They can carry on without me, it's fine."

It was petulant, but Anton needed to know you still belonged to him. He needed to know that high school wasn't some sick fever dream you could just swiftly move past as if it meant nothing. He needed to know that.

"Can I see?"

You curtly comply, and you look around before pushing yourself further into the stall. You both found yourselves on opposite end of a cellular line, both silent with the weight of your attraction to one another, keeping your eyes glued to the screen.

"Please?" He asks, in an airy voice, "for me?"

Anton knew from the strike of guilt in his chest that it was not a morally correct thing to do, but what else was there?

You would be away from him, indefinitely. He would have to spend another evening, another week, another month without your body to hold onto. Not to mention, the jealousy at this new hypothetical boyfriend still hung heavily on his shoulders.

Besides, Anton's guilt completely disappeared when you begrudgingly pulled the string of your halter neck down until the material was falling flmisily down your torso, exposing your chest to him. Anton released a wobbly breath while his hand almost immediately went to cover the bulge, forming in his oversized pants. "Oh god," he whispered.

It was so remarkably mesmerising watching your boyfriend slips so easily into desire. You knew he was angry and that made this part of the mission remarkably uncomfortable, but instead, you choose to focus on Anton's lumbering breathing through the screen of your phone. His large eyes hooded and locked onto your breasts, still very much covered by your white lace bra.

Although he cannot see anything besides cleavage, Anton reckons he could cum just from this. That's how bad he needs you, that's how bad he yearns for your soft, grounding presence to be near him.

But your phone chimes. And just as Anton's jaw locks, you exclaim, "Babe, I have to go-"

"What?" The frown on his face is astounding, but you're already propping your phone up to pull up the strings of your dress.

His protests fall on deaf ears.

You could not very well tell him that you have already touched down in Korea. You couldn't tell him the unrecognizable bathroom stall was a sterile cubicle in the international airport. You couldn't tell him that you were closer than he thought.

"My movie is gonna start soon,"

His shoulders visibly deflate and your heart pounds faster in your chest.

"Skip it,"

"I'll call later okay?"

"Skip the movie."

"I love you,"

When you abruptly ended the call, Anton stared at his screen until the dimness turned to black, with only one question permeating through his restless mind.

'Do you?'

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

"You say you hear me," Sohee's voice reaches the rafters as the group of boys leave the gym. "You hear me, but do you feel me?"

"Gross," Anton mumbles, leaving Sohee behind.

"It's a simple question," The older boy continues, "at what point does water become soup?"

"When any reasonable amount of seasoning is added," pipes up Shotaro, adjusting the straps of his work out bag along his shoulder.

"Don't encourage him," Eunseok grumbles as they all walk out into the cool night air.

Anton's gaze is still lowered to the floor, but his breath stutters momentarily at the sudden rush of the open air.

"So salt water can be considered soup?" Sohee scoffs, "That's what you're telling me right now?" The group groans in unison, all beginning to walk like a hive mind to the nearest restaurant. All except Anton, who is quieter than usual, whose only plans for the evening consist of wallowing in self-pity.

"Hey, um, I'm just gonna go home," he says, causing the group of boys to stop in their tracks. Anton evade their curious, worried gazes.

"Not when you look like you're about kill yourself-" Shotaro says, attempting to step closer to Anton, but only frowning when the youngest takes a step back.

"That's okay," he attempts to reassure his friends, "There's a beat thats been..." Anton does vague hand gestures to the side of his head, "I wanna go work,"

He was already walking away, head bowed, and headphones pushed over his head, walking into the night before his friends could even get a word in...

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

He could not describe his feelings as Jealousy. That somehow felt like to tame a word to describe the flurry of emotions hanging so heavily on Anton's face as he pushes the password into the door's keypad, before kicking his shoes off at the door.

Anger was certainly a part of it. The large monolith of emotions threating to burst right through him. He felt unpleasantly overstimulated, even in the silence of the apartment. He felt like anything and everything was threatening to have him burst at the seams, his emotions running along the rim of his usually calm and collected state of mind, ready to spill over and make a dreaded mess everywhere.

Anton's only plans for the night had been to lock himself in his dorm room, perhaps crying, perhaps screaming, perhaps knocking himself out for a couple hours with his prescription sleeping pills. Anything to make this horrific strain on his heart disappeared.

The baggy clothes he is accustomed to wearing somehow appear bigger and sloppier as he lumbers his way deeper into the apartment, heart sinking the more steps he takes.

"Oh look,"

Cold, piercing phantom pain zings through his heart, kickstarting every dormant sleepy cell in his body.

"A dinosaur,"

Anton thinks that he couldn't even move if he wanted to. His socks are glued to the threshold, watching you, or perhaps an apparition of you, laying lazily on his bed.

His bed.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, and you watch with furrowed brows as Anton brings his two hands up to his face. You immediately push yourself off the bed when he begins to slap lightly at his cheeks, whispering incoherently about asylums and potentially getting a contact high.

His cheeks are already bright red when you stumble your way in front of him.

“Woah, Big boy,” your hands are on his wrist, effectively stopping Anton from reddening the skin any further.

He can feel you. He can feel the softness of your palms struggling to enclose around his large wrists.

“This is real,” he whispers, watching with wide, doe eyes as a smirk curls at the end of your lips. Before you can reply in whatever witty or snarky remark you had cooked up, Anton was already bending his head until his lips were crashing down to yours.

He very surprisingly, very uncharacteristically pours his strength into the kiss until you were stumbling back rather clumsily into his room.

Anton crumbles into a flurry moans and groans as he slips his tongue inside your mouth, melting into a whimpering puddle when your tongue brushes against his. “B-But when?” he breathes out before reattaching his lips to yours, letting his hands roam unabashedly over every part of your body it can find.

The infuriating need to breathe causes him to pull apart from you once again, but he never strays too far. Anton’s fingers dig into your sides until he's pulling your dress over your head. He wishes to capture every single inch of your exposed body to memory. The way you look up at him with a light, relieved smile curling at the sides of your puffy, red lips.

You're so much shorter than him, and it sends his brain into a mindless, state of lust. He loves how big he feels when you two are together, in the flesh with no digital box separating the two of you.

“H-How?” He breathes out, noting immediate that you are in the same white lace bra from your earlier phone call.

There is a cheeky smile on your face when you pull his oversized shirt over his head, all while he stares you down as if you hung the moon.

“I always keep my promises, Ant,”

His body betrays him with a rough shiver and he groans as you push him onto his bed, discarding his shirt behind you. As you prowl your way on top of him, Ant throws his head back into the sheets, nearly hyperventilating at the sight of you straddling his hips. You lift your torso, immediately discarding your bra, and Anton’s hand flies to cup your breasts. This, he immediately decides, is what heaven looks like.

“Fuck, you're so fucking pretty, you know that?” Anton rarely ever swore, so to hear the crass words coated in his airy, breathless voice is enough to have you moaning into the air, arching your back as you push his face into your chest while you press your core down onto his irresistible bulge.

“Oh God, Anton.”

“Missed you so much,’ he whines, before enclosing his mouth around your nipple, almost instinctively pushing his hips up to meet your desperate grinding. You were quite literally humping like maddened adolescents brimming with too many hormones to know what to do with.

When Anton feels his cock twitching in his pants, he immediately pulls away.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, “I need to be inside of you,” he admits gravely, already getting up to switch places until you were underneath his large and lumbering frame, “I don't think I'll last long,” Another grave admittance. He pushes his hand into his sweatpants, and you watch, mesmerized as he reveals his large, aching cock absolutely leaking precum.

“I'm definitely not gonna last long,” you reassure before eagerly opening your restless legs, “We're gonna cum together, yeah?” Anton squeezes his eyes shut before squeezing the base of his twitching dick. All while you slip your own underwear down.

“Yeah,” he agreed before positioning his cock at your weeping enterance.

You both watch mesmerized as his cock begins to stretch the tight walls of your soaked cunt. The stretch, immediately causing a whimper to slip out of your mouth as you throw your head back into the pillows. You're clenching around him, while Anton coaxes himself into you with shallow thrusts. The rutting being just enough to spill a wave of pleasure over the both of you. He watches you moan with wide, pained eyes.

“I know, baby-” He whisper, “You're doing so good for me, you know that?”

“Fuck, you're so big,” is all you're able to say, effectively causing his hips to stutter.

“F-Fuck I'm not gonna last long-”

Instead of repeating your response, you bring your hips up to meet Anton's thrusts effectively, taking him deeper and deeper until he was fucking you with little to no restraint.

“Oh God,” you whisper, as Anton clumsily brings a hand up to squeeze and pinch at your nipples. Not even a minute later and you're both sitting in the crest of your respective orgasms, looking deep into each other's eyes as if you were communicating that fact. Anton nods, completely dazed.

“Close,” he whimpers, “I'm so fucking close,”

Anton bends his head, spitting directly onto your clit. The sight has your hips stuttering, as the first signs of your orgasm warms your lower abdomen.

“F-Fuck, Ant- I'm-”

The moment his hand travels to rub dizzying wet circles on your clit, you crash into your orgasm.

“Oh fuck- oh fuck-” He fights to keep his eyes open but your squeezing him so hard and Anton can't help but cum directly inside of you. Both your lips are hanging open as your boyfriend attempts to fuck every last drop of his seed into you. You're both releasing months worth of frustration.

The frustration of not being near one another. Of relying on a device to keep your relationship afloat. It all comes crashing down until Anton's is thoughtlessly collapsing on top of you - the weight of a giant landing your front, with his hand playing lazily, wiyh your breasts as you both fight to catch your breathe.

Despite the obvious discomfort, the very last thing you think of doing is pushing him away. Instead, you cradle him closer, raking your fingers into his hair while his eyes flutter shut.

All is quiet, and you vaguely believe Anton may have fallen asleep, but his voice is wide awake as he says, “I thought you were cheating on me.”

You remain quiet, hoping the soft petting on his wild curls was reply enough.

“I'm never letting you go back, okay?”

Your eyes are heavy as you continue to smooothe down his hair, and you whisper, “Okay”.

♡♡♡

[lizzyiii]

just read “his lady love” and i’m completely obsessed with your writing, i definitely need a part 2 for that please 😭😭😭

His Lady Love (2)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.8k words

summary | you return to westeros, to find that the young prince has become a man and his burning infatuation with you has not died out and you reconnect with helaena

tags | no warnings? usual mention of targaryen incest (but let's be real, everyone who reads hotd fanfic has now normalised targcest), and child marriage (my poor bby Helaena), filler

note | oh my god, y'all 😭. idk what I was thinking with that dramatic ass mikaelson reveal. as we all know the reader is never described, but as we all also know the mikaelsons are white af. so I'm making it clear that the reader is NOT mikael's daughter, leaving the reader's description and race unknown, esther was busy getting her freak on and her real father will never be disclosed. because in my mind the reader or y/n is and will always be a curly-haired, brown-skinned baddie....so each to their own. AND I'm pretty sure this is going to be a series cause for the life of me I am unable to make a oneshot without further exploring a story.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Five long years had stretched into nearly two thousand sunrises since Aemond Targaryen last laid eyes upon you. Each passing day weighed heavily on his soul, a slow burn of a thousand bitter memories. Some days, the tempest of his emotions roiled within him, bidding him to hate you—for your departure, for the way you had vanished from court like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes and shadows in your wake.

But the flames of that hate flickered and faded, giving rise to a deeper yearning, a gaping void where love had once flourished. Even now, after all this time, your spirit held his heart captive, stolen under the very nose of fate when you chose to forsake the realm.

In the wake of your absence, thirteen year old Aemond had become a specter haunting the hallowed halls of the library, pouring over tomes and scrolls in a frantic quest for knowledge of House Mikaelson—a house that seemed to dissolve into the mists of myth with each turn of the page. The histories were silent, and when he turned to his elders, the lords and ladies of the court, their ignorance stung deeper than any sword. Your name was but a whisper lost amongst the louder clamor of dragons and destinies.

Desperation guided his steps toward the Queen’s solar, where his mother resided. He pressed forth, demanding answers of her, yet it was peculiar; though he sought her wisdom and guidance, she seemed to have forgotten the very reason of why she had made you one of her ladies-in-waiting. Her brows knitted with confusion as he spoke your name, her big brown eyes clouded with a nostalgia she could not place.

Yet Aemond could see it in the gentle curve of her lips, in the way her gaze drifted past him, as if searching for a phantom. She missed you, that was clear. Her heart held a chamber of memories crafted from your offered comfort amidst the whispers of court intrigue, from the grace of your presence that had brightened the darker days.

The weight of five relentless years bore heavily upon Aemond Targaryen. Through trials of fire and blood, he had forged himself anew, emerging both mentally and physically formidable. He was now the most skilled swordsman within the keep’s sturdy walls, a warrior of such caliber that even the esteemed Ser Criston Cole would struggle to match his prowess. Secluded in the dim light of solitary training grounds, he immersed himself in the ancient tomes of philosophy and the illustrious history of House Targaryen, dedicated to honing his mind as keenly as his sword.

Yet in this relentless pursuit of strength and mastery, the warmth of his heart had withered, leaving behind only the chill of calculated ambition. His facade, meticulously crafted, rendered him cold and unyielding — a visage so fierce that even the bravest souls flinched at the thought of meeting his gaze directly.

Thus, it was with a jarring dissonance that Aemond entered his sister, Helaena's solar that day. It was a ritual he had come to cherish against the backdrop of his darkening spirit, visiting her and the twins for a fleeting moment of respite. However, as he stepped across the threshold, the air thickened and his breath caught in his throat.

Helaena sat with delicate artistry upon a chaise, embroidering threads of vibrant colors while keeping a watchful eye on her children. But it was not the familiar sight of his sister that seized him. No, there, in the heart of the chamber, stood his mother, Queen Alicent, holding the hands of a woman whose features were obscured from his view. However, even with your back turned, he recognized you and your unmistakable figure.

Alicent’s large, expressive eyes caught his, shimmering with an emotion he had not anticipated. “Aemond,” she uttered softly, the sound piercing through the tension-laden silence.

With the calling of his name, you turned, and the breath in his lungs faltered. The years stretched out like an endless tapestry between the two of you, but as he beheld you standing there after all this time, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

Five long years had passed, and in that span, Aemond had transformed. His once-boyish frame had hardened, each line of muscle now finely chiseled, his stature soaring to a height that eclipsed yours. He had shed the skin of youth and emerged a man forged by the fires of ambition and vengeance, yet he could feel a familiar tug at his heart as he stared at you.

But you… you had remained untouched by time’s relentless march. Your face, flawless and luminous, bore no marks of age; not a wrinkle nor blemish dared mar your smooth skin. Your form he remembered was preserved in perfection, your hair framing your figure in the same glorious waves that had enchanted him years ago.

You were the embodiment of memories he cherished, the same as ever.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Aemond dared to believe you were but a haunting mirage conjured by his yearning heart. If not for the watchful eyes of his mother and sister resting upon you, he would have thought himself lost to despair, ensnared by the fantasies of his own making.

An eternity seemed to stretch in the daunting silence that enveloped the two of you, the world around forgotten as each of you engaged in a quiet, yet profound examination. Your eyes sparkled like the night sky in the light of the day, and when you smiled—the same saccharine smile that had once filled his heart with joy during the innocence of his childhood—it left him breathless. “My prince,” you spoke softly, your voice dancing in the air, “how you’ve grown.”

In that moment, something within him shifted—a profound balm against the bitterness he had nurtured like a dark plant within his chest. All the resentment, the stinging remembrance of your abandonment, and the shadows of sadness that once clouded his thoughts dissipated at the mere sight of your smile. His throat was dry as a winter's night, thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, and yet, the corners of his mouth began to lift involuntarily, mirroring the warmth radiating from you.

Mikaelson.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of countless souls. Yet, here, in this strange realm of Westeros, where dragons soared and the icy dread of White Walkers loomed behind the walls, such fear was but a whisper lost to the winds. No, this land, though foreign and fierce, offered you sanctuary—not the kind woven from solace and warmth, but the kind fortified by distance and the absence of your cursed siblings.

Here, there were no vampires lurking in the cloaks of night, nor were there werewolves howling beneath the pale moonlight. Instead, there were dragons, fierce and resplendent, and direwolves, proud and wild. Most crucially, there was no Mikael—a freedom that tasted of hope amidst you heart's turmoil.

True, you thought often on whether you should have brought your siblings along, for Mikael would never find this place. Yet, a heavy foreboding gripped you; you understood all too well that the Mikaelsons (Niklaus) very presence would shatter the fragile peace you sought. Westeros was far from a land of plenty, riddled with poverty and further burdened by the cruel fate of women, yet in its chaos lay distance.

So, you fled, slipping away into the shrouded embrace of night, abandoning the only family you had known—or, more accurately, what was left of it. It was the sixteenth century, a time when hope flickered dimly in the eyes of men and women alike. You had not laid eyes upon Finn since Niklaus, in his relentless wrath, had condemned him to a tormented existence, and staked a dagger in his heart. Kol fared no better; his defiance had earned him Niklaus' ire, leaving him to face the very same fate that had befallen their eldest brother.

Months had slipped by as you braved the tempestuous seas, each wave an echo of your desperation, each gust of wind whispering promises of a new beginning. You had set sail toward the edge of the earth, guided by an insatiable yearning for freedom—until at last, you had discovered Westeros.

You had arrived in Westeros with an unyielding ambition, your ethereal beauty concealing a fierce determination that allowed you to easily compel your way into the court of Queen Alicent Hightower as one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of dragonfire and the whispers of civil war clung to the air, a distinct reminder of the foreign heritage of the Targaryens.

The first time you had seen one of the great beasts aloft, its shadow sweeping across the land, leaving you breathless and in awe. Dragons were an embodiment of the Targaryen power, but alongside that power lurked a shocking underbelly of normalized incestuous unions and the festering decay of traditional familial bonds. For a girl raised among the Mikaelsons, who had danced among the vices of immortality, this was both familiar and grotesque.

Your new world was laced with intrigue—rumors skittered through the halls like restless spirits. The whispers spoke of Princess Rhaenyra and the seed of doubt surrounding her claim to the Iron Throne, the barbs of scandal raised even higher by her many alleged bastards. These complexities intrigued you, compelling you to observe from the outside, where the machinations of power were far more amusing than any political play you had encountered in your old life.

Queen Alicent, though esteemed and regal, bore the weight of her flaws almost indiscernibly, like a cloak of gold marred by rust. From what you could tell, the Queen wielded herself like a pawn—her father being Otto Hightower, an unseen puppeteer, tugging at the strings of her choices. Maternal instinct flickered in Alicent like the candle flames that lit the chamber at night; she faltered and stumbled but made an earnest effort to nurture her children as best she could, though in your opinion she had failed miserably with Aegon. And yet, her fund of effort, a raw and poignant endeavor, resonated with you. The Queen was imperfect, yet within that human frailty lay a semblance of motherhood that Esther Mikaelson had failed to give you.

Thus, in your role as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, you discovered a sanctuary of sorts. The court became a twisted labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, yet amidst the swirling intrigue, you found comfort in Alicent’s earnest attempts at kindness towards you.

In the two years you had spent in Westeros, you had found solace in the delicate friendship you created with Princess Helaena—a rare gem among the Targaryens, whose sweet and gentle spirit seemed devoid of the cunning that defined her kin. Helaena's quiet understanding struck a chord deep within you, reminiscent of a time before death had twisted your mind. Once, you too had lived in a world that felt like a dream, until Niklaus tore down the veil of your innocence with his ruthless reality check. He had carved fear into your heart, reminding you of the darkness that lurked within the world.

But as you observed Helaena, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped you. The Queen's decree to betroth the princess to Prince Aegon sank like a stone in her gut. Aegon—a broken soul, defined by indulgence and ambition—was a force of chaos that echoed the wickedness of their own familial bond. In many ways, he reminded you of Kol, with his infectious charm and volatile spirit, yet where Kol harbored a flicker of love beneath layers of darkness, Aegon radiated a depravity that sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart ached at the thought of Helaena being shackled to a boy so unworthy of her light. The specter of Aegon’s reckless nature loomed large, and you feared for the princess's fate. You could see it clearly: with every passing day of their union, Helaena’s spirit would wither under the weight of neglect and cruelty, her gentle soul extinguished in the fires of a loveless bond.

And then there was Prince Aemond, the second youngest son of Alicent's brood—a striking boy marked by a fierce determination to embrace his responsibilities as a prince. You often felt a pang of sympathy when you witnessed the relentless taunts from Aegon and the scornful jeers of his nephews, sorrow swelling in your chest at the knowledge that he was the only Targaryen without a dragon to call his own. And it was hard to ignore the tender glances he cast your way, his violet eyes lingering on you whenever you graced a room.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of Aemond standing at your door during the elusive hour of the wolf, his ethereal silver hair, tousled and framing a face streaked with tears, the light of hope dimmed in his now singular violet eye. Fury ignited in your core when he confided the harrowing tale of how Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, that dark sanctuary of vice—your heart shattered for the innocence that had been ripped from him, for the heavy shame that now clung to him, marked by his brother who should have looked out and protected him. By now, Aegon was six-and-ten, he should have gleaned wisdom from his years, yet he chose the path of cruelty instead.

In an effort to soothe the wounded prince, you opened your heart and your arms to him. You conceded to his requests, bathing him with tender care, allowing him the sanctuary of your presence as he lay beside you. Your intentions were pure, untainted by anything but the desire to comfort a boy you had come to deeply care for.

And yet, with a heavy heart, you turned your back on Westeros, your mind haunted by the echoes of family. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, you found yourself yearning for the bonds that had once defined you. The Targaryens, ensnared in their web of resentment and betrayal, made it clear that true loyalty and love were rare treasures. Their familial discord stood in stark contrast to the fierce devotion of your own bloodline. For all the chaos wrought by the Mikaelsons, love remained their unyielding anchor.

Niklaus, with his volatile nature, was both feared and revered by you; yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a soul tormented by the shadows of his past, perpetually haunted by the specter of abandonment. Finn and Kol, locked in eternal slumber by Niklaus’s cruel whim, lay undisputed in their coffins, yet your brother stood sentinel over them, unwavering and steadfast. The thought of returning to him was chilling; the mere sight of you would surely earn a dagger in your own heart.

You resolved to escape, to steal away before Queen Alicent could impose a husband upon you like a gilded cage. It was meant to be a brief respite, a momentary retreat from your burdens. You had once believed that seamlessly integrating into the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society would be a simple endeavor. Yet, the relentless weight of expectations proved stifling. Each encounter demanded a dance of delicate grace, a façade meticulously curated to meet the desires of those around you, and in turn, it drained your very spirit.

Thus, you sought solace in the sun-drenched lands of Essos, a realm that defied the rigid conventions you had grown weary of. Essos was a land of vibrant colors and broken norms, where the sun shone unabated and the very air seemed to sing of possibility. Gone were the burdens of being gracious and demure, replacing those restraints with the intoxicating freedom to explore the wild tapestry of cultures sprawled before you. In a realm filled with mercenaries and traders, where the scent of spice mingled with the salty sea air, you couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

Shame washed over you like a cold wave, a sharp pang of regret settling in your chest as you sat in Princess Helaena's solar, surrounded by the laughter of her twins, Jahaerys and Jahaera. The children, mere five summers old, served as a vivid reminder of your absence; Helaena had brought them into the world at the tender age of fourteen, while you had been lost in the allure of Essos. Your own selfish pursuits had drawn you away from Westeros, leaving your dear friend to navigate the tides of motherhood without your companionship.

But now, fate had drawn you back to Westeros, though the reason for your return eluded you—perhaps it was mere curiosity, or a desire to witness the Targaryens as they embarked on a path toward their own ruin. Perhaps it was simply the lingering comfort of a maternal embrace that Queen Alicent had once offered you. One thing remained certain: you were back, unchanged yet bound by the curse that clung to the Mikaelsons. You still appeared as you had, forever encased at the tender age of six and ten, the same age at which you had died nearly six centuries ago.

The twins were a study in contrast. Jaehaerys, the young prince, was somber and introspective, casting shy glances your way from beneath the curtain of his silver hair. In contrast, Jaehaera exuded a lively spirit, her laughter as bright as the morning sun. She was a sweet girl, eager for your attention, her small hands clutching her beloved dolls as she beckoned you to join her in playful realms of castles and grand adventures. Every so often, Jaehaerys would join in, indulging his sister’s imagination by taking on the role of a fierce dragon, albeit with a reluctance that made his quiet demeanor all the more endearing.

“I have missed you,” Helaena said softly from her place on the chaise, delicate fingers working through the intricate patterns of her embroidery, her gaze never leaving the fabric.

You met her gaze, a frown momentarily shadowing your features, your heart tightening at the sight of her. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "As I have missed you, princess. I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence."

“But you have returned, and that is what matters,” she replied with a tranquil certainty, her expression unwavering.

With a nod, you maintained your tight-lipped smile, the corners of your mouth struggling to lift fully. “Indeed, I have, and I hope to stay here for as long as fate allows.”

As you resumed your playful moments with the twins — Helaena’s voice broke through the lighthearted chaos as she called your name. “Pray tell, how old were you when you came to court?”

Your lips pursed gently as you recounted, your tone tense but soft, “I was but six and ten years, my dear princess.”

An oblivious smile spread across Helaena's face, illuminating her features. “And yet you appear unchanged, as if untouched by time’s passage. Like a Lepidoptera,” she remarked, her imagination weaving images as vivid as the embroidered fabrics around her.

Your brows knitted in puzzlement. "A what, my princess?"

"A Lepidoptera," she patiently repeated, her eyes shimmering with youthful curiosity. "It is a classification that encompasses butterflies, which remain breathtakingly lovely until the end of their days."

A bittersweet pang echoed within you at her words, for you were destined for a far different fate, cursed to wander the shadows as a creature of the night. Yet, you offered a slight nod, managing a soft, "Thank you, my princess," as you absorbed the weight of her innocent compliment.

“And yet, I cannot claim to have missed you as intensely as Aemond has,” Helaena mused, her gaze distant as you idly threaded your fingers through Jaehaera's shimmering locks of silver.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean,” you replied softly, masking your understanding with a facade of innocence.

“I believe you are quite aware,” Helaena said softly, a melodic note in her voice, her smile lingering with a teasing warmth, “Aemond has loved you since he was a mere boy.”

You cast her a sidelong glance before adopting an air of nonchalance. “Love is a weighty term for one so young, Princess. Surely, it was nothing more than a fleeting fancy.”

Helaena shook her head, her needlework a steady rhythm in her hands. “No, I do not believe so.”

Deep down, you didn't believe so either. Ever since your return to the depressive halls of King's Landing, a sensation had accompanied your every step—a watchful gaze lingering upon you. Aemond had worked to keep it hidden, but your heightened senses revealed the quiet intensity of his interest, as vivid as the summer sun.

There had been numerous revelations awaiting you upon your return to the Red Keep—the prideful births of young Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the scandal of Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon's elopement, and the grim decline of King Viserys's health, shadows stained upon the Iron Throne. Yet, the most haunting transformation was that of Prince Aemond.

Aegon had blossomed into the drunken sleaze you had always anticipated, a replica of the whims that dictated his every choice, but Aemond—oh, how he was the exact opposite of what you had envisioned. The youthful boy, once soft and unassuming, had unfurled into a striking figure, sharpened like the blade of a Targaryen sword, each line of his form etched with the harshness of time and expectation. His stature now towered over you, his presence immense, a tempest contained within the boundaries of a man’s body.

He seemed to carry within him a quiet fury, a storm beneath the surface, and it stirred something deep within you, a memory of that boy who had once been desperate for approval and had hope for a dragon. His boyish softness had been replaced by the resolute presence of a true dragon, a stark reminder of the power and peril that resided within his bloodline.

[velvetinks]

Stuck in the Storm

Joel Miller x f!Reader

warning: Joel and reader get stuck in a storm and things get pretty heated — rough sex, dirty talk, and lots of intense feelings.

The sky was an angry bruise, dark and swollen with thunderclouds that spat rain in torrents. The wind howled, rattling the shutters of the cabin nestled deep in the woods. Outside, the storm had trapped Joel. No way to go, no safe passage until the morning. Just the fire, the cold, and the relentless roar of the tempest.

Joel sat slumped by the hearth, boots kicked off, sleeves rolled up, his scars and calluses catching the flicker of the flames. His eyes, sharp and haunted, were fixed on the fire, but you could see the weight pressing on his shoulders, years of survival, of loss, of constant fighting just to stay alive.

The door suddenly groaned open, slamming against the wall, and you stumbled inside, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from your hair in rivulets, soaking the faded shirt clinging to your skin. You shivered, the cold biting through the wet fabric.

Joel’s eyes caught you immediately, hard and assessing, but there was something softer beneath that gruff exterior, a flicker of relief that you were safe.

“You made it,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.

You nodded, teeth chattering. Without a word, Joel reached out, his big hands rough and sure as they grabbed the hem of your shirt, peeling it off over your head despite the chill in the room. His fingers brushed over your damp skin, tracing the curves of your collarbones, the swell of your chest. The heat from the fire mixed with the cold still clinging to you, sending shivers down your spine.

Joel pulled you close, his broad chest warm against your back. His breath was heavy in your ear, ragged from the storm and something more, something urgent. The scent of wood smoke and leather mixed with the sharp tang of rain.

“You shouldn’t be out in this,” he growled softly.

You didn’t answer, your hands sliding over his strong arms, pulling him tighter. His lips found your neck, pressing slow, rough kisses against the skin. His teeth grazed lightly, a teasing nip that made you gasp.

Joel’s hands slid under your soaked shirt, warm skin replacing the cold fabric. His touch was possessive, demanding, as if the storm wasn’t the only thing threatening to break loose tonight. He grunted low in his throat, pressing into you, his body taut with need.

The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls, painting the two of you in gold and darkness. Joel’s lips left your neck to trail along your jaw, then down to your collarbone. His mouth was rough, insistent, as his hands roamed lower, fingers slipping beneath your jeans, brushing over your hips, your thighs.

Your breath caught, heart pounding. The storm outside was wild, but the heat between you was a different kind of storm, one that pulsed and roared in your veins.

Joel’s mouth found yours at last, fierce and demanding. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting, claiming. His hands gripped your waist like he was holding on for dear life, grounding himself to you in the chaos.

You pressed against him, needing him as much as he needed you. The storm had trapped you here, but it wasn’t the storm you feared. It was the raw hunger in Joel’s eyes, the desperate need he usually hid behind a hard shell.

His hands slid lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hips, the small of your back, until he tugged you closer still. You could feel the hardness pressing through his worn jeans, a fire kindling deep inside him.

Joel’s voice was a rough whisper, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight.”

You shivered, nodding against his mouth, your fingers digging into his back.

He lifted you easily, carrying you to the worn couch, laying you down gently despite the urgency in his touch. The firelight danced over his bare chest as he shed his shirt, revealing scars, muscles hardened by years of fighting.

Joel’s hands mapped your body with slow reverence, memorizing every inch of wet skin exposed to the warm air. His mouth followed, kissing a trail from your collarbone down to the swell of your breasts, making you arch beneath him.

The storm outside was distant now, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the fierce rhythm of his lips and hands exploring, claiming.

Joel’s touch was both rough and tender, demanding and protective. The weight of the world fell away in this moment, just you and him, tangled together against the storm.

His hands found the waistband of your jeans, slowly, deliberately slipping inside to touch bare skin, sending jolts of heat through your body. You gasped, gripping his shoulders as he pressed harder, needing more.

Joel’s eyes met yours, dark and fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but there was something tender beneath the roughness.

You nodded, breathless.

He smiled then a rare, soft curve that melted the hard lines of his face before pulling you into him, deeper, harder, like he was making up for every lonely night lost to the apocalypse.

The storm raged outside, but inside, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your bodies finding each other, desperate and hungry, alive in the quiet chaos.

[uhhlifeig]

Signature - May 18 - word count: 297 - @wolfstarmicrofic

“Boo,” a voice said, coming from the wall near Remus’s head. “You called?”

Remus grabbed his extra-heavy encyclopedia, looking around cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Bro,” the disembodied voice groaned from a place behind Remus’s armchair. “You literally called me, how do you not know who I am?”. 

“I… didn’t call anything,” Remus said blankly.

“Agh, another accident?” the voice said. “Hold on, lemme just-”

Suddenly, the most beautiful man Remus had ever laid eyes on materialized in thin air. 

His eyes were the shade of storms in summer, changing like a tempest. His hair was dark as night, and- 

He had wings.

Angel wings.

“Like what you see?” the man asked, smirking. “Name’s Sirius, by the way.”

Remus was pretty sure he was gaping like a fish out of water. “Uhhhh,” he said dumbly. “You have wings.”

Sirius flapped his wings, going a bit higher. “Of course, silly! Wouldn’t be an angel without them.”

“Angel? But you’ve got no halo,” Remus pointed out.

“Oh, that’s a myth. Speaking of myths,” Sirius clapped his hands a few times. “Have any suspicious-looking people come asking for your signature?”

Remus thought for a second. “Yeah, actually. A weird greasy dude wanted me to sign up for a… actually, I’m not sure what he wanted.”

“Ah,” Sirius sighed. “I hope you didn’t sign that paper.”

“Why not?”

“That man- he wasn’t a man. He was a demon.”

“What?”

“Yeah, man. So… I guess Mother dearest didn’t send me on another pointless retrieval, then. You’re coming with me.”

“Why?”

Sirius fixed him with a grim stare. “You’re our last hope, Remus Lupin. You have the spirit of Lupa in you. If the demons get to you and swing her in their favor, the universe will collapse.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, I know, right?”

[neteyamssyulang]

☽ Forbidden Moonlight ☽

Adult lo’ak art belongs to cinetrix <3

☽ Pairing: T'ahtu (Male yautja) x Fem human reader x Adult Lo’ak ☽

☽ Instead of heading the warnings, you chose to go out anyway. Now you must pay the price ☽

☽ Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con, Dark, Size difference, P in V, Dom T’ahtu, Sub reader, Dom Lo’ak, Belly buldge, Mentions of blood, Creampie, Implied somnophilia.

☽ Word count: 2,133 ☽

☽ Translation(s);

Na’vi: onvä'wll -> skunk palm, vrrtep -> demon, sevin -> pretty, tawtute -> human, syep'an -> lift vine.

Yautja: ooman -> human.

☽ A/N: Soo I’m still not sure about this but I wanted to post it anyway.

☽ Tagging: @ikeyniofthetayrangi @itchaboi-itchyboy @aria-tempest @anemonelovesfiction @loaksulluyswife @tallulah477 @shifting-questions @sinful-tawtute @bambithewriter

Tonight was the night, the annual blood moon and it would just so happen that this blood moon was special. Yes it brought out the na'vi's more feral side but this particular night another creature would make an appearance.

No one knows what it is, all they know is that it comes from a planet light years away and loves the thrill of the hunt. Every couple thousand years, the creature would travel to pandora in search of something worthy to take as a trophy.

This creature knows to respect the balance of eywas creations, which is why it only hunts and captures one prize.

Little did you know that prize would be you.

"Your not going, end of story" Norm spoke, crossing his arms. You had asked him if you could go on a walk just to collect some fruit you were craving. Eclipse hasn't even started yet so you would be fine, atleast you hope you would be.

Huffing you began to protest till Spider walked past, chuckling to himself after seeing Norm finally tell you no. Norm rolled his eyes knowing all too well what was going to happen,"Why does this make a wish Tarzan get to go out but I can't?!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Norm shook his head "He is more responsible and knows the forest y/n." Spider turned around putting on a fake pout "Aw, is the little girl mad because she's too fragile to go ou-" , "Spider do not finish that sentence!" Norm spoke firmly, trying to not make the matters worse.

"You know damn well when I do get the chance to go out I'm much more safer than him!" You shouted at Norm, it was true though. Your brother always found a way to get himself into danger whereas you were careful and made sure to avoid certain areas.

"Safer or just smelly to where everything and everyone avoids you like the plague? You wonder why your still single and yet you continue to rub that horrid stuff onto your skin when you go out" he mumbled, getting some yovo slices in a bowl then walked to his room closing the door.

Norm sighed, placing a hand on your shoulder "Please angel, tonight is not the night you wanna go out. Maybe tomorrow though" he gave a soft smile then returned back to his desk, finishing up some work that Grace had assigned to him.

Screw what they said, you could easily make it to the gathering spot and back before the blood moon started, right?..

Maybe also pick up some more onvä'wll since you were out.

You made your way quickly through the forest, towards where the gathering spot was. Upon arriving though you were greeted by the sweet yovu smell, and quickly got to work with picking atleast a few from the bush.

Once you had enough, you quickly started making your way back home. Sure you could try going further out for the onvä'wll but it was risky, if you had left sooner maybe you could've gotten them.

Eclipse had begun, with now the blood moon shining bright in the sky. Your senses were on high alert, knowing that if you made one wrong move you'd be dead.

The forest looked like something out of a horror movie, instead of the usual beautiful glow, everything was red. The only sounds you could hear were various clicking noises that sounded as if they were getting closer and closer each passing second.

Feeling as if you were being watched, you made a beeline for the outpost when something jumped down from the trees infront of you.

"Well well, what do we have here?" Lo'ak chuckled darkly, stepping closer. Instinctively you took a step back making him smirk "Aw, the little vrrtep thinks she can get away that easily."

The clicking noises were louder now, a branch snapping behind you had you turning around quickly, only to be met with a creature. This..this had to be the creature that you heard about..

It was tall, taller than the omaticaya boy making you reach only up to his stomach. Long locs fell past its shoulders and it's eyes glowed like amber. Lo'ak crept up behind you, coiling his tail around your waist as he glared at the creature.

The mysterious alien clicked its mandibles again, almost as if it was trying to communicate with you.

One part of you is aroused to be between two giant men, but the rational side reminds you that one only wants pleasure while the other wants a prize.

"Lo'ak please.. just let me go and I won't tell anyone I promise" you pleaded with him, Lo'ak only looked down at you raising a brow "Oh? you think you have a say in this little girl?"

"You are ours to claim, ours to ruin, it does not matter if you want it or not baby. You'll take everything we give you like a good slut."

His gaze moves back to the other creature, giving it a simple nod while holding you still. The predator looks down to his wrist, fiddling with something on it. The sound of a small hiss escapes the item and he pulls out a little metal disk, your brows furrow "Wh-what's that?"

Lo'ak's left hand went to grip onto your hip while his right moves up to your throat, forcing you to turn your head to the side. The predator steps closer, reaching his reptilian hand out and places the disk behind your ear.

A scream leaves your lips at the burning pain coursing through your skull, it felt as if you were being stabbed by a thousand hot needles.

Soon enough a deep voice fills your ear making you jump slightly "Good, the pretty ooman can understand me now."

Lo'ak releases his hold on you, shoving your body to the ground. Gulping, you back up in fear making both men amused. The omaticaya crouched down then moved closer, leaning in close to your ear whispering only one thing;

"Run”

Your lungs burned as you ran for what seemed like forever, they were playing with you, letting you think you could get away just so they could take that hope away from you.

Loud clicks and yips filled the night air, slowly getting closer and closer. In the distance you saw what looked to be like a cave and made your way towards it, hoping you could atleast be safe there.

The cave was eerie and smelled musty the further you went inside, turning a corner you saw a pink glow from what looked to be a rib plant. Unfortunately though you couldn't open it from this end as it was facing away, looking around more you finally mange to spot a syep'an.

Walking over you tugged on the syep'an, causing it to lift you up just as soon as you heard footsteps entering the cave. Quickly you ran and hid in a small space between two rocks, surely they couldn't get you here.

"Come out come out little one" T'auth taunted,"You can't hide from us baby, we will find you" Lo'ak chimed in, a dark chuckle leaving him as he and T'auth began looking for you.

You could hear their footsteps getting closer, the predators clicks sending shivers down your spine.

Suddenly everything went quiet, the footsteps were gone. Confused, you were about to move out of your hiding spot when a long scaly arm appeared, grabbing at you.

Screaming, you tried moving farther back but you couldn't. T'auth grabbed your leg, pulling you out from your spot "What a pretty little thing" he murmured, using one of his sharp claws to tear your clothes to shreds, leaving you completely exposed under his hungry gaze.

"I bet she tastes as good as she looks" Lo'ak purred from behind you, T'auth layed on his stomach draping your thighs on his huge shoulders "Only one way to find out" he smirked before diving in.

T'auth was ruthless, his long tongue licked from your entrance to your clit where he sucked on the small nub, sending shivers down your spine.

His mandibles gently scraped across the flesh of your thighs as he feasted on you. Your moans echoed throughout the cave, as much as you didn't want this there was nothing you could do except take it.

You were at the mercy of two huge aliens who could kill you at any given second, especially the one who's head was between your legs right now.

The predator reluctantly pulled away, only to let Lo'ak take his spot, but Lo'ak didn't want to waste anymore time. He was already dying to feel your pretty tawtute pussy wrapped around his cock, moving his tewng to the side he groaned as his cock slapped against his stomach. Beautiful patterns of tanhì scattered across his throbbing length.

Your eyes widened at the sheer size and girth of him, no..no that was never going to fit, it couldn't! You tried to scoot back but T'auth was right behind you, he held you against him while his massive arms hooked under your legs, keeping you spread for the other alien.

Grinning, Lo'ak crawled forward "What's wrong mamas? Afraid of a little alien cock?" He teased.

Before you could answer, Lo'ak had already notched his tip at your entrance, a small "Keep her still" left his lips as he thrusted his entire length inside you.

Lo'ak grunted, feeling your tight walls try to adjust around his cock. For him it felt so heavenly, his ears lay flat against his head while his eyes were squeezed shut.

For you though- it felt like you had just been impaled. The stretch to accommodate him hurt like a bitch to where tears were freely flowing down your face.

Did they care? Absolutely not.

Lo'ak rutted into you like his life depended on it, coaxing out noises not even you thought you could make. "Sh-shit mamas.. keep gripping me like that.." he moaned, sharp nails digging into your sides drawing blood.

You couldn't speak at all, all you could think about was how good he felt inside you. It felt wrong yes but felt oh so good too.

Meanwhile the one behind you licked a small stripe along the nape of your neck, a purr rumbling through his chest at the mewl you let out.

The na'vi's hand suddenly pressed down on your stomach, a moan like scream echoed through the cave as you came gushing around the thick cock inside you.

Lo'ak groans loudly at the feeling of your walls clenching tightly around him, the sensation pushing him over the edge and making him release inside you, so much so that it causes a small buldge to form in your tummy.

Slowly he stills his hips, still trying to catch his breath. "See? That wasn't so bad" he chuckled breathlessly, now pulling out.

You glared up at him, your breath coming out in short pants as the two men switched positions. Lo'ak was now behind you, his hands rubbing your sides, claws gently scraping your skin while T'auth made his way between your plush thighs.

His amber eyes locked onto your own as he shoved his cock inside your abused hole, Lo’aks cum acting as lube so T’auth can just slide inside perfectly.

You yelped tried to squirm but it was no use, Lo’ak had a firm grip on your sides while this other brute was nestled between your thighs.

With each thrust he delivered, punched out moans fell from your lips. Your head dipped back, resting against Lo’aks chest as you neared your second climax of the night.

T’auth didn’t talk much but gods was he vocal, he threw your legs over his shoulders while dipping his head back in pleaure. Grunts and moans filled the cave along with your mewls.

“Pleasepleaseplease..” you slurred, looking up at the alien through half lidded eyes. Lo’ak only scoffed, rolling his eyes “You beg for him but not me?”

You didn’t have the words to reply back, T’auth was hitting all the right spots inside you that Lo’ak couldn’t. Your mind felt like mush at that moment, not even registering Lo’aks words anymore.

T’auth couldn’t hold back any longer, his mandibles opened wide and a piercing screech left his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, shooting his seed deep inside your womb.

Lo’ak hissed from the loud screech, his ears slightly ringing. Your own body seized as your climax was triggered, the alien grunted feeling you tighten around him.

Just as your vision was going black, a voice whispered in your ear;

“Sleep if you want sevin tawtute, that won’t stop us from fucking your cute little body though”

[callsignpxnguin]

We Were Ghosts Before We Died

A dark Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!Reader fanfiction Click here for the AO3 version TW: suicidal idealisation, gruesome physical deformities, depression, pills, potential stalking

ONE—TWO—THREE

“Morning! Hey, I just realised I never got your name,” you chirped happily as you approached Simon’s small table, beaming. He was in similar dark clothes as yesterday, and a large surgical mask covered the bottom half of his face so much that the scars you had previously identified were barely visible, but — you realised with no little amount of satisfaction — that he had clearly changed, which was a more than you expected after seeing the state he was in yesterday. Small wins.

Simon hesitated as he glanced up at you, who was looking down at him with big eyes and a pen and pad in your hand. You had been sweet to him the evening before, and for some reason he came back to the diner today at your request, but he didn’t trust you that much. “…Just call me Ghost.”

Jesus Christ. Ghost. He may not have deserved the name Simon, but he knew he didn’t deserve this one either. This made it sound like he was still in service, still fighting, still useful. None of those could describe him anymore. Especially with that goddamn leg of his. He wasn’t sure if you were watchful enough to have noticed that yet, though. It wasn’t like he tried to make it obvious.

And, still, it wasn’t like he had any other name to give you. Wasn’t like he could just tell you that he honestly deserved no name, to live as a shadow of a man — all he really was after the stuff he had done and could no longer do. The fact that he lamented that loss only solidified his evil.

You raised an inquisitive eyebrow, oblivious to the tempest brewing in his mind. That was always brewing in his mind, wreaking havoc on his logic and rational thinking. “A callsign?”

He nodded tersely, gaze shifting back towards the ground. He did that a lot, you noticed — let his eyes wonder about in an almost nervous, ticking manner, except the rest of his face showed little other emotion and his thick eyebrows were constantly furrowed, so he just looked appeared to get pissed off at everything his eyes landed on.

You hummed in approval before quickly changing topic. It wasn’t hard to tell that he went quiet and resorted to nodding when he didn’t want to talk about something. You gave him your own name lightly, before adding, “So, what kind of pancakes do you want, then? Since you got here so early to get them,” you added with a playful wink.

Simon began, completely emotionless, “No—”

“Maple syrup, yeah, I got that from yesterday,” you interrupted, with a grin at the starkly bewildered look on his face — him blinking. “But any other preferences? Fruits? Whipped cream? One pancake? Five?”

Simon blinked at you. The question was so… mundane. Casual. It felt wrong, considering all he was used to, but also right. Boring, and plain, but comforting. “You got strawberries?”

“Absolutely. Want some blueberries too, to even it out?” God, you were so happy he was bothering to play along. You had half expected him to remain silent again.

“…Fuckin’ hell, sure,” he replied gruffly after a pause, not thinking anything of the sentiment and expecting you to continue prattling on about flavours.

But you coughed pointedly.

Again, Simon blinked at you. What was it now? Did his leg fall off his bloody torso, or something? But then he watched your eyes slide over to the mother with her young son on a table nearby, who was giving him the death glare, and it clicked.

“Establishment is publicly family friendly,” you explained under your breath, giving him a crooked smile. “Could have you kicked out for language like that.

“Oh.” Was the only thing he could manage in response, not having embarrassment flush his ears a light pink, but… something similar. He comforted himself with the fact that it was a pretty stupid rule. This was Manchester, for God’s sake, what were people excepting? For him to have a composure alike to that of the Her Majesty?

But maybe that was the point. For this place to be a semi-decent respite to the coarseness that would barrage into any young child on the streets of Manchester like shrapnel.

“It’s okay, you’re not the first person and you won't be the last. I’ll have your pancakes out soon,” you smiled, winking playfully before disappearing behind the counter.

Just like the day before, he watched you as you left. Some of your co-workers offered tired but relieved smiles at you as you went, to which you returned just as joyfully, and even some of the customers bid you a good morning by name. It seemed you were quite popular here. He didn’t find it surprising — you had been very friendly to him. Exuded the kind of warm persona that many people found appealing. It made sense.

Less than five minutes later, and you were back. It was honestly impressive — you must have made them in preparation of his arrival, because there was no way you had made and cooked all the batter so fast. Right?

The dish honestly looked delicious as you brought it over, beaming as widely as always — more appetising than anything he had eaten in just about the last decade. The pancakes were light and fluffy, a golden-brown that promised just the right amount of delicate crust, and were adorned with fresh fruits that glimmered with moisture and a crown of whipped cream. It looked… straight out of a commercial.

“It’s so… big,” was all Simon said, his gaze fixed on them. And whilst the mask prevented you from seeing the bottom of his face, you could read the surprise — and desire — in his eyes.

Didn’t figure he’d actually want them. You assumed he would take one bite and decide he was full, too overwhelmed by the sugar. But that look in his eyes said otherwise.

“Enjoy!” You told him, smiling shyly and pushing the plate — and the black coffee that you had been holding in your other hand — towards him.

Simon blinked. “I didn’t order the coffee.”

“I know you didn’t. On me. Pure black, like you ordered yesterday.”

“…Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! Please enjoy!” You waved as you went to assist another customer, as the place was slowly filling up as the morning went on. Quick, but still friendly enough to hopefully linger on his mind. Besides, even if you wanted to stay and chat to him more like yesterday, you’d have people causing so much chaos due to your negligence that you’d have no choice but to cut the conversation short. Unfortunately, today was one of the days where no-one else’s shift started until a few hours later.

As you hummed to yourself as you approached a sweet elderly couple who were signalling for you, Simon’s gaze slid from the to the food in front of him, before taking his cutlery and cutting into the pancakes tentatively. Fine, they looked delectable, but… maybe they’re dry. Maybe they have no taste. Maybe—

Fucking hell. Maybe you were a master chef.

He wasn’t sure if there was some magical wizard in the back kitchen who was helping you out, but by the looks of things it was just you, which meant you were to thank for the heavenly goodness that melted on his tongue.

Simon Riley had eaten a variety of things in his life — rats and year-old crackers included. Usually, the things he had had to sustain himself on during missions were flat-out disgusting, which meant whenever he finally got to try nice cuisine, he short-circuited for a few moments out of pleasure and surprise. That was exactly what happened to him the moment he swallowed his first bite, because it was just… so good. He could find no conceivable words for the emotions he was experiencing.

The entire plate was wolfed down within minutes. Impressive, and frankly a little concerning, even for a big guy like himself. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like anyone else particularly cared about his eating habits, either.

Well, except for you. But out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him scarfing down the pancakes you had made just made you feel proud.

“How was it?” You asked eagerly, clearing up his plates and watching him expectantly despite already knowing the answer, if his plate with only the specks of crumbs wasn’t enough.

Simon folded his arms over his chest. “Really good.”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been smiling for, but it widened even further, if the feat was even possible. “Good to know! I haven’t made pancakes for a while, so I wasn’t sure.”

“You made them?” He echoed, glancing up at you from under his cap. The same one as yesterday. Maybe you did have that magical wizard after all.

You gave him an odd look. “Of course. It’s just me working right now. Stressful, but it pays okay.” A lie. It paid better than a standard shift, but was still piss-poor. Not enough to keep you comfortable. Not even barely.

Simon grunted in acknowledgment, going through his own thought process. So, no wizard. Just you. “Okay. Just wondering.”

“No worries! All done, then, or is there anything else I can get for you?” You watched his reaction carefully. He seemed… at ease. Relaxed, considering the circumstance and how you had seen him last night. His muscles flexed under his shirt, but they weren’t stiff and tense. His eyebrows cut hard lines down his face, but they didn’t particularly arch inwards. They just… were.

Simon considered your question. Yesterday he had taken you up on the offer of more coffee. Whether unconsciously or not, he had prolonged staying out. Prolonged the end. Today, whilst he didn’t feel particularly inclined to stay for much longer, he didn’t feel the burning need to retrieve that pile, either. And so, he shook his head gruffly and pushed his empty plates over to you with the back of one of his gloved hands. “M’okay.” His other hand went to his pocket, and, pulling out two 10-pound notes, slid them over to you too.

Your eyes widened as they skimmed over the money, your hands reaching to collect the dishes. “This… is too much.” It may have been an American diner, but it still operated in a British (or, rather, the rougher Mancunian) style. Tips were highly unusual. Not that you were going to complain too much, but you still had some sense of dignity.

“All I have with me,” he said after a moment.  He blinked, surprisingly long, pale lashes framing his gleaming hazel eyes. “It’s fine, just take it.”

“…Sure?”

He didn’t respond, just blinked at you again.

Fair enough. He had already given you his answer. You didn’t repeat the question as you took one note in your free hand, and and slid the other into your uniform pocket. “Thanks, Ghost.” The ends of your lips quirked up as the name left your mouth. He clearly wasn’t expecting it, either, because it took a moment for him to respond with yet another nod.

“Excuse me! Waitress!”

Your gaze shot to the customers calling you, before glancing back at Simon and smiling at him sheepishly. “Come again tomorrow, yeah? I’ll make something different.”

“Waitress!” The voice grew louder and shriller.

“Well— bye! Have a good day!” You chirped as you waved at him for the second time today and immediately darted off to assist whoever was calling for you, as he began the effort of heaving himself out of the booth, shooting a quick glare at his leg that he wasn’t sure if you’d noticed yet. You were always so joyful. He was never sure how to appropriately respond, given he didn’t really think about his own mannerisms all that often. It was a foreign feeling, and he thrived in the comfort of the expected.

That didn’t stop him from returning the next day, though. Or the next.

Or the next.

For some reason, over the next few days, him coming to the diner to get breakfast (which ranged from french toast to bacon and eggs) became a sort of routine, following your daily ‘Good morning!’ messages, to which he replied with a thumbs-up every time. It grounded him — gave him something to wake up, get dressed, and have a purpose for — and right now he just about found that preferable to his other option that remained in a pile in the corner of his flat.

The rest of the day never consisted of much more than a walk around the neighbourhood or lying on the couch, but it didn’t seem quite so dull anymore. Not when he had something to occupy his thoughts with, to think about, however mundane it seemed. Besides, it was an 80’s-style-American diner in a shit area of Manchester — there always had to something interesting happening there, because there never was anywhere else. And you always made an effort to chat with him, even when he didn’t offer more than a grunt in response.

That was something he had noticed about you. You knew when he was still interested in your conversation, more or less — impressive, considering how imposing of a figure he supposed he cut, acting so cold in the way he did. You’d talk happily, not deterred in the slightest, but then still realised when his gaze began to shift to other things that you had lost his attention and tactfully went away again. Even if he didn’t know how he felt in the moment, sometimes it was like you always did, and always acted accordingly. Always acted in a way tailored to him, accordingly, at that.

And so, he appeared at the diner’s doors at the same time every morning, and you always appeared to greet him at the same time every morning, never to be seen without a smile on your face, something to be counted upon. Someone to be there and start his day off fresh.

Until you weren’t.

It had been about a week and a bit into this newfound routine, and for some reason when he arrived, you weren’t there to let him in and make some bad joke about pancakes or whatever silly thing was on your mind that morning. It was the young man who had gotten on his nerves on the evening he had first met you, instead, and the change thoroughly confused him.

“Where is she?” He grunted with no other context, glaring down at the man. Because he knew that you worked the morning shift every day from your rambles, so it wasn’t like you just weren’t working today.

The man, ever unruffled, just shrugged. At least this time he kept his attention on Simon instead of switching it between him and something behind the counter.  “Sick, I think. What, you were planning on asking her out? Didn’t have the patience to show up here for a month straight and wanted to do it after a week instead?” The last few comments were snide, and as a jealous man himself, Simon knew the various expressions of jealously when he heard them. To be fair, though, it was pretty obvious anyway.

And so, he just remained silent as he so often liked to do. Except, this time it wasn’t out of avoidance. He simply refused to offer the man an answer, much to his obvious frustration when he just scoffed, muttering something like ‘bloody man, thinking he’s better than everyone’ as he turned away.

So, naturally, Simon just walked in and sat in his usual seat. Empty, as always, because it was in such a tight corner that you wouldn’t know it existed unless you specifically looked for it.

He sat down. Ordered a coffee from a pointedly different waiter (oh, so you didn’t deserve someone else to assist you on your shift, but he did?) and drunk it all over the course of an hour until only the dregs were left.

Though once it was empty, he didn’t leave.

What else was there for him to do but wait? It wasn’t like there was a time limit on sitting, anyway. Besides, the venomous glares that the waiter shot him whenever he walked nearby almost made the corners of his lips quirk upwards. Almost.

And so, he sat. And sat. And sat. Watched the comic-themed clock on the wall spin by at a surprising pace, the hours slipping by, and otherwise amused himself by people-watching, pointedly ignoring the frustrated glares William sent him whenever he passed the table. There was a single father taking his twin daughters out for their birthday lunch. An old lady and her grandson spending time together. Multiple groups of giddy teens and pre-teens eager to flaunt their newfound freedom by being generally noisy and boisterous.

A few days ago, it might have annoyed him. But now the general atmosphere of the diner was something he spent a lot of time around, he was able to mercifully tune it out and only give them a mildly condescending look.

They still shut up instantly, though. Acknowledging the large, lone man in the corner that no-one even knew was an available seat with an unblinking stare did that to some people.

Then, his mind shifted onto other things. More specifically, you. He wasn’t an idiot. You obviously had some financial problems — finding anyone who lived around here who didn’t would make him a surprised man — so to miss a shift would mean you’d have to be pretty sick. He didn’t want to picture it — you wrapped up in bed, shivering miserably, a bin beside you and a cold towel on your head. Maybe you couldn’t even bring yourself to set yourself up as well as that, and were just lying against your bathroom wall and trying to soothe your burning forehead with the coolness of the tiles.

The thought instantly made him uncomfortable, and suddenly he didn’t even want to stay in the diner just to spite the stupid waiter anymore. It was strange for him to try and imagine you, so joyful and energetic, so weak and vulnerable. Honestly, it was strange for him to bother imagining anyone else but himself after being in self-isolation for so long, so he wasn’t too bothered with the feeling.

He stood suddenly, scowling at his leg again when it thumped uselessly against the ground, and dragged himself out of the diner with a sudden frustration. What was the point of even being in this place if you weren’t there? Weren’t there to do what, he wasn’t sure — talk his ear off? Make him food? — but nevertheless, he was achieving nothing by being here. Suddenly, everything pissed him off — the loud customers, the plasticky sheen of the floor, the fluorescent lights — and he suddenly stormed out of the place with an expression that couldn’t frozen tigers in their tracks. Silence followed his dramatic departure, though it was quickly replaced by excitable chatter, because it wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had seen that day despite the sun only having been up a couple hours.

The cold air bit the exposed half of his face like tiny icicles. March was supposed to be springtime, composed of the occasional frost but mainly focused on life and rebirth with the warmth it brung — but in Manchester there were only three seasons: grey, wet, and cold. Most days it was a mix of all three. He figured he had seen the pure sun about three times during the entire time he’d lived here.

He leant on the outside of the diner, observing his surroundings in a way he had never thought necessary before. The street that the diner sat on was a grim one — though what wasn’t, here? Every other shop was either boarded up or graffitied to the point of no return, whilst the remaining few were just empty and lifeless. The diner was the only thing that signalled civilisation down the entire road, and the bright colours and noise stood out like a sore thumb from the dystopian-esque rest of the area.

Simon almost sighed. Once, maybe, in his childhood, this place would’ve had more joy. But a declining economy and the far more favourable option of travel left areas like this with only scraps, leaving the people who chose to remain with no choice but to fend for themselves in any way they could.

Those horrid thumps rang out again as he slowly began to walk back to his flat. That noise could have been used as a mental torture method by Makarov’s men if he was still on the force, if they ever learnt the pain it caused him to hear it.     

But it could never happen. Because he was now off the force because of the exact thing that made that stupid noise, and Makarov only continued to torture the men he spent over half his life fighting with — and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He grunted in frustration as he continued his walk, a thick fog beginning to descend onto the streets. His eyesight was sharp, but it was still frustrating to have to strain it whenever the air got like this.

As he limped down the road, the fog growing denser and greyer with every minute, his eyes latched onto something in the distance. It wasn’t a lamppost — far too short, and it was laughable for him to even assume that there was even a single working lamppost on the street — but it was far smaller, and moving. It was also holding bags.

A person. A figure in the distance, making their way to wherever they were going at about the same slow pace that he was — surprising, given it rivalled that of a snail’s.

Simon squinted in the fog of the streets, trying to make out whom the person could be. He didn’t know why, but for some reason they seemed strangely familiar, despite the oddity of even being there considering the time and… general area. Simon didn’t think he’d ever seen a person doing something so mundane as walking down his street before, despite having owned the place for over 10 years. Sneaking or running away from something, yes, but never just casual walking.

Safe to say, it sparked his curiosity. And the figure was going in the direction of his flat anyway, so it wasn’t like he was being particularly creepy by following them.

It they’d never been followed before in this part of town, though, he was really just doing them a favour by giving them the experience before someone else with more malicious intentions could.

The figure continued to walk down the street, past the few other apartment blocks, before after a few minutes stopping directly at — his stack of flats.

So, they were either insane, a squatter, or thief. Interesting. Now to see how they figured they’d get in.

A hand emerged from the figure’s form as they pulled what looked like a set of keys out and unlocked the door to the hallway.

Okay, so they’re insane. Honestly, he would’ve preferred a thief. It would have been easier to fight one, both physically and morally.

We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

His gaze narrowed as the person let themselves in. He refused to believe that he actually had a neighbour, after all this time. The idea was ludicrous. He may have only lived there for a couple months, and only started leaving the place that week, but still, neighbours were supposed to make noise. Show signs of existence apart from being seen. Not… live in the silence that he had grown so accustomed to and complied with himself.

So, he followed them. As he neared, every heaved step bringing him a little closer as the person fiddled with their keys, he got a better view of them. Pretty small — which could apply to everyone from his view — and dressed in all black. Black hoodie, black leggings. Black shoes. They were also carrying groceries, which meant they would’ve had to have just taken the perilous route to the nearest Waitrose, which was three hours by bus each way.

The door creaked open, and they inched inside, Simon at their heels.

Now, Simon was a man of silence. He uttered few words, and excepted few in return. The quiet was where he thrived, where he was trained to thrive, where he felt comfortable in. What happened to his leg may have thrown him morbidly off-balance, but even that didn’t hinder his ability to remain soundless in most situations.

Which was why it was such a surprise to not just the person in front of him, but also himself, when his leg caught on a loose floorboard, with a scratchy, resounding, and loud noise.

Creak.

It all happened so fast. The figure whirled around at the sound sharply, their hood slipping off of their head — Simon reared back simultaneously — and then suddenly he was face-to-face with the blatantly terrified expression of—

You.

Taglist: @moonfriesbruv @snburntandsad @asweetheart @vampsauce91 @kylies-love-letter @banananananachips @terrifiedanimegirl

This is gonna get dark fast, I promise.

Please ask for the taglist, and feel free to share any thoughts below! Every comment makes me inexplicably happy :)

[kitkatclubcopia]

FINAL THOUGHTS ON GHOST 2025 BELOW THE CUT:

GHOULS + GHOULLETTES

He got handed a cowbell mid-song which reminded me of cowbell ghoul from meliora (my beloved </3)

Swiss army ghoul was feral.

He went absolutely bananas in the corner, especially whenever he was in the spotlight.

No Swissaurora moments, but he was still unhinged. As is tradition.

Aurora (my queen):

Danced with the new ghoulette- they had chemistry that was so nice since the new ghoulette seemed a bit shy.

No freaky Swiss antics this time :'( but still she was great and I loved watching her dance

New Ghoulette (aka Haze/Tempest maybe?):

I love her so much... She didn't dance much but when me and some other people stood up on the balcony and went for it so did she (and she maybe looked at us? I couldn't tell?)

Cirrus- She got her keytar mummy dust solo and was just oozing with confidence which was 🤤 she was doing little dances and interacting with the crowd quite a bit

Phantom WAS SO CUTE he's definitely gained a lot of confidence since last tour and did the whole holding the guitar over his head thing which was super cool. I loved his goofy tophat,, what a refined gentleman

Rain & Sodo were the same as always no changes and there WAS in fact a guitar battle leading into cirice

PAPA V !!!!

He ascended on a throne?? During ritual and wore his pretty princess dress. He looked absolutely majestic ‼️He might’ve done it during Ritual or Year Zero??? I was too busy ascending emotionally to be 1000% sure walking out of there😭

“Will you be gentle with me?”

Said this to the crowd during his FIRST EVER LIVE SHOW. The entire arena screamed “NOOOOOOO” without hesitation.

He had a few costume changes!!! He wore a cassock with a sort of waistcoat with a skeletal scorpion tail??? Which was cool!! And there was also I think a leather jacket with a black shirt and tight black jeans that had a big silver buckle on them,, he changed into a tailored suit with bat wings where the seams were all silver and glittery. His pretty princess robe was worn (of course) and then he also got a shiny silver suit jacket and a HOT PINK SPARKLY AFTER SHOW JACKET.

A lot of people are on the fence about if he's more like Copia or Terzo and I'm saying Terzo because he literally said "conclusively, I give you... Monsterance clock." The same way Terzo used to which made me tweak because I never thought I'd hear those words live again

STAGE DESIGN / VISUALS:

Opening Backdrop:

Looked like torn/shredded black curtains with white light either on it or coming from behind????

Then revealed a gothic crushed velvet backdrop with ghoul stands that had arches and skulls. Also giant floating grucifix.

Stage Platforms:

No longer standard black ones like impera now featured neo gothic arches and skulls which could've been sculptures or actual props between the arches on them???

Velvet set dropped, revealing the classic stained-glass church from previous eras. It depicted satan in the middle and figures on the side of naked men and women???

Stage Transformations:

BUT: The stained glass was on a digital screen, and the “stone arches” were inflatable!!! And later collapsed.

Iconography:

During Pinnacle to the Pit, the arches DEFLATED MID-SONG and were replaced with DIGITAL HELLFIRE.

At one point the stained-glass icons included Jesus and other figures I literally couldn't make out. Then Jesus flew away with fire shooting out of him like a rocket,,, I'm not even joking

Grucifix Prop:

Giant. Suspended. Moved up/down with lighting cues and song tone???

Lighting Highlights:

Spirit = glowing green

Mummy Dust = EVERYTHING WAS JUST GOLD. AND THE CANONS WENT OFF.

There was fire during year zero too.

Trippy kaleidoscope of teeth, skulls, bones, and Papa V.

Kiss the Go-Goat Visuals:

Monstrance Clock Visuals:

I think either the future is a foreign land or a different song (dance macabre?) had the seven inches colours dancing around on the grucifix like a psychedelic disco-y thing?!

FULL-ON VICTORIAN PORNOGRAPHIC ILLUSTRATIONS,,, Hidden inside each lyric letter projected onscreen. Depicted naked couples, group sex and all that jazz.

SETLIST (As Confirmed by a stranger with better memory than me)

1. Peacefield

2. Lachryma

3. Spirit

4. From the Pinnacle to the Pit

5. Majesty

6. The Future is a Foreign Land

7. Devil Church

8. Cirice

9. Darkness at the Heart of My Love

10. Satanized

11. Ritual

12. Umbra

13. Year Zero

14. He Is

15. Rats

16. Kiss the Go-Goat

17. Mummy Dust

18. Monstrance Clock

Encore:

Mary on a Cross

Dance Macabre

Square Hammer

[llamagoddessofficial]

I love Farmtale Sans a lot. But also, living in the country isn't always sunshine cottagecore magicalness. It can suck. But... here's some unromantic country stuff that I think could actually be very romantic when you're with him.

As mentioned before, the two of you end up spending a lot of time in the car together. The nearest big store is a ways away, after all. On those long drives, the radio often cuts out for long periods of time... it can feel pretty lonely, especially at night. But when you're together, it's alright. You sleep with your head against the passenger window, your coat over you, holding his unoccupied hand through the quiet.

He gets a call in the middle of the night from someone else further into the village that there's a surprise rain shower coming through tomorrow, and they need to move a lot of kit indoors ASAP before it hits. He grumbles, but heads out anyway. ... An hour or so later, in the middle of a dark cold field, he sees your flashlight rushing over to him. You have a flask of steaming soup and a tupperware box with a slice of hot pie inside. Despite your fear of the dark and bugs, you made your way out to him. He feels himself fall in love even harder, and just like that, the task takes half the time.

When your home is as exposed as country houses can get, the wind can be really fucking loud. Especially if your room is on the windward side of the house. It can sound like a train is driving over your bedroom at night. You decide to sleep on the couch, both because you can't sleep and because you're nervous about how loud it is; it's difficult to rest when you can literally hear the roof rattling and the shingles jumping up and down. Sans, even though his room is absolutely fine, opts to join you. He lights the fire and gets comfy with you, then stays awake so you feel comfortable enough to fall asleep. You wake up the next morning snuggled up to his chest.

The weather is horrendous pouring rain, cold and damp and treacherously muddy. But the animals have to be fed regardless of the weather. You both go out into the early morning darkness, feeding the chickens and cows, checking on the crops, making sure nothing is leaking, hands almost frozen. You come home absolutely drenched in a thick mixture of rain and mud. And as much as Papyrus complains, refusing to let either of you past the porch until you strip all your dirty items... he's got hot lunch waiting for you both, dry pyjamas and thick socks hanging up over the stove, warm blankets on the couch. There's nothing like the feeling of sheltering from a tempest in someplace cosy. Even if the power does keep going out.

[hawkatana]

So, given everything that's happened in recent hours, I thought I might give people who don't know about Gundam some stuff to learn about. Hopefully I can give a balanced and not-racist take like some people.

What is Gundam?

Created by Yoshiyuki Tomino with help by Yoshikazu Yasuhiko and animated by the studio Sunrise (currently Bandai Namco Animation, though I refuse to call them that), the original Mobile Suit Gundam released in 1979 to initially-limited success, though would gain popularity through a combination of fujoshis shipping the characters, the sale of plastic model kits referred to as "Gunpla" and a recut of the series into three compilation movies throughout the early 80's. And as of 2024 is the 66th highest-grossing media franchise of all time, beating out Scooby Doo, Minecraft and the Simpsons.

Also, I'm pretty sure it's what sparked Japanese sci-fi's obsession with O'Neill Cylinders.

The original anime takes place in the year 0079 of the Universal Century, where the Principality of Zeon: a nation composed of orbital space colonies declares a war of independence against the Earth Federation. This "One Year War" has already claimed half the human population by series start and is waged through the use of "Mobile Suits": bipedal mecha powered by a fusion reactor capable of effectively fighting out in the reaches of space.

Main character Amuro Ray is the son of a Federation engineer who lives in an out-of-the-way space colony, though soon finds his home under attack by a Zeon infiltration. After finding the secret Mobile Suit project his father was working on: the RX-78-2 Gundam, he fights off the Zeon invaders, though finds himself and a bunch of other kids conscripted by the Federation to fight the forces of Zeon aboard the ship the White Base. Throughout his journey, Amuro and the Gundam fight many battles against Zeon, including against their mysterious masked ace pilot Char Aznable.

The series was responsible for the codification (but not creation, people get this wrong all the time) of the "Real Robot" subgenre of mecha, where the robots were relatively more realistic and used as weapons of war as opposed to the more fantastical "Super Robot" subgenre pioneered by Mazinger Z and Getter Robo.

A major theme of the show, and the franchise as a whole is "War is bad", as demonstrated through this meme:

Yes, this is the original version of this meme format.

Anyway, Tomino, a renowned pacifist who grew up in the shadow of Japan's involvement in WW2 tried to use his platform as an anime director to try and tell a story that would get people to realise war's futility and brutality.

So I hear you asking, "That's nice and all, but what about the space lesbians who beat Destiel on their home turf?" Well, let's get into that.

What is the Witch From Mercury?

Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch from Mercury, or "G-Witch" for short is one of the more recent entries in the Gundam Franchise and a (very) loose adaptation of William Shakespeare's The Tempest. Set in the year 122 Ad Stella, the solar system is under the de facto control of the Benerit Group: a megacorporation with borderline-medieval internal politics that maintains a system of capitalism that benefits Spacians at the expense of those who live on Earth.

Main heroine Suletta Mercury enrolls at Asticassia School of Technology owned by the Benrit Group at the behest of her mother: CEO Prospera Mercury of the Mercury-based Shin Sei Development Corporation, and wins a Mobile Suit duel against a bully in her own MS: the Gundam Aerial. This however means she has now won the hand in marriage of daughter of the Benerit Group CEO: Miorine Rembran, beginning a series of consequences that shape the very political landscape of the solar system.

G-Witch was a massive hit, both critically and commercially. The first episode: the Witch and the Bride attracting record numbers for the studio and the Gunpla kit for the Aerial is currently the best-selling Gunpla kit ever.

Contrary to popular belief, G-Witch is not the first piece of Gundam media to feature a female protagonist. That honour would go to the 2002 Japan-only manga École du Ciel, nor would it have the first queer main character, which goes to 1999's Turn-A Gundam (and if you were to ask any fan of the series, they'd so it goes back to the very beginning). But it became notable for its lesbian representation in anime (in spite of Sunrise's attempts to downplay it, to the anger of the director, writer, producer, artists, animators, cast, fans and even their own parent company Bandai Namco who forced them to back off).

One thing I need to clarify: You don't need to have watched the original series to enjoy G-Witch. They're not even in the same continuity.

So if you're interested in the series and you've only watched G-Witch, I'll give out three recommendations for you all to enjoy:

Mobile Suit Gundam 00

Gundam 00 takes place in the year 2307 (the only series to use our own calendar), where the world is divided between three global superpowers: The Union of Free & Solar Nations (The Americas, Australia, New Zealand and Japan), the Human Reform League (China, South, East, Southeast and Central Asia) and the Advanced European Union (all of Europe, including all of Russia west of the Urals) who each control a space elevator near the equator and wage proxy-wars in Africa and the Middle-East over Earth's dwindling resources. This eventually culminates in the emergence of Celestial Being: a terrorist group consisting of Setsuna F. Seiei, Lockon Stratos, Allelujah Haptism and Tierria Erde, all of whom use powerful "Gundam" Mobile Suits and try to forcefully impose global peace on the Earth.

00 is pretty slow-paced and is more about the world than the individual characters, but said characters are really well-written, especially the characters from the three power blocs who are the de facto protagonists as they try to stop what are in their eyes a bunch of crazed terrorists preaching a hypocritical and incoherent ideology of "peace through force".

And to address the elephant in the room, this series is VERY post-9/11. Constant talks about terrorism, proxy-conflicts in the global south (especially the Middle-East), religious extremism, dwindling resources and the wars fought over them. While the franchise has always been political and of-its-time, you can just tell 00 was made in the mid-2000's. Again, it's good. But just something to keep in mind.

Turn-A Gundam

Turn-A Gundam is one of the weirder elements of the franchise for a myriad of reasons. Not the least of which being its unique setting taking inspiration from the famous sci-fi novel War of the Worlds.

In the Year 2345 of the Correct Century, human civilisation is at a level of technology reminiscent of the late-19th/early 20th centuries, save for the Moonrace on... well, the moon. As part of their queen Diana Soreil's plan to reintegrate both Lunar and Terran societies, several scouts are sent to the planet to set up their return to the planet. One such scout: Loran Cehack integrates into Terran society as a driver for the wealthy Heim family, though at a coming of age ceremony for the family's second daughter, a member of the Moonrace attacks the technologically-inferior Terrans. However, a mysterious mustached statue breaks apart to reveal a "White Doll": the Turn-A Gundam, allowing Loran to fend off the invaders. rest of the series becomes more of a mystery to how the supposedly-peace loving Moonrace could allow of such brutality.

The setting of the Correct Century timeline alone is one of the draws of Turn-A, though its excellent characters and compelling mystery also help a lot.

I do however have two warnings for people interested in watching it. The first is that this series was never dubbed. While it did receive an official sub in 2015, there still isn't a dub for the series. So if that bothers you, there's your warning.

The other is that there's a pretty big twist in the latter part of the series that while I will not spoil it here, it's such a big deal that I can't not mention it. It doesn't make any sense, and it actively detracts from not just the series, but the whole franchise. You'll know it when you see it. It doesn't ruin my enjoyment, but a lot of people don't like Turn-A for that alone.

Mobile Fighter G Gundam

Favourite entry. Don't care. It's peak.

In the Year 60 of the Future Century, war has been abandoned by the nations of humanity in favour of the Gundam fight: a quad-annual fighting tournament between Gundams representative of the countries of the world where the winner rules space until the next Gundam fight, all while leaving the Earth ecologically devastated in the fighting. Neo-Japan's Gundam Fighter: Domon Kasshu arrives on Earth seeking information on his older brother Kyoji, who killed their mother and led to their father's arrest before stealing the experimental Devil Gundam to Earth, beating up every Gundam Fighter in his way. However, he eventually learns of far more dangerous revelations about the incident.

G Gundam is to put it bluntly: bat-shit insane. And I love it. It basically took a look at the then-stagnating franchise in the wake of the wet fart that was Victory Gundam and said "I know what can save this franchise, Bruce Lee movies!" And it somehow worked.

Word of advice: watch it dubbed. Mark Gatha absolutely kills it as Domon every time, and puts just the right amount of ham into every line.

So yeah, that's some stuff on Gundam. This was a long post to write out. I'm gonna take a break now.

[katspause]

Terry Pratchett's very weird evening while writing Good Omens:

From the treasure trove that is the Annotated Pratchett File.

Image reads:

There is a British KitKat chocolate bar TV commercial that predates Good Omens, and which involves an angel and a devil who are just starting their respective coffee breaks. Both exit from separate elevators, the angel accompanied by several pure-white animals, while the devil turns back into his elevator and screams, in a British accent, "Shut up!" to whatever demons are causing a ruckus behind him.

If you are now thinking that this is an extremely unlikely, farfetched annotation -- well, so did I, until Terry Pratchett himself gave us the following piece of information (when some folks were having further discussions on how old this ad exactly was):

I'm pretty sure [this ad] started about the same time as Good Omens, because: One night I was sitting there typing away when I looked up and there the angel and the devil were, having a teabreak (it's not really a particularly Good Omens idea, but I know why people like it...) And I thought, hey, great... And about half an hour later there was an ad (some UK viewers might remember it) for an insurance company which showed a businessman with wide angel wings walking down the street... And then, just when I was doing the bit where Crowley muses that people are much better than demons at thinking up horrible things to do to one another, I switched on the radio; there was a performance of The Tempest, and someone said "Hell is empty and all the devils are here". It was a weird evening, really."

[firadessa]

Mark Cote Info Reveal- Silvermist's Quest

(Long Post Warning)

Me and a few friends are doing our own searches for information on the elusive Tinker Bell draft. We were able to secure an interview with Mark Cote, who was on the film for both a 2d and 3d version. Unfortunately, we were not able to save many recordings in good quality and mine has no audio. I also failed to transcribe our meeting, but hopefully this will not be our only meeting.

Before the original movie was put into 3D, it had several character quests all linked to the narrative to save Neverland. I thought it would be like Disneytoon's failed Enchanted Tales series, but unlike Enchanted Tales or Cinderella 2 the segments wouldn't be so self contained. It was like the movie Fantasia, but connected through a larger plot. There would also be a ticking time bomb in the form of the worlds of the mainland and Neverland combining due to the theft of pixie dust by Tinker Bell and friends before they earned it messing up the natural order. He told us that all 5 character quests would have to be approved by management, so he experienced delays in production. Several quests were greenlit but they had a hard time when they got to Silvermist and Iridessa.

We asked in a riddle, what brings water life? It took a while to get an answer, but @princessquinnella was reminded of water fairies in the books. The thing is though, Silvermist was conceived pretty differently from Rani. Despite being a water fairy, she was a repressive and pragmatic character. If you had a Disney Fairies DVD that came with the toys, you might remember the line "Still waters run deep" in reference to Silvermist. The pond and lotus where she lived, is implied to be "Stillwater Springs" or Lilypad Pond from what we know. x Here is the description from the illusive "pitch book"

Firstly, Mark told us for this "epic story" Silvermist's quest would be next to last. None of the fairies can fly because of the magic has dissipated. The story starts in her home of Stillwater Springs/Lilypad Pond, she creates a magical cloud named Tempest to fly. Tempest is an opposite to SIlvermist, he's a joyful and free spirited cloud like a impish child. Like in the final cut, there are 4 seasonal areas? There would be 5 themed areas in Pixie Hollow where each fairy lived. Many inanimate things live here in this word inspired by Art Nouveau.

She needs to fly on Tempest to reach the "water of life", and she travels to Pixie Hollow in a harsh desert area. She has a small glass vile to collect the "water of life" and flies over the stretch of desert looking everywhere. There's a color script of this segment somewhere on AODF (dont know where to link), where it is blurry and you can see the desert.

Silvermist and Tempest even meet other clouds on their journey, but they are grumpy and stern adult clouds.

Here, on the color guide- we see things a bit different. There seems to be some sort of snowdrop-esque flower in place of Tempest- but also some clouds, so I'm not sure what it could be.

Silvermist has been in the sky for a while now in this desert, but cannot find the water of life. Suddenly! Tempest, the child cloud starts to die. Silvermist is scared, because her friend is dying and she hasn't found the water of life. She sits down defeated... and starts to cry.

He showed us a piece I am very familiar with:

It is then, when she is at her lowest- when she cries... Tempest is resurected, and she is able to save her friend and collect the Water of Life, the quest item she needs to save Pixie Hollow.

Lastly, I should say the desert like areas in Pixie Hollow remind me of the elusive art from the mysterious artbook "The Art of Judith Holmes Clarke" (excuse quality, its a short frame in an IG video)

Now it's time for the next quest to reveal information about, there should be 2 left with more info to share with you...

This one shall be fill in the blank:

"------ is the key that opens every door."

Fly with you later!

[imagine-darksiders]

Writing another self-indulgent oneshot of Pseudo X Reader for me and the 4 other people who are into Clash lmao.

-

Pseudo’s hands ball into fists, cold fingertips kissing the insides of his palms as frustration – not at you, but at himself – rises to the fore.

He knew it was ambitious to try and make a push for the peak before nightfall in this tempest. His self-imposed hunt for the Director’s Great Shield Artifact was destined to be waylaid from the get-go.

It seems the entire ascent has been disrupted by every piece of kak in Zenozoik trying to get their greedy mitts on the Boy, or hoping to catch a glimpse of the pretty ‘alien’ who washed up on the beach outside Gemini’s Palace.

And then the rains started to fall, and….

He thought he could make up for lost time.

But as darkness rapidly drapes its shadows across the land, and the low clouds descend over the mountain and obscure the peak from view, Pseudo finds himself willing to admit that this venture may have been a mistake.

And now he’s wondering what he was in such a rush for.

The Director will still be there when the storm has passed. But if Pseudo keeps dragging you and the Boy through this weather, neither of you are liable to even make it to the peak.

Even he’s not sure if he can forge on in this squall.