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[danysprincess]

crazy how fanfic authors drop the most beautiful and gorgeous pieces of work ever, leaving you speechless and sobbing at three in the morning as you quietly contemplate the masterpiece you just read

and they don’t get paid for it they just do it because they’re having fun and they want to share their joy with you

like I would literally die for all of you fanfic authors out there reblog to swear your allegiance to fanfic authors

[danysprincess]

Been a while since i actually posted

[danysprincess]

I’m literally fucking TIRED of seeing authors write reader like a fucking child. It’s gross. Stop making reader “naive and clueless about sex” stop making reader say “cunny” stop making reader act like a baby. It’s weird and if you’re into that you’re weird. I don’t like to shame people for what they’re into but if you’re into children/acting like a child you need to be put on a fucking watch list. Stop writing about it on tumblr and go to fucking therapy.

[danysprincess]

deliverance

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: priest!abby anderson x afab!sinner!reader

music: the deliverance playlist

word count: 5k

summary: your mother is dead, and you're left returning to a home that never really was to pick up the pieces. memories are haunting creatures, insistent on destroying you. luckily, your redemption may come by the hands of god yet.

WARNINGS: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED ─ themes of religious trauma and abuse, hint of encouraged disordered eating, mother issues, non-major character death, some internalised homophobia

you never thought you had missed the magnolia trees. you had very little thought about the soft, white flowers of your youth after you left, scattered the pieces of yourself across the midwest to rot, forgotten.

a foreign pit sits in your stomach now as the jaunty convertible rolls across the dirt of the road. pillowy cream petals line the overgrown grass, dance in the wind and fall in your back seat. a concession. the only welcome you’ll ever get.

the soft smile on the solicitor’s face is a cruel, mocking joke. you don’t know how long he’s been waiting for you to roll down the long drive, but you can see the imprint of his shoes on the decaying wood steps, the scuffle of his path through the dead leaves, the rotten petals.

you had gotten the call late at night, breaking through an unwelcome silence. not from the hospital, but from the state. your mother was dead, and a team of lawyers had chased a harbinger trail left by your sixteen-year-old self to find you.

you left those breadcrumbs, in delusion, for your family. a final call, love me, love me, love me. years passed, no one followed.

you pull the car into park, the echo of the radio dying across the empty plains.

“miss-“ his voice is syrupy, a deep rasp coddled in the kindness of an all-american accent. he’s cut off by the slam of the car door, the scratch of your heels on the gravel driveway. you eye him, slowly, the foreign entity on your mother’s porch. stood by the neglected swing, the smell of rust and sand and infestation clinging to him, inane. 

“can’t you leave me to clear this place out in peace?”

he stutters something unsure, you can feel his eyes draping over you, a quick flash of something delusionally hungry, “w-well, miss, there’s the matter of the funeral. your mother named you executor of her will.”

of course she fucking did.

you sigh, something innately powerless nipping at your heels. your mother’s last laugh from the grave. well, from the morgue, really. if you could let that woman sit in a faithless freezer, an eternal purgatory, you would. she’s not worth the embrace of her god’s dirt.

“fine.”

you supposed you had hoped to get it all done in two days. pack everything in flimsy cardboard boxes and dump it in the parking lot of the nearest salvation army, purposefully forgotten.

and now, with the door forced open, the warm, unmoving heat of the sun pouring through and eating at your back, ghosts of a slighted childhood tease you, in the rotted landscape of your home. perhaps once, there was something happy here, but the domain of a conformist hoarder shows you no such peace.

the looming feeling of the cross your father nailed above the fridge when you were fourteen was something you had hoped to never feel again. a jittery taunt as the light inside it comes alive,

‘god sees your gluttony,’ 

clearly, considering the only thing left in the fridge was the whispering stench of rotted milk. you hold the carton at arms length as you toss it in the small waste basket in the pantry, and weigh your waning options.

spend a hundred bucks on food delivery fees, or make an appearance in town, for the low, low price of the dignity you lost years ago.

summer hasn’t changed, in the breast of the small town you grew up in. nestled between the buzz of marshes and the sprawl of empty, overgrown farmland, stately buildings with wasting foundations cast shadows, small reprieves from the unforgiving burn of the sun on the pavement.

the small chatter of young housewives echoes in the quiet of the late afternoon as you step out from the shield of the air conditioned supermarket, heaving your bags in tow. you forgot how much the underhanded heat sneaks into your body, lays in your bones. even still, with the foreign freedom of shorts and a shirt your mother would have never let you wear, summer sits in your crevices, uncomfortably in the hollow of your skin.

something flashes in the corner of your eye, something unfamiliar hiding in the sunlight. you squint, a misguided effort to chase the feeling settling deep beneath your stomach, pushing in on your organs. awareness abandoned, you stand in wait like a dog tied to a pole outside the corner shop, lips ajar as you stare into the blown light of noon, eager.

slowly, the anomaly comes into blurry focus. 

that’s new.

gold catches in the sunlight, a soft sheen of sweat like diamonds in your eyes.

a woman. you’ve never seen her before, and this place is hardly somewhere people choose to come.

She was shaking the hand of Mr. Collins, your neighbour. God, he aged poorly. Next to the shrivel of a man, she looked as if sculpted by god. a gift, the contour of her muscles beneath the relaxed fit of her shirt a taunting appraisal. cargo shorts and a graphic tee, not the expected attire of a woman. she definitely looked out of place, especially here, but the air of comfortability she carried said otherwise. people were happy to see her. her face, made so harsh and angular, was soft in conversation. figures.

you, an abomination. her, this stark difference to everything you were ever taught, welcomed.

your name echoes across the tranquility of the plaza, and for a moment, your eyes meet. the woman swallows.

“i thought that was you! my stars, i never thought i’d see you again!”

a manicured hand grabs at you, and you’re broken from your haze. 

prudence was smiling at you. you’d never seen her smile, only snicker and whisper.

“i haven’t seen you since high school!”

for a reason. you clear your throat, and manage a strained smile. friend, tormentor, you were always unsure whether she was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole. you had hoped to never see her again.

“how’ve you been!” her voice was too sugary, too loud for the daze of a summer afternoon. you felt hungover.

“hm? fine, i’ve been fine.” you’re trying not to sound distracted, disinterested. you’re watching as the woman from earlier disappears around the corner of the store. her face, curious and kind, lingers in your mind.

the oppressive heat of the morning breeze wisps through your hair, beating the tenets of unease down onto your skin. the church stands foremost, casting a shadow that offers no cool relief, no reprieve. per her last wishes, you will bury your mother in her congregation.

the solicitor assured you that the old pastor has passed since you left.

an early morning appointment, for privacy, to discuss the burial. the way to go about it.

might as well get it over with.

it hasn’t changed, since you were young. you remember sticking to the pews, sweat melting your skin as you leaned to find a whisper of a breeze. the walls do well to trap the swelter of mid-year.

“for a minute there, i was sure you weren’t coming.” a low, calm voice echoes in the emptiness of the hall. 

there, the woman from yesterday stands, not yet looking at you. instead, she opts to fiddle with the cuffs of her blazer, her golden hair tied back in a neat braid, falling down her back and shimmering in the artificial light. when she meets your eye, there’s that flicker of curiosity and disquiet, the way she looked at you in the square.

she clears her throat, holding her hand out. “i’m abigail. you must be-“

“yeah,” you say all too quickly, taking her hand tenderly.

there’s a beat of silence, your bravery seeming to pin you looking at each other, unable to shake the gaze of the other.

finally, abigail speaks, “why don’t we-uh, do you wanna? let’s sit,”

you nod, following her as she leads you back, through the twisting, turning halls, a path so densely taken by you once. you knew the way, but you followed behind her all the same.

her office is .. different, to how father mckenzie decorated it. where his walls were bare, imposing, quiet and godly, abigail’s is showered in kindness, in humanity. pictures of her soccer team, of her volunteer work, her smile a littered memory through all of them. her degree in theology from a far off university is pinned proudly behind her.

learned, real, tangible.

“i was.. sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. i’m sure it was quite a shock to you as well.”

she uses that voice. the voice of pastors, the voice of god. for years, you’d wondered how long they practiced it. walking the line between genial and authoritative, the voice that brings others to kneel.

you nod slightly, remembering your obligation to reaction. your throat is dry, “yeah, well, we hadn’t spoken in a few years, so…”

she frowns, skin deep, a purchased expression, “i’m aware. she often confided in me her troubles, she was… kind. i can imagine a life without her support must have been difficult.”

a vicious laugh half erupts from your throat before you struggle to contain it, but you half expect abigail to shoot you a knowing smirk.

kind?

“are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?” you eye her now, slumped back in your seat, like a defiant child. tongue in cheek, you let your head roll back, “speak to anyone, i’m sure ‘kind’ isn’t the word they’d use.”

abigail clears her throat again, shuffling around some papers on her desk, letting the discomfort of the room get to her, “dutiful, then. i apologise if i struck a cord.”

“no, no,” your gaze is scrutinising, painful to be underneath. in a way, gratification snuck under your skin with how easy it was to upset her, to finally be the bigger, badderperson in this godforsaken room, “she was kind to you,” your eyes flutter over the heave of her body as she breathes, “you’re lucky then. that’s not a courtesy she extends-extended to many.”

“well, then i’m particularly grateful.”

“you should be.”

a stalemate, almost. your words sit dry in the air, hanging like a taunt.

“right, well,” abigail begins, looking down at your mother’s will, “your mother requested that i speak the sermon at her service. i know you aren’t particularly religious, but i would encourage-“

“did she tell you that?”

she looks up at you, her eyes hanging through her eyelashes. perhaps she grew tired of your contempt, perhaps she grew firm, “would it be such a bold assumption either way?”

that actually brings a laugh from you, harsh as it is. a beat, “no, i suppose not.”

you watch as she continues, skimming through the will and taking anecdotes with her right hand, penmanship on show. you can see the etching of her arm even underneath the cursed wool of the jacket, the broadness of her shoulders hiding beneath her holy uniform. you wonder how long it took for her to carve that out of herself. you wonder if the clergy collar was the thing stopping you from something you would’ve usually done.

“just do it according to what she wanted,” you say quickly, readjusting yourself in your seat as you break from your own glaring, “i suppose i’ll pay for it either way,”

abigail looks at you, a stare akin to a kind, confused dog. “oh, alright, well,” she stands curtly, going to shake your hand once more, “thank you for coming in then. it was good to finally meet you,”

you nod as if to say the same, but the words don’t actually fall from your lips. turning to leave, your name in her voice hooks you,

“i would encourage you to come to the sunday service, if you have the time.” she says, her face painted genuine, generous, “perhaps peace with the lord is something that you find you’ll need.”

it’s not like the invite was a mockery, you tell yourself as you buckle your heel. she was extending something kind. maybe she read you better than you did yourself.

you hadn’t exactly packed for a formal occasion, disregarding the knee length black dress you borrowed from walmart the day you found out you were staying for a funeral.

this was the next best thing.

dark red against the bare of your skin, your dress barely brushed mid-thigh, although the omission of fabric on your tits would be welcome in the afternoon trapped in the church. you eye the ornate glass cross your mother kept propped up on the console table,

oh, well. if god loved you, you suppose he would just have to forgive you.

you resolve to be david attenborough, you think to yourself as your convertible jaunts into park on the dirt road leading up to the congregation. scholar of these creatures in worship.

you can feel the town eyeing you as you take your first brave step, whispers a background to your arrival. makes you feel special, at least. you hardly have the time to act tough before prudence rushes you, husband on arm.

“we didn’t think we’d see you today!” she smiles, “you remember anthony?”

of course. anthony, the frightened young boy you had once shared a cigarette with outside the hubbub of the church’s youth mixer. you had comfort in you, back then, enough to share. you had told him once that his ‘weird feelings’ toward another boy at school was nothing to be scared of. nothing trumps the fear of god, though. he ran home and opened his mouth, he got you run out of town.

you stifle a laugh, and nod as you follow the swarm of people inside.

you know it’s narcissistic to assume that all eyes are on you, that every slighted giggle was directed at you, but right here, right now, it’s true. your mother no longer around to backhand your rebellion, you bare it full force.

you slip into an empty pew at the back, not scared, but rather hopeful to capture the breeze of one of the two standing fans.

the torrid heat already getting to you, a sheen of sweat is sitting on the cup of your cleavage that’s  bare, heaving with each thick, heavy breath. your eyes trail abigail as she takes to the pulpit.

“i am so, so happy to see you all here with me today, under the eyes of the lord,”

something about summer agrees with her, you suppose. the brutality of it doesn’t seem to cling to her, her stride and keen smile unbroken. you can still eye, from the back, the details in her hands as she flips through the paper of her sermon.

there’s strength behind how gently she carries herself. 

for one neurotic moment, you think you see her eyes dance over you, meeting yours before flittering away. you cross your legs and shake the feeling.

instead, you find yourself swallowed by the steel of her gaze. the authority that so well suits the sharpness of her features. you can tell she was not built to be generous, that god believed her stare to be absolution. the benevolence that she wears, that so illy sits on the brawn of her body, was never meant for her.

you wonder what abigail was like when she was mean. you wonder if she ever was.

“before we begin today, i want to remind you all that we will be bidding farewell to an esteemed member of our beloved community tomorrow. i beseech you all to attend if you can,”

softness doesn’t belong to her.

maybe, in another life, you would’ve seen the abigail god intended. crossed paths in the dive bar you frequent in the city, found her in the bathroom of a club, framed by the deafening beat of bad music.

you think to what her hand would feel like, rough and blistered with work unholy, pinning your wrist to the grime of a bathroom stall.

the warmth of her breath, coddled in whiskey and smoke, on your skin, the scent of her determined.

you eye her fingers as they turn the page of her notes, and imagine the strength of them pulling you apart, twisting you to her desire.

 “i urge you to keep her soul in your prayers, so that she may find her way home to the lord,”

you feel the trickling of heat up your neck, your ears burning, your breath quick and scattered. something sick and swallowing sits in your stomach, you can feel eyes on you, but when you look up past the congregation, you see nothing.

it’s like you’re being smoked out, a sinner in church. you almost fall to your feet as you scramble out into the aisle, chest heaving as you rush out the open door.

you break through the stuck door of your family’s home, arid and heavy. your grip on your mother’s glass cross is titan, as you toss it, watch it shatter across the floorboards.

this was a joke.

the soft, rhythmic flap… flap… flap of Mrs Dixon’s black bone hand fan was the drum procession of which you were to bury your mother.

considering the climbing heat of the day, it was a wonder her bones hadn’t already rotted in the cheapest coffin you could’ve found. the sun high and taunting in the cloudless sky, it burned down on the congregation, the swelling crowd that had come to worship the life of that creature. that tormentor.

the old women of the church, the same who had once chewed their cheeks over the skirt length of your sunday best, who had counselled your mother over her faithless daughter, stood crown among the sea of black, eyeing you, scrutinising you, as they had always done. and like a hare caught in the crosshair of a hunter, you found yourself shrinking, as you once did, when you were fourteen.

you purse your lips, and try to steel your withering facade.

“we gather here today, to put to rest our sister in christ,”

abigail’s voice was commanding, you had to give her props. gentle, but worthy of attention. you can imagine a kind word from her was heavily sought after, amongst the faithful, chasers of praise from the workers of the lord. you watched her, embraced by the back of the daylight, the skin of her neck glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. her breath was heavy but not scattered, the rise and fall of her shoulders, broad, something mesmerising, oddly comforting.

her hands tighten their grip on her sermon. you can spy the cursive writing sifting through the back of the paper, bathed in sunlight. she must feel the bristle of your gaze.

“a pillar of the community, a hero of the faith,”

you studied her, like you would a specimen, cut open and bare. there was something about her, something in her that your mother liked, enjoyed, despite her many ungodly flaws. like the indeterminable, you stood in fascination. what was it? what was it that she had, that you had lacked?

was she merely hiding behind the cross, behind her steadfast dogma? you could have done that. you didn’t, but you could have.

you could have stayed, here. played your part. you could have been that child of the church. you could have done it, had you not chosen your own convictions. would, then, have abigail still appeared, had you stayed and been your mother’s daughter? a perfect echo of everything you weren’t? 

was she just a spectre, summoned here to mock you in your failings?

the pit in your stomach is decaying, swallowing you whole. you knew perfectly well that had you stayed, you still wouldn’t have been what your mother wanted. you never were, never could be. you could not have deigned to touch the pedestal that abigail sat on.

a tear stings at the baseline of your eye, a foreign feeling, and you swallow the sharp presence in your throat.

abigail finishes, tucks her sermon away neatly in her pocket. the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

you never could’ve done the right thing, had you had the chance to go back and change it all. for your mother saw you, and saw everything she hated. every quality she herself turned away from god.

after all, filth begets filth.

the harsh clicking of the lighter broke a holy, suppressive silence in the halls of the church. you stare up at the great stained glass mural behind the lectern, fractures of colour scattered across the carpet. you pull the cigarette from the purse of your mouth and watch as the smoke swirls up, splits and ebbs into the clean, pure air.

“you can’t smoke in here,”

her voice isn’t harsh, or reprimanding, but rather, lost. quiet, unsure, like a mouse. something cowardly.

you hold the cigarette out to her, not risking to look back and face her. she takes it gingerly, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, doesn’t dare to put it out.

“my mother loved god. more than she loved my dad,” you look over your shoulder to meet her eyes. her brow furrowed, her expression meek.

“the lord is easy to love,” she steps forward, to stand level with you. her blazer brushes against the bare of your arm, soft cotton. you scoff quietly, mockingly.

“i never felt that.” you take the cigarette back from abigail’s hand in one fowl swoop and take another drag. she says nothing, “god is difficult.”

she looks at you, as if you were a mystery, quizzically, “you take His name in vain so easily.”

you meet her gaze and almost laugh. she’s frowning at you with the face of a child, with the same innocence that’s almost insulting, “yeah, well,” your words fall as you suck in smoke, “Him and i are old friends.”

there’s a sudden, shifting silence between you. the ash of your cigarette falls contrast on the red of the carpet, but you make no move to clean it. you hold your gaze at the cross at the front of the hall, almost daring it to look away first.

“i understand you and your mother had a complicated relationsh-“

“you know nothing about me and my mother,” you say quickly, sharply, negating any comfort. suddenly, you’re pinning abigail under your gaze, and her graciousness falters.

“she told me a great deal of things,” abigial says firmly, almost cementing herself in place against the wind of your unwavering disposition. for the first time, you see in her defiance, a challenge.

you step forward for a moment, unsteady on your tiptoes, and the fine details of abigail's features become briefly clear. the light, sun kissed pink brushed across the high of her cheekbones, the crook in her nose where she undoubtedly broke it once, the gold in the baby hairs that escaped her neat braid to frame her face wildly, contrast to the carefully kept order of her appearance. you had hoped to push her back into uncertainty, back into a quiet disposition, and perhaps you have. you watch her swallow headily. your closeness could melt you if you weren't careful, the heat from her breath swirling against your skin. you want to celebrate the nervousness creeping into her eyes, but instead you just feel... enthralled.

"and what did she tell you about me, hm?" you hold your chin high with a wicked cruelty in your smile, "did she disclose to you my many sins?"

her voice is a quiet choke, as much as she fights to keep it steady. she looks at you, examining you like a human to an animal, "you're troubled, you lack guidance-"

"your guidance? or god's?" your eyes flicker but you couldn't say to where. oppression is a symphony, in the house of the lord, makes the air syrupy, dazed. there's a blur in this moment between you, "is there any difference?"

you can hear her breath catch in her throat, the space between you thick, immobile. 

“tell me, am i exactly how my mother described?”

“more than.” she stifles an unearned breath, “you test me.”

you take a final drag of your cigarette, stamping the butt into the carpet. abigail says nothing, does nothing.

“is that what she told you would happen?”

she swallows, her breath shaky.

“you’re tempting me from god,” she sounds unsure of herself, even now. you, despite your air of ego, beg to close the distance.

“is that what this is?” your voice is barely a whisper on her lips, prickling at her skin.

in one fell swoop, she moves on you, wretched and despairing and yearning. her lips run down your neck messily, unsure of herself as she falls.

a jealous mantra, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” as her face drags in the skin between your thighs, peppering fevered kisses with her warm breath up your dress.

you throw your head back in a quiet, celebrated ecstasy, ambrosia humming beneath your skin. you hear her pleas just faintly, “what?”

something simmers in her throat, a frenzy, her hands, so gentle, so firm, unseen from hard labour, drag up the silhouette of your body, bunching the fabric of your clothes up past your hips. laid bare, she means to worship you,

“for my sins, dear god,” she hums, her words a soft hum brushing your clit, your nails clawing wood from the pew,“forgive me,”

all grace forgotten, all discipline jilted, she’s tentative at first, so soft and unsure, her tongue dragging gentle, lazy traces, just to taste you. but you, oh you, weep ichor, something so velveteen and compulsive, something that sits in her throat and leaves her needing. her hands grab at the flesh of your ass, an anchor or a desecration against you as she moves, pinning you in your seat. shaky moans reverberate inside of you as she takes her fill, restless against you, her tongue an abuse that leaves you in threads.

your hands curl into the tight kempt of her hair, shaking her braid loose until it hangs on her shoulders, your nails scratching at her scalp.

“fuck, abby,” it falls from your lips before you catch it, not that you have the right to care anymore.       “right there, right -god- right there.”

abby, never before knowing this need, is ravenous, a temptation lost in your touch as she consumes you, greedily, a sharpness, a predatory unfamiliarity that is so unlike her. 

“god, oh god,” her lips drag sloppily up your body, smearing your own cotton slick against your stomach, your dress, a patterned trail to your lips, warmth resting in the friction between your bones. you taste yourself on her, but you smell her on you, pine and cheap cologne and sweat. 

“tell me to stop,” she chokes in a moment when she leaves your lips. she’s almost dragged back to you, a magnet to metal. “please, tell me,”

her hand is crawling down your body, down to rest between your legs. her fingers dance, hesitant, just brushing your clit. it stings, and your seethe melts into moans, “i don’t-i don’t want you to. don’t.”

“fuck,”

her fingers stretch you so uncertainly, so kind, content to just knowing the feeling of you. the push back you give her as your back arches, your breathing shivers. 

control. something so rarely desired by her, something you won’t give her. but for a moment, as she starts to find your heartbeat’s rhythm, her fingers pulling and pushing like the weight of the tide against you, she feels that rush. that supremacy she so desperately searched for. it only eggs her on for more of a taste.

her speed picks up, her forearm so lazily draped across the plain of your stomach, she looks up at you. pinned in your seat by her weight, your hair wild, your face contorted. a flush falls over your body, heat dripping down the dip of your chest as she pulls whine after whine from the swell of your lips. her.

“pastor abigail?”

prudence.

if pitchforks and torches were still in style, you’re sure an angry mob would’ve chased you, high on your heels, out of town. instead, you settle for a mournful, cowardly escape.

you slam the trunk shut, the sharp sound sending cacophonies of disruption through the magnolias. echoes of blue jays take flight across the muddled grey of the sky. the humidity is sticking to your skin, a sleekness that feels like an insult to the fragility of the moment.

abigail’s truck rattles down the distant drive, the silence of her despondence drowning as she screeches to a halt beside you. she stumbles out in a stupour, aberrant with an emotion difficult to recognise.

“you’ve led me to the slaughter,” her face is red, the heat clinging to her hairline, her chest heaving. christ, the redeemer, is slung around her neck, lopsided, “I will live forsaken from god.”

the taste of sulphur sits on your tongue, like a burnt match rotting in your throat. you look at her, and she looks at you, her pupils blown with pleading, like a child who has just become conscious of death.

what have you done to her? brought her down to you? pulled her down from the pyre, stripped of her defences;

has that made you happy? have you finally settled inside yourself, with this victory? looking up at her, seeing a pleading servant of the creature that turned you away, are you happy in her defeat?

you purse your lips, an ill attempt at forgiveness, at apology. moving past her, you feel her hesitance, her corroding need to reach out to you, like wading in waist high water.

in the car, your fingers wrap around the steering wheel, a vice grip. the last tether to this plane of existence, this piece of yourself.

“take it from me,” your voice is a soft croak, unsure of itself. you look up from the driver’s seat, and see her. is her own god forgotten in her eyes? you swallow, 

“your guilt won’t purify you.” 

─ psssst, hey! you made it this far! great! just wanted to let you know i've opened up a kofi to help support time for my writing. if you like my work and want to show your support, even just 1 buck would go a long way for me right now.

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[danysprincess]

madhouse murdercide | masterlist

— a tense saga wrung between two tenderhooks of carnality and carnage ♡

♯┆ enemies to lovers | ellie x reader.ᐟ ★

warning; this novel oversees the elements of bloodshed, paranoia, intent to murder, sense of no escape, gory scenes, disembodied presences, grudge-fed hatred, thick tensions one may choke on, and unearthing how rife with roses the path bridging you and ellie truthfully is. reader discretion is heavily advised. ꪆৎ

MASTERLIST . DAILY CLICK . READ THIS . PALESTINE MP

chapters; to be estimated!

fanart and teasers are being made! (pls lmk who the photographer of the ellie photo is in the header!)

please comment/reblog this post to be a part of the taglist! if you are on my perm taglist you will be tagged anyways! bright blessings ⊹₊⋆

[danysprincess]

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

DO NOT STOP TALKING ABOUT PALESTINE.

[danysprincess]

Let's all use our critical thinking skills for this one guys. If you fucking hated beans and saw someone making bean soup for themselves, would you go up to them and tell them to get rid of it? To start making other soups because YOU don't like beans? NO!

So why are we as a fandom shaming authors for writing the tropes they want? Why are we, as strangers on the internet, telling authors to stop writing their thoughts to accomodate for yours? Genuinely, continue the hate train and then in a couple months start wondering why no authors want to write anymore, or have moved to different fandoms.

Or, as an alternative, request fics in authors asks. I'm sure there are so many authors out there who will gladly bring life to your ideas!!! Maybe even start writing your own fucking drabbles if you want them that bad - that's literally how I started writing!!!

Also, since so many people want more stories and fluff and angst and AUs instead of smut, appreciate the people already who write them. @astralnymphh just posted 'Copy That, Romeo' - 6.1 THOUSAND words of pure fucking poetry and storytelling - and the amount of love it's getting is not doing it justice!

Remember, this is tumblr, not the reviews section on goodreads. NONE of us as authors are being commissioned, or paid for this - it's out of our own time and work and passion. What we are getting paid, though, is the support from our readers, so seeing so many people bringing down certain fics instead of requesting and uplifting the ones they want is so disheartening to witness.

also, considering I just saw an insane post, writing smut ≠ a porn addiction LMFAO

[danysprincess]

Let's all use our critical thinking skills for this one guys. If you fucking hated beans and saw someone making bean soup for themselves, would you go up to them and tell them to get rid of it? To start making other soups because YOU don't like beans? NO!

So why are we as a fandom shaming authors for writing the tropes they want? Why are we, as strangers on the internet, telling authors to stop writing their thoughts to accomodate for yours? Genuinely, continue the hate train and then in a couple months start wondering why no authors want to write anymore, or have moved to different fandoms.

Or, as an alternative, request fics in authors asks. I'm sure there are so many authors out there who will gladly bring life to your ideas!!! Maybe even start writing your own fucking drabbles if you want them that bad - that's literally how I started writing!!!

Also, since so many people want more stories and fluff and angst and AUs instead of smut, appreciate the people already who write them. @astralnymphh just posted 'Copy That, Romeo' - 6.1 THOUSAND words of pure fucking poetry and storytelling - and the amount of love it's getting is not doing it justice!

Remember, this is tumblr, not the reviews section on goodreads. NONE of us as authors are being commissioned, or paid for this - it's out of our own time and work and passion. What we are getting paid, though, is the support from our readers, so seeing so many people bringing down certain fics instead of requesting and uplifting the ones they want is so disheartening to witness.

also, considering I just saw an insane post, writing smut ≠ a porn addiction LMFAO

[danysprincess]

[danysprincess]

please keep unfollowing me. you stay silent, you are complicit with what’s happening. i don’t want fake ass friends.

to the ones who would rather ignore it and the ones who just don’t fucking care; you’re pathetic. you’re disgusting, and i wish i didn’t know you.

i feel sick to my stomach. i’m sick to my stomach. disgusted even by the fact you’re blatantly ignoring a genocide. scrolling past videos and posts about the real world where people are dying every minute, and instead you sit there giggling like a complete twat. literal fucking idiots asking me why i’m mad. the question you should be asking yourself is, why are YOU not mad? why are YOU not upset? why are YOU not pissed off? why are YOU sitting there and acting like nothing is happening?

ya’ll for real make me wanna rip my hair out. you have these big platforms, but you don’t even wanna use it? you state you give a shit, but you’re silent the fucking second something happens? spare me that shit. be for real. if you cared, you would be speaking out more. no one has time for your fake ass excuses anymore.

to the ones who are using their platform and using it to spread awareness. i love you. i love you for using your voice. i love you for simply reblogging everything you see. thank you. you all are amazing.

but for the ignorant assholes? fuck off. get away. you’re all complicit, and i don’t care about you.

As usual, Free Palestine 🇵🇸

how you can help Palestine

Palestine masterpost

donate to Palestine

[danysprincess]

this is SO ellie coded.

[danysprincess]

Listen to me, listen to me, listen to me, listen to me:

The badness of Hamas has no bearing on the question of whether it's morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians (it's not)

The atrocities of October 7 have no bearing on whether it's morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians (it's not)

The relative legal status of homosexuality in Israel versus the Gaza Strip has no bearing on whether it's morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians (it's not)

The competing of claims of indigeneity to the Holy Land among Israelis and Palestinians have no bearing on whether it's morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians (it's not)

The Nazi Holocaust, monstrous as it was, has no bearing on whether it's morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians (it's not)

There is nothing, no argument that can be advanced under heaven, that can make it morally acceptable to exterminate the Palestinians.

NOTHING justifies genocide. NOTHING, ever, justifies ANY genocide.

[danysprincess]

[danysprincess]

me reading Abby fics for breakfast lunch and dinner

[danysprincess]

CALLING ALL FANFICTION AUTHORS!

please reblog this. i've talked about this twice before, but obviously not everyone has seen it. i am calling for anyone who writes fanfiction or posts about a certain game/show/universe in any connective manner to please, please- PLEASE, copy this memo below comprising links to supporting palestine, education on the situation in gaza, and a must-need for those who engage in TLOU tumblr; links regarding the creators (neil druckmann) zionism, and how the plot of tlou2 is based on the israeli occupation of palestine. i don't care if what you write seems "insignificant" or "small" in the grouping of larger fics. no. everything that is not related to palestine in any form NEEDS these links. because, when we stray away from reblogging, or writing up our own posts in support of palestine/sharing journalists stories/etc. even for a SINGLE piece of writing, we could be missing people who are unaware (which, shouldn't be the case atp, but..) and fucking especially because in these fandoms, fics are the most popular thing. not reblogs about palestine, unfortunately; there are so many fanfiction accounts who very clearly don't give a fuck about the whole situation, seeping in silence, posting fics during strikes, not taking accountability for it now, so on and so forth. please, for the love of all that is good- CALL THEM OUT! people gaining hundreds of notes, tens of reblogs, supportive comments on a post that completely disregards what is happening SO BOLDLY right now, should irk you. i swear, if i see one more fuckass "i didn't know!" apology from an author who is CONSTANTLY on tumblr, REGULARLY posting fanfiction, i'm going to fucking lose it. if you are on tumblr to begin with, being this active- you have time to reblog. actually, educating yourself and reblogging is way quicker than writing up fanfiction of any length. are you fucking kidding me? you are laughable. comical, not real, and i have nay an ounce of respect for you. ever. but besdies that; the memo. i want everyone to copy this, or make something similar. put this above your summaries, authors note, whatever comes before the writing. every post you make should link back to supporting palestine, cause you never know how many eyes it will reach. it could change a lot of things. on pc, i believe copying it completely will preserve the links, but i'm not sure if mobile will. again. do whatever you can to add it. don't be lazy. put this in ur masterlists/navigation too.

for all fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

for tlou fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

you may add what is necessary, i wanted to keep it short for attention span sakes, and to avoid people skipping it entirely, and so on. i may edit these, fix up anything, but again, if you're using them you can edit them however. as long as you are linking anything in general, that is what matters. thank you, love from aestra. from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

[danysprincess]

More Jealous Dom Abby Please 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

jealous!abby headcanons

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

a/n; well—ask and you shall receive! these are kinda jealous, kinda possessive, but i hope they suffice anyway <3 also this is my kinda my first time doing headcanons so if they suck. . .no they don’t!

pairing; dom!abby anderson x sub!fem!reader

warnings; most of this is smut, some is just plain jealousy/possessiveness lol, use of a strap-on is heavily implied, cunnilingus, just dom abby doing dom abby things tbh, abby uses love/baby

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

✮ jealous!abby who will give you her jacket if you’re showing a little too much skin. it could be a tank top, skirt, dress, short bottoms; it doesn’t really matter. what does is that you’re showing yourself off to the world, when it’s a view only she should get to see. she’ll wrap her jacket around your waist, or make you put it on, and when you pout in response, she’ll yank you in closer by your hips, hands roaming down to your ass. “don’t look at me like that, baby. you know i don’t like people seeing what’s mine.”

✮ jealous!abby who will let anyone know she’s yours even if she doesn’t have to. every single party you go to in the wlf, you have to sit on abby’s lap or beside her, her arms wrapped around your waist, not allowing you to leave, not that you’d want to. you’re usually wearing a short dress that she’ll glare at anyone for looking at the wrong way, blood boiling when anyone but her pays you more attention than they should be. once, a girl told you how gorgeous you were hardly half an hour into the party, and abby was dragging you away quickly. “we’re leaving,” she growled, and you had no choice but to respond. as soon as you got back to her room, your lips were being pounded by her cock.

✮ jealous!abby who has to work her feelings out at the gym from time to time because she would do things for you that she shouldn’t. she comes into the gym pissed, and fucks up her usual weekly schedule and just does what feels good in the moment. moves from bench presses, to back squats, to regular lifting. but her preference is always the punching bag when she’s pissed.

✮ jealous!abby whose feelings of jealousy always end in aggressive, dominant sex. she has the urge to let you know that you’re hers each time someone makes any sort of pass at you. she’ll take you from behind, hand gripped in your hair as she pounds into you from the back. “good fucking girl,” she’ll groan as she slaps you on the ass a few times, getting you to easily moan her name as she breaks you. “no one else can fuck like me, right? s’just my cock you want?”

✮ jealous!abby whose feelings of jealousy can also end in cunnilingus, her receiving. she still manages to find a way to be forceful even when she’s on the receiving end. she’ll wrap her legs around your head, forcing you to dive deeper and deeper into her swollen pussy, making it hard for you to take oxygen. “so pussydrunk f’me, love,” she groans in a jeering tone of voice as she grinds onto your face, pressing her clit onto your tongue. “fuuuck, just like that, baby,” + “is it too much, baby? mmm, well, too bad.”

✮ jealous!abby who decked a guy across the face once for moving his hand too close to you, assuming he was going to lay his hands on you. turns out, the guy was just going to talk to you about an upcoming assignment, but abby didn’t give him enough time before blood was spilling from his nose. she argued with you afterwards that she didn’t have jealousy issues, because, in her defense, “he made a jab at me first!”

✮ jealous!abby who hates when girls, and guys, look at you when you wear those leggings in the gym that clearly define your body. it’s a wonder she hasn’t cussed anyone out. “what? move along,” she’ll say in a firm tone of voice to anyone who moves too close to you when you’re doings your sets, gawking. “she’s mine,” and “fucking go somewhere else,” are also things she has said, and will say again if necessary!

✮ jealous!abby who makes it unlikely that anyone will come up to you, because everyone knows you’re hers. if there’s a newcomer in the wlf who’s crushing on you, someone else will fill them in on why they shouldn’t pursue you. and if anyone comes too close, abby will give them a glare, a reminder, that you’re taken.

✮ jealous!abby whose friends accused her of being jealous, to which she heavily denied. it was her, manny, jordan, and leah, drinking in abby’s room. when you came up, manny was the first to bring abby’s jealousy to the discussion as well. “i don’t—i don’t have jealousy issues. i don’t get jealous,” abby said as she took a swig from her glass, but everyone in that room knew she did, and she knew she did, too. “yeah, right. cause you yelling at that one guy over him looking at her ‘the wrong way’ isn’t jealousy,” jordan laughed. “it’s not. just—he was,” abby grumbled.

✮ jealous!abby who took her jealousy up with issac when she found out you would be on assignment with some other girl, alone. she had a million things to do in the wlf and an upcoming mission of her own: but you always came before. when she told you she would now be coming with you on your mission, you just had to laugh. “you just don’t want me alone with someone that’s not you,” you smiled. abby leaned in close to you—you were in her room—and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you closer to her on the bed. “so what if i don’t? i told you you’re mine.”

└── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┘

reblogs are very much welcomed <3

———

[danysprincess]

◆ 7:35 AM / E.W

an: this an attempt of me trying to get back into writing, so i hope this isn't too shitty! this was definitely written spontaneously at 11 pm, so i hope you all enjoy it.

“Ellie…” You groan incessantly as her fingers press deeper into your cunt, offering a pleasure you never knew existed. You practically writh beneath her touch, trying to contain your cries of pleasure as she pushes deeper. 

The morning had begun innocently; small kisses that peppered your belly in an attempt to wake you up for patrol. But somehow it ended up with her lips suckling your clit, fingers curling to hit that one spot that made you writhe every time. Your fingers intertwined themselves between her auburn locks, coaxing her deeper into your folds. 

Ellie’s tongue swirled languid strokes into your clit, urging you even closer to climax than you were before. A warmth bubbles in your lower belly, signaling you are close. And she knows it too. The way your legs quiver beneath her touch, or how your moans increase in volume with each stroke. Ellie wants to see the way you cum underneath her, she relishes it. 

Her emerald eyes meet your own, just enough to push you over the edge. A surge of pleasure rushes throughout your body, and you can barely contain the sounds of ecstasy that leave your lips. Swiftly Ellie rises from between your legs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, letting you taste your arousal. The sight was erotic, almost enough to have you begging for her fingers again. 

But she quickly pulled away, rising from the bed. Her eyes flicker back to meet yours, and a small smirk adorns her lips. It was safe to say, Jesse covered your patrol for you two that morning.