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infamous ex??? did i miss a chap?

idk if i said anything on tumblr about it maybe it’s the voices💔💔 basically me and the gf i had when i started this account broke up, i ended the relationship around 3 months ago and initially ended on good terms, i unfollowed like a few weeks later cause i was like damn maybe i gotta move on i can’t be the lesbian friends with their ex. and then the moment i did that the mf started posting about me saying i “turned to drugs” (drugs being WEED) and calling me chopped and a list of names it was insane.

for a while it was chill, i blocked them and then fast forward to now i basically made a post about how i started to love myself more after the breakup on tiktok and within hours of the post my ex had their friends go comment mean stuff on it🥀

AND THEN I GOT A NOTIFICATION FROM MY EX’S EX GF?? for context they were friends while we were dating and i found out that while we were together that they were flirting (which is also a small part of the reason i unfollowed my ex) and ngl i did entertain that, i told her my ex can confront me if they have a problem with me and she blocked me after that😭

i wasnt planning to air my shit out on tumblr but it’s the most chronically online situation i’ve been in i feel like i’m thrust back into sophomore year of highschool? like why are we beefing online when you know where i live and you can call me? why are we leaving comments on tiktok from our friends

ANYWAYS THATS MY EX LORE. i dated this person for two years can you believe it

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me when i see you in my notifs:

HI RIV!! ILYSM HOW ARE YOU TODAY

me when i see you in my inbox:

[orphicsun]

HI CHEY! It’s been a minute how are you!!! How are things?!? What are you up to these days

I hope now that your taking a step back from writing you have more time to focus on other passions and just living your life

Miss you!

i’ve been doing good!! a little drama with the infamous ex tbh but we balling. i’ve mostly been swimming and hanging out with my friends but i missed you so much</3 missed my mutuals a ton

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we’re not at Wendy’s anymore, toto…

SYNOPSIS: dropping fries or drawals?

WORD COUNT: 2.0K

WARNINGS: THIS IS CRACK AND VERY UNSERIOUS! FT. AGGRESSIVE FLIRTING, oc is a big titty pansexual and the wendy’s robin hood, ellie is a butch-dyking, fry-dropping misandrist who frowns a lot, mentions of mary jay, MDNI: TIT AND SPIT PLAY, MILD DIRTY TALK

A/N: i literally have no plan for this it’s just for shits n gigs. obsessed with their dynamic lowkey first part LOL

TAGLIST: @areyna @dyk3ang3l @grotesquevi @lucidfairies @aphrodyk3 @edenspoem @ssshhh-imreading @sappho-favourite-pupil @spoilmyfun @alpha-whoore @xxmoonyxx12 @wheni013 @elliesluckycharm @kuv1ras @euph0riafilms @rockwizard43 @inf3rn4lia @lillybunns @berlin1994 @weirdero @ferxanda @dulcerbbns @z456 @cheyshaunted @justarandomflowerchildofthenight @jayy2inlove @breathinlove @piercedome @aagutzke @sawaagyapong

This is not how Ellie thought she’d be spending her 15: outside at 11:47PM with her best friend calling her loose.

“This whole time, I thought, ‘wow, maybe Ellie has changed! Maybe she isn’t easy anymore’, but look at you! It took one hotbox and a hot box to—“

She massages her temples, “Riley—“

“I can’t lie and say y'all wouldn’t be hot together—Imma need that tape by the way, but Jesus Christ, get a grip—“

Why’d Ellie think confiding in her best friend about her new friend would be a good idea? Why’d she think befriending you in the first place was a good idea?

You’ve infiltrated her midnight sessions like a demonic witch. 3 days of pure torture: her waking up an hour before work steaming under her blankets, drenched in sweat and brain cursed with the image of you still with a full throat, only now… it follows her to work. Fuckass Wendy’s.

No one’s caught on—except for Riley, fuck her intuition—to the too long gazes shared between you, the playful shoulder bumps when you walk by her station, and the biggest one of all…

As Riley put it, “they’re not leaving a snail trail on the tile anymore. I think you tamed ‘em a little. Good for you, friend.”

But Ellie’s not trying to tame you. You can do, talk to, fuck, who and whatever you please. She doubts she’s made that much of an impact on you in such a short amount of time, but she does notice that you’re a bit more… chill? Chilled out? Still a menace, but slightly more selective with who you enchant.

That fucking shirt is still too tight, though.

And now, she wants to dunk whoever’s accepted your muted salaciousness into her 400 degree oil tank.

Ellie’s not a jealous person… She wasn’t, but there’s a deep sense of rage that overtakes her whenever men men men compliment you. It’s murderous, borderline sadistic what she envisions in her head while she throws their cheese slices on their limp. Dick. Fries. She despises their existence, wants nothing more than for them to die, or at the very least, shut the fuck up—

“I invited them over tonight.”

“… WHAT THE FUCK—“

… Yeah. Ellie felt so guilty about rain-checking you last week, but her cat got sick. Her baby wouldn’t stop vomiting.

A head pokes out from behind the back door, “Uh, y’all break ended 7 minutes ago.”

… Clock watcher. Maybe Ellie doesn’t hate all men. Jesse’s a guardian angel sent to protect her against the incoming force that is her best friend.

“BITCH, IT’S TUESDAY, WE’RE DEAD!” Riley shouts in his direction, “THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN THEY’RE COMING OVER—“

“Who’s coming over? Coming here? Health inspectors?—“

“I needa pee.” Ellie’s already booking it towards the restroom, an excited Riley trucking close behind while Jesse panics about The Pope possibly eating at Wendy’s in the middle of fucking Wyoming.

“WHO’S COMING TONIGHT? HELLOOO—“

“YOU—YOU’RE FAKE AS HELL! YOU WAITED THIS LONG TO TELL ME ABOUT Y’ALL—“

“Shut up, I’m peeing, byeee, love ya, bye I needa pee, bye—“

The door shuts and locks, but she hears them yelling. A couple bangs on the door.

Just when she thought she found sanctuary…

“Hey.”

You stand by the mirror adjusting your tits in your tight ass shirt. All buttons are undone today, just her fucking luck.

“… You didn’t lock the door.”

“I wasn’t pissing.” You hold Pennifer up in your hand like a trophy, and Ellie snickers.

“Started without me?”

“Was fienin’,” With no hesitation, you offer it over, “Wanna pregame?”

She doesn’t mean to snatch it, but she’s a bit jittery. She puffs from, exhales in the opposite direction from you.

“I like when you do that.” Your tongue sounds larger in your mouth. Ellie has to puff again to keep from laughing.

“Do what. Get high on the job?” She whirs around smoke, but you ignore her.

“Tough night?” You nod towards the door that’s still being punched in by Riley.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah.”

“I HATE YOU, BITCH! NEXT TIME YOU WANNA SNEAK, LEMME KNOW—“

“Damn… what happened?”

“I just… I told her you were coming over tonight.” She hands Pennifer back.

Ellie’s surprised when you laugh. She half expected you to be irritated for snitching you both out to someone at work, was so prepared to ride for how trustworthy Riley is, that she wouldn’t get you both fired for workplace flirting and potential bathroom fondling.

But you don’t seem to care, just asks a simple question,

“Should I be concerned?”

She knows what you’re implying. Her head immediately shakes in denial. “I told you. Just a friend. She’s just nosy.”

“Alrighty,” you purr, and Ellie’s heart skyrockets when you take 2 steps closer. The bathroom suddenly feels like a funnel tube. Tight, closed-off, trapping, but she doesn’t leave. The door’s right there; she can’t bring herself to open it.

The pounding suddenly comes to a pause before irritated footsteps vacate the outside.

Ellie can’t stop the ache that blooms in her core or the watering of her mouth when both your hands rise to rest on your chest, the pudge poking through the gaps between your fingers. Either you're that soft, or you’re not wearing a bra.

“Buttons or no buttons?” Asked with fluttery lashes.

Ellie swallows. “One button.” For my fucking sanity, she wants to add, but you got enough ego to cover a goddamn army.

“Help me? Full hands ‘n allat.” That bottom lip juts out slightly and your lashes flutter, and it takes everything for Ellie to not press your face against this filthy ass door. Never in her life did she think she’d reach this level of depravity, but it’s been days. Days. She’s fucking starving for you.

Unfortunately, she has smidge of dignity, and wants you to keep yours.

So she buttons the last one, knuckles brushing against that small sliver of skin, taking in the way your pupils shake with every maneuver of her fingers. Your gaze alone could light a match. Start a forest fire. Burn this whole building to the fucking ground if you wanted.

“Thanks!” You say in your usual bushy-tailed tone, gently shoving Ellie aside to unlock and open the door. “Hi, favorite coworkers!”

The screaming stops, and Ellie’s head knocks back on the wall.

The last thing she wants to do is see her friends' faces. Riley’s hollering is enough.

“… WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON—“

Ellie’s sigh leaves her breathless.

—

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Ellie shuts the door behind her, untangles her earplugs from around her neck to drop them, along with her keys, on the dining room table before shrugging her jacket off.

You were pretty quiet on the ride over. Made her a little nervous… A lot nervous.

“Why, thank you.” Ellie can’t hide her smile at your courtesy.

She watches your wandering eyes, moving all over her decorated walls, sloppy paint jobs, shredded up couch from kitten claws. She hopes you don’t notice the coffee stain that she could never remove.

“‘S very you.”

“I would hope so,” her feet carry her to the kitchen, “want a drink? I haaave…” She inspects her fridge. Empty, minus the to-go box, 3 beers, and 2 jugs of berry Minute Maid.

… Awkward. You’re a peckish pothead. Couldn’t even bother to get you a meal on the way home. Dumbass.

“Damn, bitch, no water?” You laugh, and Ellie huffs.

“You’re lucky I drank all my O-negative this morning. You’d be pissing yourself.”

“Sike, I’d buss it wide open for a vampire.”

She flushes before shutting the fridge and guiding you to the couch with a hand on your back.

“We matching? Or are you robbing me again?” You nudge her playfully before rummaging through your purse, and Ellie follows, pulling two jays out of her backpack.

Soon enough, your hands are stocked with Pennifer, a ziplock baggie of your own pre-rolls, and a… fucking butane lighter that your hand can barely close around.

“Goddamn—“

You cackle. “Shut up! Couldn’t find my pink one.”

“So you brought a fucking campfire?”

“If you’re gonna judge, you can spark yourself. Don’t mind m—“

Ellie snatches your lighter with an eye roll that borderline launches them to her brain, flickering the lighter on. It feels like a fucking fireplace. You’re ridiculous.

But you’re quiet. Ellie sparks the end with as much skill as you did last week.

Speaking of.

“Sorry I had to cancel a few days ago—”

“No need to be.”

“My cat got sick and it freaked me out. So. Yeah.”

“Aww, nooo,” you whine sympathetically. Even in your times of softness, that pout makes her lightheaded.

“Where's the baby? Is it okay?”

“He’s fine now. With my… dad.” She passes the jay to you. Watches you puff like a hawk, tinted chapstick smearing the edge. “I pick him up tomorrow.”

“That’s good. What’s the baby’s name?”

“Stewart.” She says stoically.

“… Is he orange?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell. He fucked this couch up.”

Ellie smiles. “You should see my room.”

“Is that an invite?”

Her heart stutters in her chest, but her gaze doesn’t falter from yours. She simply takes the joint from your grip, speaks around her puff.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

“Well.”

“Well what.” She pins.

“I want your mouth on my tits.”

“… And I want your tits in my mouth.” She speaks through a dry throat and a thrumming core, your tone set deep in her bones.

You nod your head once before unbuttoning the button she buttoned for you earlier, leaving your greasy cloth on the floor.

“Well… Lean.” Your hands gesture backwards.

And Ellie does, back pressed against her couch cushions, joint hanging from her fingers, almost as low as her eyes. You throw a leg over her lap, tits jiggling in her face.

She nearly yanks you down onto her lap when your lips curl around the joint, the orange end cresting like the sun in the morning.

“Suck on ‘em.” Smoke wafts in her face and she curses low and broken.

Your nipple beckons her lips and your hand flies to yank at her hair, pleased whines leaving your lips and vibrating down to her toes. She can barely gather the strength to rub on you like she wants; she’s too enraptured by your softness.

And your filth. That fucking mouth...

“You’re eating ‘em up like a fucking slut.” You whisper in astonishment before pressing a kiss atop her head. Ellie moans around you in response, tongue swirling messily around your areola before suctioning your nipple, drinking in your satisfied squeaks.

One of your nipples is more sensitive than the other. It's cute how loud you get when her teeth rub on them. Just an inch. Enough to get you jumping on her lap like a bunny.

They’re so heavy on her tongue, so soft in her mouth. She’s sure her jeans are staining with her slick… and yours. She can practically smell you.

“Ellie, ‘m—oh fuck, I might cum—“

Her muscles act on their own accord, her joint-less hand coming down to whack your ass, mouth popping off to spit sloppy on both your tits, rubbing her mess in with her tongue.

“You’re so hot, you’re so hot, m’cumming, ohhh fuck—“

Your arm closes tight on the back of her neck, shoving her face tight against your breasts and she accepts that she’ll happily die here: under you, trapped by your scent and your skin and your yipped thanks for the nut.

You have to shove Ellie off your tits after your comedown, thighs clamping shut on her lap when her teeth nick your more sensitive nip, her mouth matching your chest in wetness.

“Fuck.” She exhales, head plummeting on the back of the couch. Tokes one last time. Blows it in your face between giving you one.

“I thought you were a fucking prude when I met you. My fault.” You exhaust through heaves and clouds. She shakes her head uncaringly, massages your tit just to watch you twitch.

“You want another one?” She asks plainly despite the throbbing between her thighs.

“… You serious?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure… After you show me what’s in your nightstand.”

Ellie chuckles. She’s always loved a bargain.

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oh so i need her so bad!!! not even kidding i need a woman like her 🙏

[orphicsun]

riv i’m so locked into this

finally locked the fuck in and i’m almost finishing my knight!vi eternal fic, expect a 15k words essay on how she would be the most loyal knight to ever exist soon 😋

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i thought you completely left tumblr and was so sad

noo, i haven’t been as active but i’ll always be in the arcane and tlou fandom🤞

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i miss you so bad. i’m spiraling

i’m still here just not a writer</33 i miss my readers though😭😭♥️

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hi loves how are we doing?

[orphicsun]

hi everyone, i love writing dearly and i will always continue it but i think my tumblr era is coming to an end. i barely feel like writing like i did when i started, and i think it’s because i get too in my head about likes and feedback that when i don’t reach my goal, it becomes motivation repellent and i miss enjoying writing as much as i did when i’d started. i want to be able to write things with more plot and less smut, and unfortunately tumblr isn’t the best platform to do so.

i wanna keep my passion for writing going, so i think this decision is best for me. i still want to continue writing in the future for the characters i love, but probably not on here. my current series will be posted on ao3 once i feel more passionate about writing again and i may still post on that site, though it won’t be short and explicit as i do on this blog. i’m grateful for the love i’ve gotten from my fics, but at the same time i find myself overanalyzing what i write and wondering how well it’ll do, rewriting it over and over again and still feeling like it’s not good enough.

i honestly don’t know if i’ll use my tumblr in the future for even personal things because i know a lot of people follow me for the writing, so if anyone i’m mutuals with would like to keep in contact let me know because i’ll miss you guys.

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rockstar!ellie fucking you to the beat of a song she made for you.

the loud bass from her song echoes throughout the room, drums nearly shaking the posters off her walls. each thrust matched the rhythm of her song. the lyrics being accentuated by her heavy pounding.

“oh, ohhh, ellie! you’re so fuckin’ deep.” you moan out. your knuckles are practically white from how hard you’re gripping the sheets.

she’s drilling into you from behind. one hand grasping your waist to keep you from running while the other presses into your back, creating the perfect arch for her. each snap of her hips drives you further into bliss. it’s as if she’s drilling every lyric, every thud into your head.

“i know, love. can—shit—can feel my cock stretching this pussy out.” she rasps, moving her hand from your back to your neck. her breath ghosts over the curve over your ear when she speaks.

“hngghhh—yes, yes! fuck, it’s so good!”

“mm yeah? me or the song, baby?” the question makes you absolutely feral. you can feel her ego growing based off the way she’s fucking into you. like her main source of every comes from your pleasure, your praise you’re unknowingly giving her.

“b-both.” your voice comes out small, but it’s more than enough for ellie.

the bed groans in agony, even the floor screeches from the vulgar acts. her bitten back whimpers swirl through your head, mixing with yours and the sounds of skin slapping. the bridge of the song comes on, and it’s like ellie lost all of her control.

each lyric that pours out of the speakers is followed by a sharp snap of her hips. the tip of her strap nearly bruising your cervix from the ferocity of her thrusts. “you hear that? you hear whenever i sang about keeping you close, that if you were a flame, i’ll be a burn victim if it meant you’d stay forever?”

the romantic tension is so thick, it almost drowns out the lewdness. until you feel her hand snake around your waist, two fingers rubbing circles on your clit. then, you’re reminded that she’s not only playing you a song, she’s making you remember every damn word.

you nod eagerly. so drunk on the pleasure, you barely even process her words. a low chuckle comes from behind you, followed by a soft peck on your shoulder. “good, babe. ‘cause i mean every single word of it.”

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Tells: E.W. Chapter One.

PAIRING: Seattle!Ellie + Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Angst, details of violence and mentions of death, mentions of PTSD and trauma, themes surrounding death and self-defense, sexual content in future chapters. Read at your own discretion. Note: This chapter is short I know:( I moved a lot to chapter two because this is just supposed to be the basic exposition layout, and future chapters will be longer! ALSO, please comment to be added to the taglist!

LINKS: Series masterlist, teaser, chapter two, chapter three

WC: Approximately 3k

DESCRIPTION: You're desperate and deprived, alone indefinitely. You reside in a dilapidated pharmacy on the outskirts of Seattle with only a growing body count and guilt, and the thought of death never seems to leave. Even in sleep, you hear its sharp whispers. You kill out of necessity, fear it as you commit the sin. Ellie isn't as afraid of death as you are, though; it’s not out of necessity. You'll let her ruin you if it means you have one friend in this world.

The rather bright part of the day brought in light through your blinds, but you could never seem to blink away the red tint hidden within. It followed you like the plague, and it spread to everyone you knew.

The kill count was a large, wooden house that followed you, left vessel-shaped spots in your eyes, and made you blind to the evil of humanity lurking underneath layers of cordyceps and starvation. The oak, soaked with crimson loved to rot from the corners, and you wholeheartedly know that one day, it’ll be nothing but a foundation and you’ll be nothing but what you fight against—your own civilization, or what is left of it. You were a part of that civilization, and you weren't a participant in the ignorant part. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you met the same fat as your ‘enemies.’ Still, you wanted to pretend to do good. 

So selfish is a girl in an apocalypse, camping out in a pharmacy smothered in flourishing vine and moss. The bricks were once laid out by someone who could’ve had a wife and children. Now, it was perverted by you. Structures aren’t the only thing tainted by the world, but also the people whose footprints stay in the mud throughout several seasons of weather, precipitation fading the signs of life but spirits remaining. Everyone is left tattered, and you feel as though your own presence spreads a red tone that isn’t the maroon base of the bricks onto your makeshift shelter. You had a sharp disdain for yourself in every way that mattered, from the splotches on your hands to the dullness of your knife from so many years of use. 

Many would say that in the case of an apocalypse, death is natural. The biological aspect rots the brain and leaves many infected, of course. People also need to defend against others when supplies run low and when disagreements that were once contained by a government are fair game to a bullet in the head for one wrong word. 

You aren’t one to do that, though. You only play God when necessary. Your routine is strung out over the span of years. Killing, scavenging, killing, surviving, killing, defending, killing, hoping, killing.

Acts deemed atrocious in the previous world had the possibility of justification as well. Cannibalism was left unpunished if the one committing it had an appetite for life or death rather than for the forbidden flesh itself, such as the Andes Mountain incident you had read about in an old, stained newspaper from a grocery store. Murder itself is justified, it is self defense, and the list of wrongs that are technically right goes on. 

Anyone could be certain that your baggage carried the same title: simply in the name of survival. You had to kill to keep yourself clothed, fed, simply alive. If that was so true, why did your sins flow through your veins like a sleep suppressant, keeping you red-eyed and tossing all night? You could kill to keep the clothes on your back when winter got bitter and nipped at your ears, but you could never load your pistol, take a life, and get a good night’s sleep from it.

Stab wounds imprinted upon your unconscious mind, festered within it to punish you. You would wake up wishing that you would’ve just let yourself die to the hands of a hostile group or even a stalker, but why give up now?

It could always be worse than a pharmacy. Now, you could pretend like there was still good in you. You could pull the strings on your body and act like your red fingerprint isn’t left on the world, or that your eyes still wished to open each dawn just to see the sun rise with a new beginning. 

If you weren’t so blinded by your own feelings, you’d see that you aren’t of bad morals. You put rolls of gauze in your backpack each time you left to hunt, and you threw it around Seattle in hopes someone in need would find it. You try to make each act of self defense peaceful, as you’d never torture a human life. Everything you do is of a pacifist in a world war. Still, that one particular color lingers. 

Maybe for once, you'll sleep well tonight knowing you tried to revert to the innocence of clean hands and nightmare that were more like fantasies than what you wake up to see. You know better, though.

-

“Where’s your weapon?”

Your cheek burns with a sudden, sharp sting, inflamed and tinted from the unnecessarily aggressive slap gifted to you to force your consciousness. It wasn’t from a hand, though. Your eyes meet the barrel of a pistol and naturally, they widen. They dart up to meet eyes with a forest behind them, but no sign of life. It’s all dead past the natural shine. You haven’t seen your reflection in a long time, but you truly believe that in this moment, the green surrounding the pupils contains less humanity than yours do. 

Eyes are what you use to perceive a person—a first glance into their being. Eyes can show you softness or cruelty in moments like these. The lines imprinted upon the skin surrounding eyes give away age, but often, they are telling of a stressful existence. You travel down to their lips to have an attempt at their mood; in this case, impatient and not hesitant to kill if needed. Then, hair. Hair tells you how long a person has been without proper hygiene. Hair can tell you much about a person’s social life. A person with unwashed hair, most likely great in length, may be more isolated from any type of society or group than one with good hygiene. 

Your first glance at the woman standing above you who rudely broke into your hide-out and threatens you with the end of all means is not one surrounded by love or even kindness; there in her eyes is the blood-curdling but not rare look of a killer. You can sense it anywhere, and just within her expression. Her mouth is set in a thin line, the creases within them still. Her hair looks like it needs a thorough scrub, though it isn’t too long. There is a unique set to her face that cannot be unchecked, but you have bigger fish to fry. Your life is in her hands.

“You can take whatever you want, I promise. I have a gun in my backpack,” you offer quickly. You’re not dumb. You don’t trust that she is bluffing, and even asking so would get you shot on the spot. 

You swallow and watch as the woman cautiously walks to pick up your tan military backpack, rummaging through it for the shotgun you had found on a lucky scavenging trip. Your panic is beginning to dig its nails into you as you realize that besides that old, dull knife, that shotgun was the only weapon you had ammunition for. The pistol you carry is tucked away behind shelves of pain medication, but you haven’t found any 9 mm bullets in weeks now. Even if you survive this, you will be defenseless. 

In a state of pure adrenaline, you rise from your stained mattress and try to tackle her from behind. You’re only able to rip the backpack away before she has a switchblade to your throat and a rough grip on your wrists, bringing you down to the ground. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” She scoffs, a strained sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It isn’t anything deadly, at least not from others. However, this woman’s blade is kissing your delicate throat, ready to act. She aims to force your surrender. You can’t pretend the cold metal is a nightmare of your own creation.

“You can’t take my gun! I’m tired of having to use it, but I’m not dying. I’m not.” You feel your eyes burning with emotions you constantly have to put a lid over, but they spill over the pot when met with another human being, one you’re defenseless against. 

“Why the hell are you telling me all of this? I didn’t want you to have a weapon on you, you dumbass.”

Oh. 

The woman is met with silence on your end. She doesn’t falter. Instead, she presses into you slightly, not enough to bring blood to the picture she has brushed of you, but rather to intimidate. 

You struggle to think in the moment, your heartbeat rapidly thumping against your ribcage, your pulse rising in your wrist and neck. You should defend yourself—your instincts inside of you, the ones that drive you to do unspeakable things know that. 

You’re not a weakling. Your body is screaming at you, telling you to at least attempt to rip the knife from her grasp. Instead, you grow still. You know better. 

“Where’s Abby?”

You can’t look back at her, but you’re sure she can take the confusion from your voice, even from the rasp of its disuse. “Abby?” 

The name is foreign on your tongue. Though you reside in Seattle, you’re not involved in any groups. You’ve had hostile encounters with both WLF and Seraphites, but you can easily assume that the woman is referring to someone from this area. 

You wince when you feel fingers lace through your hair and wrench your head back. “Don’t fuckin’ play with me. Where is Abby?” The sharp end of her steel is not far from nipping at your delicate skin. She only lessens the pressure so you can talk. 

“I don’t know who Abby is, okay? I don’t talk to many people. I just live on my own.” You’re eager for her to believe you, but she isn’t as trusting as you hope. You can’t be surprised.

“So you just live in Seattle on your lonesome, no ties to the groups here that would kill you?” She scoffs, “I find that kind of hard to believe.”

“It’s true! I don’t know how, but I’m alive. Nobody’s found this pharmacy, ‘cept for a few people. I don’t think any of them were from the group you’re talking about.” You don’t mention what happened to those few people. The guilt constantly rings in your ears like the bell of death. 

For a moment, the woman is seemingly contemplative. You can see it right in her pupils, the way her lids twitch. 

She wonders whether or not she should kill you, and it isn’t hard to guess why. Perhaps to cut loose ends, or maybe she really enjoys killing. That isn’t uncommon in this world; people who were once good, loving people and only wanted to see the next day get caught up in the adrenaline of shoving a gun into another’s face or threatening them with a machete, how the feeling dulls all of the pain to a throbbing ache. You may even forget the pain entirely, just for a split second. 

You hate killing. It’s a disease that likes to spread more rampantly than any infection. It takes over, and nobody can seem to see past it all. Not even past themselves, they can’t see the damage killing does. You only kill when necessary, and the people follow you like a chain of ghosts. 

That is how your counterparts function, though. They believe that the next slaughter will cease the buzzing in their ears, that it’ll let them forget the previous. If anything, the buzzing grows in volume. It festers into a deadly hive, what once was a honeybee. 

Why do you decide to lead her through the thick green entirety of Seattle? Death is easy. Hell, even making a break for it is easy. You’re a smart girl, as your thoughts have been your companion for years and you expected them to run you for years more. Friends are scarce. 

Maybe that’s just why. Emotional availability isn’t your strength, and social skills tend to die with time. You don’t know how to communicate smoothly, let alone get all of your feelings out to this troubled girl. 

You don’t know her, and she doesn’t want to know you. That isn’t what is truly growing roots in every crevice of your brain, though. Instead, you wonder: do you want to know her? Past the tells she offers?

So you observe. 

Just tiny glances behind you here and there as you walk forward, and you forget how heavy your steps usually are. 

You watch the way her lower lip trembles, fingers faltering with the safest side of her switchblade. Tells–she isn’t so set on taking you out for a sick thrill. There is something there, however. It isn’t humane, it isn’t normal. It’s a dead, blank look in her eyes at times that is the deadliest of its genre. You see an anger within her that slickens her eyes each time she blinks, and you nearly cringe knowing that this anger brings her every bated breath. It’s a parasite that feeds her. 

Rage and grief are things not so easily mixed together in the old world, but here, they’re a blurred brown with splotches of that actual original color. It’s revenge that makes the final mix, and you feel your stomach churn with yesterday’s supper at the thought. You mentally hurl as soon as it strikes you.

“Do you know what the WLF is?” She turns you around, but you know better than to use the action to your advantage. You don’t want to kill her, even if you could manage it. She would be your next nightmare. “I’m sure you do, don’t you? Seattle is supposed to be infested with ‘em.” 

You give a kind nod. There are more to her words, and they aren’t as complicated as the rest of her. She gives you an outlet for the current predicament she has forced you in. You just have to give her something to work with.

“Show me.” 

Your feet carry you along like they always do, through the city you can never thoroughly explore all on your own. Your body usually cannot handle the long trips, as you scavenge as far out as you can and return home to the familiar, old pharmacy for shelter. You’re in a state of terror as of right now, though. 

On one hand, you know that there are hostile groups within the city, and they will not hesitate to kill you for invading their ‘territory.’ The WLF has the majority of East Seattle in a chokehold, which is unfortunate for you seeing as how that is where you find the best of the best when it comes to ammunition and rations, usually from set up trailers and apartment complexes. 

The Seraphites take over mainly forest-like areas, which isn’t as much of an issue because they aren’t common to come by in the city. However, they are more hostile than WLF in most cases. 

On the other hand? 

There’s a girl behind you with a rifle on her back and a switchblade in her hand as she watches over you. You can feel her gaze burning into your head at times, and others you assume she is taking in her surroundings. You wonder about her, despite the annoying amount of anxiety she gives you. You wonder what her name is, where she’s from. It is clear she isn’t from Seattle, not used to the ruins the city is left in from the infection. Despite the situation and her walls erected around herself, ones that prevent you from even asking for her name, you want to know why she is here. You wish for her to at least tell you where she is originally from, if it’s as rainy as Washington. You wonder if she is from a colder area, or perhaps she prefers beaches. You can’t tell if she likes Seattle like you do.

Something about the overgrown patches of verdure over every brick laid out, every single piece of the past Seattle your parents once knew, all feels strangely comforting. Though it’s a bond partially sealed in by the trauma you’ve endured living in a populated place despite the infection, you don’t know anything else. It’s like a very large home to you.

To that, your curiosity grows tenfold. You must assume that to the woman ordering you around, the city is an extremely different place. Filled with the violence she has shown you, tied to future bad memories. Little reminders will scatter throughout her life in the drops of rain in her future home, the sight of overgrown greenery on a tall building, and you just know the scent will stick to her like dirt underneath the fingernails. 

You’ve always taken a liking to the little things about people. The senses are all you possess at times, so best to make the most of them. Sometimes, it is a less fortunate thing to be so observant when it comes to people; to recall the way the eye color last person you murdered, or the scarf another victim had. ‘Victim’, if you can call them that. You only murdered for self defense or survival, yet anything but the word victim felt immoral.

You’ve noticed quite a few little details about her, now. You don’t want to make her a victim, though you’re terrified it’ll come to that. So, why is it that you are so keen to pick up on the heavy scent she carries? In the way that her hands tremble anxiously, though she is far from underneath you at this moment? It’s the little things that you notice and cling to, trying your hardest to keep them engraved into your memory so that you can carry a little piece of every human you meet along with you.

“Just around here,” you tell her. “I dunno how to get in.” You look up, pointing toward a wall covered in overgrowth. She only huffs.

“Maybe with a generator,” you add. She nods. 

“Can I stay with you?” You blurt out, the words not quite feeling like any sort of bile, but not the cleanest delivery you could create. It was something almost embarrassing to let the question leave your head and slip past your lips, making you feel like a tall child, just like the gate in front of you, overly tall and overdramatic. 

“Stay with me?” She says it out loud instead of internally, as if testing the idea, seeking her own reaction. “Why would you want to?” 

Not, ‘why do you want to?’ Why would you, though? Why would you wish to stay with this stranger, follow her around when you know the things she will expect you to do? The answer, if thought of vaguely, seems like a pile of nonsense. In the world you find yourself born into, it’s the only right answer. For companionship, and for survival. Seattle won’t keep you lucky forever, not until you’re older. 

“I don’t know” is what you say instead. You’re as immature as the day you were born, unable to speak it into existence. Your loneliness, your nightmares, your isolation. You’re so unavailable, and yet you can’t seem to let her go. This is the first person you’ve encountered in a long time who hasn’t been hostile, someone you haven’t been forced to murder. You’re desperate and it seeps into your choices, always has.

And so is she. Maybe less desperate than you, but something tells you it’s not as much of isolation as it is loss. 

“I’m Ellie,” she tells you, trying to sound blunt and unbothered, but vulnerability bleeds into the way she adjusts the collar of her shirt.

It’s a tell. 

PERM TAGLIST: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @tombstonergirl, @sawaagyapong, @lucyaries, @caitlynthighs, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @human-cacti, @tphmnv, @raindroprose23, @liztreez, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs, @ilovetaylorrr, @marinaated, @rareanduselessbird, @elliewilliamscutofffingers, @bready101, @rosekeu, @lluxentezz, @rockstargfsblog, @maple-anon, @rhian88, @zosiekxoxo, @kamiyanaa, @elliewilliamskisser2000

SERIES TAGLIST: @marieeeluvsyou, @honeyylovee, @brainrottedpup, @yasmilks, @hersuniverse, @wwefan2002, @chappellroankisser, @giveyouthem00n

[orphicsun]

my taglist for the series may not be working.. when i was tagging people it gave me a 50 person limit so i may not be able to tag everyone:( i’ll try it on laptop tomorrow hopefully it’ll work!!

[orphicsun]

Tells: E.W. Chapter One.

PAIRING: Seattle!Ellie + Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Angst, details of violence and mentions of death, mentions of PTSD and trauma, themes surrounding death and self-defense, sexual content in future chapters. Read at your own discretion. Note: This chapter is short I know:( I moved a lot to chapter two because this is just supposed to be the basic exposition layout, and future chapters will be longer! ALSO, please comment to be added to the taglist!

LINKS: Series masterlist, teaser, chapter two, chapter three

WC: Approximately 3k

DESCRIPTION: You're desperate and deprived, alone indefinitely. You reside in a dilapidated pharmacy on the outskirts of Seattle with only a growing body count and guilt, and the thought of death never seems to leave. Even in sleep, you hear its sharp whispers. You kill out of necessity, fear it as you commit the sin. Ellie isn't as afraid of death as you are, though; it’s not out of necessity. You'll let her ruin you if it means you have one friend in this world.

The rather bright part of the day brought in light through your blinds, but you could never seem to blink away the red tint hidden within. It followed you like the plague, and it spread to everyone you knew.

The kill count was a large, wooden house that followed you, left vessel-shaped spots in your eyes, and made you blind to the evil of humanity lurking underneath layers of cordyceps and starvation. The oak, soaked with crimson loved to rot from the corners, and you wholeheartedly know that one day, it’ll be nothing but a foundation and you’ll be nothing but what you fight against—your own civilization, or what is left of it. You were a part of that civilization, and you weren't a participant in the ignorant part. You knew that it was only a matter of time before you met the same fat as your ‘enemies.’ Still, you wanted to pretend to do good. 

So selfish is a girl in an apocalypse, camping out in a pharmacy smothered in flourishing vine and moss. The bricks were once laid out by someone who could’ve had a wife and children. Now, it was perverted by you. Structures aren’t the only thing tainted by the world, but also the people whose footprints stay in the mud throughout several seasons of weather, precipitation fading the signs of life but spirits remaining. Everyone is left tattered, and you feel as though your own presence spreads a red tone that isn’t the maroon base of the bricks onto your makeshift shelter. You had a sharp disdain for yourself in every way that mattered, from the splotches on your hands to the dullness of your knife from so many years of use. 

Many would say that in the case of an apocalypse, death is natural. The biological aspect rots the brain and leaves many infected, of course. People also need to defend against others when supplies run low and when disagreements that were once contained by a government are fair game to a bullet in the head for one wrong word. 

You aren’t one to do that, though. You only play God when necessary. Your routine is strung out over the span of years. Killing, scavenging, killing, surviving, killing, defending, killing, hoping, killing.

Acts deemed atrocious in the previous world had the possibility of justification as well. Cannibalism was left unpunished if the one committing it had an appetite for life or death rather than for the forbidden flesh itself, such as the Andes Mountain incident you had read about in an old, stained newspaper from a grocery store. Murder itself is justified, it is self defense, and the list of wrongs that are technically right goes on. 

Anyone could be certain that your baggage carried the same title: simply in the name of survival. You had to kill to keep yourself clothed, fed, simply alive. If that was so true, why did your sins flow through your veins like a sleep suppressant, keeping you red-eyed and tossing all night? You could kill to keep the clothes on your back when winter got bitter and nipped at your ears, but you could never load your pistol, take a life, and get a good night’s sleep from it.

Stab wounds imprinted upon your unconscious mind, festered within it to punish you. You would wake up wishing that you would’ve just let yourself die to the hands of a hostile group or even a stalker, but why give up now?

It could always be worse than a pharmacy. Now, you could pretend like there was still good in you. You could pull the strings on your body and act like your red fingerprint isn’t left on the world, or that your eyes still wished to open each dawn just to see the sun rise with a new beginning. 

If you weren’t so blinded by your own feelings, you’d see that you aren’t of bad morals. You put rolls of gauze in your backpack each time you left to hunt, and you threw it around Seattle in hopes someone in need would find it. You try to make each act of self defense peaceful, as you’d never torture a human life. Everything you do is of a pacifist in a world war. Still, that one particular color lingers. 

Maybe for once, you'll sleep well tonight knowing you tried to revert to the innocence of clean hands and nightmare that were more like fantasies than what you wake up to see. You know better, though.

-

“Where’s your weapon?”

Your cheek burns with a sudden, sharp sting, inflamed and tinted from the unnecessarily aggressive slap gifted to you to force your consciousness. It wasn’t from a hand, though. Your eyes meet the barrel of a pistol and naturally, they widen. They dart up to meet eyes with a forest behind them, but no sign of life. It’s all dead past the natural shine. You haven’t seen your reflection in a long time, but you truly believe that in this moment, the green surrounding the pupils contains less humanity than yours do. 

Eyes are what you use to perceive a person—a first glance into their being. Eyes can show you softness or cruelty in moments like these. The lines imprinted upon the skin surrounding eyes give away age, but often, they are telling of a stressful existence. You travel down to their lips to have an attempt at their mood; in this case, impatient and not hesitant to kill if needed. Then, hair. Hair tells you how long a person has been without proper hygiene. Hair can tell you much about a person’s social life. A person with unwashed hair, most likely great in length, may be more isolated from any type of society or group than one with good hygiene. 

Your first glance at the woman standing above you who rudely broke into your hide-out and threatens you with the end of all means is not one surrounded by love or even kindness; there in her eyes is the blood-curdling but not rare look of a killer. You can sense it anywhere, and just within her expression. Her mouth is set in a thin line, the creases within them still. Her hair looks like it needs a thorough scrub, though it isn’t too long. There is a unique set to her face that cannot be unchecked, but you have bigger fish to fry. Your life is in her hands.

“You can take whatever you want, I promise. I have a gun in my backpack,” you offer quickly. You’re not dumb. You don’t trust that she is bluffing, and even asking so would get you shot on the spot. 

You swallow and watch as the woman cautiously walks to pick up your tan military backpack, rummaging through it for the shotgun you had found on a lucky scavenging trip. Your panic is beginning to dig its nails into you as you realize that besides that old, dull knife, that shotgun was the only weapon you had ammunition for. The pistol you carry is tucked away behind shelves of pain medication, but you haven’t found any 9 mm bullets in weeks now. Even if you survive this, you will be defenseless. 

In a state of pure adrenaline, you rise from your stained mattress and try to tackle her from behind. You’re only able to rip the backpack away before she has a switchblade to your throat and a rough grip on your wrists, bringing you down to the ground. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” She scoffs, a strained sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It isn’t anything deadly, at least not from others. However, this woman’s blade is kissing your delicate throat, ready to act. She aims to force your surrender. You can’t pretend the cold metal is a nightmare of your own creation.

“You can’t take my gun! I’m tired of having to use it, but I’m not dying. I’m not.” You feel your eyes burning with emotions you constantly have to put a lid over, but they spill over the pot when met with another human being, one you’re defenseless against. 

“Why the hell are you telling me all of this? I didn’t want you to have a weapon on you, you dumbass.”

Oh. 

The woman is met with silence on your end. She doesn’t falter. Instead, she presses into you slightly, not enough to bring blood to the picture she has brushed of you, but rather to intimidate. 

You struggle to think in the moment, your heartbeat rapidly thumping against your ribcage, your pulse rising in your wrist and neck. You should defend yourself—your instincts inside of you, the ones that drive you to do unspeakable things know that. 

You’re not a weakling. Your body is screaming at you, telling you to at least attempt to rip the knife from her grasp. Instead, you grow still. You know better. 

“Where’s Abby?”

You can’t look back at her, but you’re sure she can take the confusion from your voice, even from the rasp of its disuse. “Abby?” 

The name is foreign on your tongue. Though you reside in Seattle, you’re not involved in any groups. You’ve had hostile encounters with both WLF and Seraphites, but you can easily assume that the woman is referring to someone from this area. 

You wince when you feel fingers lace through your hair and wrench your head back. “Don’t fuckin’ play with me. Where is Abby?” The sharp end of her steel is not far from nipping at your delicate skin. She only lessens the pressure so you can talk. 

“I don’t know who Abby is, okay? I don’t talk to many people. I just live on my own.” You’re eager for her to believe you, but she isn’t as trusting as you hope. You can’t be surprised.

“So you just live in Seattle on your lonesome, no ties to the groups here that would kill you?” She scoffs, “I find that kind of hard to believe.”

“It’s true! I don’t know how, but I’m alive. Nobody’s found this pharmacy, ‘cept for a few people. I don’t think any of them were from the group you’re talking about.” You don’t mention what happened to those few people. The guilt constantly rings in your ears like the bell of death. 

For a moment, the woman is seemingly contemplative. You can see it right in her pupils, the way her lids twitch. 

She wonders whether or not she should kill you, and it isn’t hard to guess why. Perhaps to cut loose ends, or maybe she really enjoys killing. That isn’t uncommon in this world; people who were once good, loving people and only wanted to see the next day get caught up in the adrenaline of shoving a gun into another’s face or threatening them with a machete, how the feeling dulls all of the pain to a throbbing ache. You may even forget the pain entirely, just for a split second. 

You hate killing. It’s a disease that likes to spread more rampantly than any infection. It takes over, and nobody can seem to see past it all. Not even past themselves, they can’t see the damage killing does. You only kill when necessary, and the people follow you like a chain of ghosts. 

That is how your counterparts function, though. They believe that the next slaughter will cease the buzzing in their ears, that it’ll let them forget the previous. If anything, the buzzing grows in volume. It festers into a deadly hive, what once was a honeybee. 

Why do you decide to lead her through the thick green entirety of Seattle? Death is easy. Hell, even making a break for it is easy. You’re a smart girl, as your thoughts have been your companion for years and you expected them to run you for years more. Friends are scarce. 

Maybe that’s just why. Emotional availability isn’t your strength, and social skills tend to die with time. You don’t know how to communicate smoothly, let alone get all of your feelings out to this troubled girl. 

You don’t know her, and she doesn’t want to know you. That isn’t what is truly growing roots in every crevice of your brain, though. Instead, you wonder: do you want to know her? Past the tells she offers?

So you observe. 

Just tiny glances behind you here and there as you walk forward, and you forget how heavy your steps usually are. 

You watch the way her lower lip trembles, fingers faltering with the safest side of her switchblade. Tells–she isn’t so set on taking you out for a sick thrill. There is something there, however. It isn’t humane, it isn’t normal. It’s a dead, blank look in her eyes at times that is the deadliest of its genre. You see an anger within her that slickens her eyes each time she blinks, and you nearly cringe knowing that this anger brings her every bated breath. It’s a parasite that feeds her. 

Rage and grief are things not so easily mixed together in the old world, but here, they’re a blurred brown with splotches of that actual original color. It’s revenge that makes the final mix, and you feel your stomach churn with yesterday’s supper at the thought. You mentally hurl as soon as it strikes you.

“Do you know what the WLF is?” She turns you around, but you know better than to use the action to your advantage. You don’t want to kill her, even if you could manage it. She would be your next nightmare. “I’m sure you do, don’t you? Seattle is supposed to be infested with ‘em.” 

You give a kind nod. There are more to her words, and they aren’t as complicated as the rest of her. She gives you an outlet for the current predicament she has forced you in. You just have to give her something to work with.

“Show me.” 

Your feet carry you along like they always do, through the city you can never thoroughly explore all on your own. Your body usually cannot handle the long trips, as you scavenge as far out as you can and return home to the familiar, old pharmacy for shelter. You’re in a state of terror as of right now, though. 

On one hand, you know that there are hostile groups within the city, and they will not hesitate to kill you for invading their ‘territory.’ The WLF has the majority of East Seattle in a chokehold, which is unfortunate for you seeing as how that is where you find the best of the best when it comes to ammunition and rations, usually from set up trailers and apartment complexes. 

The Seraphites take over mainly forest-like areas, which isn’t as much of an issue because they aren’t common to come by in the city. However, they are more hostile than WLF in most cases. 

On the other hand? 

There’s a girl behind you with a rifle on her back and a switchblade in her hand as she watches over you. You can feel her gaze burning into your head at times, and others you assume she is taking in her surroundings. You wonder about her, despite the annoying amount of anxiety she gives you. You wonder what her name is, where she’s from. It is clear she isn’t from Seattle, not used to the ruins the city is left in from the infection. Despite the situation and her walls erected around herself, ones that prevent you from even asking for her name, you want to know why she is here. You wish for her to at least tell you where she is originally from, if it’s as rainy as Washington. You wonder if she is from a colder area, or perhaps she prefers beaches. You can’t tell if she likes Seattle like you do.

Something about the overgrown patches of verdure over every brick laid out, every single piece of the past Seattle your parents once knew, all feels strangely comforting. Though it’s a bond partially sealed in by the trauma you’ve endured living in a populated place despite the infection, you don’t know anything else. It’s like a very large home to you.

To that, your curiosity grows tenfold. You must assume that to the woman ordering you around, the city is an extremely different place. Filled with the violence she has shown you, tied to future bad memories. Little reminders will scatter throughout her life in the drops of rain in her future home, the sight of overgrown greenery on a tall building, and you just know the scent will stick to her like dirt underneath the fingernails. 

You’ve always taken a liking to the little things about people. The senses are all you possess at times, so best to make the most of them. Sometimes, it is a less fortunate thing to be so observant when it comes to people; to recall the way the eye color last person you murdered, or the scarf another victim had. ‘Victim’, if you can call them that. You only murdered for self defense or survival, yet anything but the word victim felt immoral.

You’ve noticed quite a few little details about her, now. You don’t want to make her a victim, though you’re terrified it’ll come to that. So, why is it that you are so keen to pick up on the heavy scent she carries? In the way that her hands tremble anxiously, though she is far from underneath you at this moment? It’s the little things that you notice and cling to, trying your hardest to keep them engraved into your memory so that you can carry a little piece of every human you meet along with you.

“Just around here,” you tell her. “I dunno how to get in.” You look up, pointing toward a wall covered in overgrowth. She only huffs.

“Maybe with a generator,” you add. She nods. 

“Can I stay with you?” You blurt out, the words not quite feeling like any sort of bile, but not the cleanest delivery you could create. It was something almost embarrassing to let the question leave your head and slip past your lips, making you feel like a tall child, just like the gate in front of you, overly tall and overdramatic. 

“Stay with me?” She says it out loud instead of internally, as if testing the idea, seeking her own reaction. “Why would you want to?” 

Not, ‘why do you want to?’ Why would you, though? Why would you wish to stay with this stranger, follow her around when you know the things she will expect you to do? The answer, if thought of vaguely, seems like a pile of nonsense. In the world you find yourself born into, it’s the only right answer. For companionship, and for survival. Seattle won’t keep you lucky forever, not until you’re older. 

“I don’t know” is what you say instead. You’re as immature as the day you were born, unable to speak it into existence. Your loneliness, your nightmares, your isolation. You’re so unavailable, and yet you can’t seem to let her go. This is the first person you’ve encountered in a long time who hasn’t been hostile, someone you haven’t been forced to murder. You’re desperate and it seeps into your choices, always has.

And so is she. Maybe less desperate than you, but something tells you it’s not as much of isolation as it is loss. 

“I’m Ellie,” she tells you, trying to sound blunt and unbothered, but vulnerability bleeds into the way she adjusts the collar of her shirt.

It’s a tell. 

PERM TAGLIST: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @tombstonergirl, @sawaagyapong, @lucyaries, @caitlynthighs, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @human-cacti, @tphmnv, @raindroprose23, @liztreez, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs, @ilovetaylorrr, @marinaated, @rareanduselessbird, @elliewilliamscutofffingers, @bready101, @rosekeu, @lluxentezz, @rockstargfsblog, @maple-anon, @rhian88, @zosiekxoxo, @kamiyanaa, @elliewilliamskisser2000

SERIES TAGLIST: @marieeeluvsyou, @honeyylovee, @brainrottedpup, @yasmilks, @hersuniverse, @wwefan2002, @chappellroankisser, @giveyouthem00n

[orphicsun]

chapter one of tells in the queue and chapter two draft almost complete.. eek i love this passion project of mine