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sempersirens · 2 months

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yes, chef | part four

one | two | three

masterlist

this is their song sorry i don't make the rules (yes i do) summary: eight years have passed since you walked out of joel miller's kitchen, now you have your own restaurant in new york city. you're a household name, respected within your own right - but some ghosts are harder to shake than others. pairing: no-outbreak!au, chef!joel x f!reader content/warnings (spoilers): no outbreak, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, mention of food, pure angst, arguing, swearing, unspecified age gap, cheating if you squint, joel is a prick who can't regulate his emotions, character death.

Fuckin' useless.

You plan on fuckin' your way to the top there too?

You're useless.

Dawn hadn't quite broken yet.

The rattle of the subway shook you loose from the claws of that familiar memory; the one you had to fight during any moment of stillness.

Ladies swallowed by wool scarves and labourers with chins tucked into the necks of their coats littered the seats of the carriage.

You'd hoped the years would ease the drowning; that distance and time would singe away the nerve endings that pricked up at any hint of a Texan accent.

No such luck. The best you could do was filter out any articles including the words chef and Joel Miller on your social media and news apps.

Your apartment was a cosy one-bed in Williamsburg. Most nights you woke reaching for a phantom warmth that your fingers could never find; nails clawing at your fitted sheet in frustration when all you could grasp was cotton. You were grateful for the omnipresent city traffic that lulled you back to sleep.

The first year was the hardest.

He had become a ghost story, haunting you in each sip of coffee or raised voice in the street. You hated yourself for craving his temper; you would've killed to feel the heat pricking at your skin as he barked orders at you.

You missed the games you had played to stay his little secret. Swallowing his poison, letting it decay your self-worth, just so you could be his.

But it was never enough. You were never enough.

"This is an M-line service. The next station is Broadway-Lafayette."

Rising from your seat, you gently shook your head from side to side.

Enough, you thought, inhaling slowly as the doors parted.

Enough.

Only January in New York could rouse gratitude for the stuffy microclimate of the subway. You'd never get used to that first gust of winter air; the one that reddens the tips of your ears before you even have the chance to acclimatise to street level.

It was different here.

Temperature aside, your days were no longer spent walking on a raised edge, willing yourself to remain balanced. For too long, you'd laid blankets over thorn bushes and convinced yourself it was a good enough place to rest your head.

There was pressure; no kitchen worth its Himalayan salt could function without it. But at every blind corner hands were reaching out to steady you, and you them.

It was nice. You were happy - or content, at the very least.

And even if you weren't happy, you only ever had enough hours in the day to clamour your way through service. You hadn't dealt in anything as trivial as love - if you could even call it that - since you'd turned your back on Texas.

It was a short walk from the subway to the restaurant. The streets were mostly empty this early but rushing had become second nature since moving to the city.

A food critic from the New York Times was due to be dining sometime this week, but last night an "unofficial source" you'd fooled around with in college had texted you a heads-up to be on top form this afternoon.

You'd heeded the warning with a smirk; you were always on top form.

Morning beat on with the usual trepidation of pre-service; menus drafted and re-drafted until you were satisfied; table settings scrutinised under three different levels of lighting; reservations checked, then double-checked, for any notable guests. There was nothing left to perfect by the time you opened your doors for lunch.

Your kitchen was a sanctuary of praise and encouragement; only the best went out to the pass, but you did so without raising your voice at even the most tedious mistakes.

"Sauce has congealed, chef. You need to start again, please." You smiled tightly at your sous-chef who repeated your request with a nod.

Allergy notices and orders merged with the sizzling of fish on the griddle pan in a swift symphony. You bit back a smile at the chaos, content with submerging yourself in the music of the kitchen for the rest of your days.

"Chef, one of the guests would like to speak with you." Tom, your newest front-of-house hire, called from the pass.

"Me? Now?" You replied dumbfounded.

"Yeah, he's just had the prosciutto and spinach scallops. Kind of old, Southern, I think."

A familiar feeling pooled in your gut.

"Thanks, Tom. I'll go see what he wants." Untying your apron, you took a deep breath in.

All eyes were fixed on you. Sabrina, your sous-chef, took your apron from your damp palms and rested a hand between your shoulder blades. Sweat beaded at the base of your neck.

"Give him hell. Who even reads the New York Times, anyway?"

A few low hoots echoed around the kitchen as you pushed your shoulders back and made your way toward the dining room.

Your facade melted as soon as you saw him. It infuriated you that he hadn't changed a bit. Only, grey framed his face more prominently now.

Everything else was perfectly the same.

"Joel." You breathed, hovering over the empty chair opposite him.

His face relaxed - not quite into a smile, it was something you'd never been able to put your finger on.

That's what infuriated you about him the most, you thought, you could never quite get him underneath your thumb. He would never give you the privilege.

"New menu each day, huh? Sounds like something I'd do."

"Is that it?" You choked, fighting to keep your voice low and expression neutral. It was so easy for him to get a rise out of you, he didn't even need to try.

"You think I'd come all this way t'just tell you that?"

Before a retort could form around your tongue, you noticed the band on his left ring finger.

You could've been sick there and then.

His gaze met yours, realisation setting into the creases in his forehead.

"I have a kitchen to run. Congratulations, Joel." You managed to murmur before tripping into the still kitchen, hot tears burning in the corner of your eyes.

"So?" Sabrina pressed, evidently expecting what should've been a run-in with the critic.

"Wasn't him." Was the only explanation you could muster.

You excused yourself, leaving the slow mechanics of service to resume in your absence. Clutching your stomach, you pushed your way out into the bite of the afternoon chill.

Had he come all this way to flash that thing in your face? To show you how much better his life had turned out in your absence? Even after all these years, was he still punishing you for daring to love him?

You laughed aloud at nothing, breath forming in puffs of condensation before your face. Of course you'd loved him; you still did.

Eight years of keeping yourself busy enough to forget the smell of his chest, the pressure of his lips against your temple in the middle of the night.

You had searched for the giddy intoxication of his presence in everything you did; working yourself to the bone in some sick, futile desire to replicate the knots in your stomach only he could tie.

All the while he'd moved on and settled down with someone he didn't have to hide.

You were useless, after all.

For the remainder of the day, you'd done your best to subside the embarrassment burning through your bloodstream.

The New York Times critic had arrived shortly after you'd attempted some form of composure; Sabrina had stalled her by talking about the weather while you perfected your illusion of a sane, tempered woman in the reflection of a saucepan.

Compared to your encounter with Joel, the magazine meeting was a breeze. Joel Miller may have crushed your self-worth, but over your dead body would you let him ruin this too.

Once all surfaces were wiped down and stoves cooled off for the night, you finally pulled on your coat and made for the exit. It took a few polite declines to join the others at a bar nearby to celebrate surviving the review, but you finally managed to wriggle out of the social obligation.

You saw the staff off, encouraging them to have a drink for you, before finally locking up.

"S'dangerous walking home alone this time of night." You froze, your back to him still.

Using all willpower, you kept your movements steady and unfazed as you twisted the key in the lock.

Fuck, you silently cursed yourself. Don't cry. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"I'm not walking. I get the subway."

Joel leaned against the low wall opposite the restaurant, his hands idly resting in the pockets of his thick corduroy jacket.

"Your wife not wondering where you've gotten to?" You'd spoken before you could stop yourself.

He cleared his throat, breaking his gaze on you.

"She's back in Austin. M'here on business, she, uh - she couldn't travel with the little one."

"Jesus." You laughed in despair. There was nothing left inside of you now. All those nights spent trying to remember the feel of his chest beneath your head, he had been making a real life for himself.

"What do you want, Joel? You getting a kick out of seeing me like this?" There was no holding back the tears that flowed freely down your cheeks. He looked like he was debating moving closer to you, brows knitted together, shaking his head softly.

"Hey," he whispered lowly. "Don't waste any tears on me, baby."

You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest and tipping your chin toward the night sky. Joel pushed himself from the wall, closing the distance between you both.

"I loved you."

"I was never good enough for you, sweetheart." Joel smiled sadly, his hand finding a stray piece of hair to tuck behind your ear.

A sob escaped your body as you let yourself lean into his touch.

"I thought the world of you."

"You had a much bigger world to find. Look at you."

"I wanted to find it with you. Why wasn't I enough?" You hated the words tainting the cold air around you. You'd never been the type to beg a man to love you, but eight years of repressed emotion and unanswered questions had finally broken free from your bones.

"You got it all wrong, baby. I'm an old man. You deserved more than to be reduced to some housewife. Could've never had the career you do now with me holding you back."

"Don't pretend you did this for me, Joel."

Suddenly, your heart broke for the woman he had left back in Austin. His wife, the mother of his child. Is that all he saw in her?

"There was a time that I thought you were wonderful. I would hang off your every word, seek your approval in everything I fucking did. And it broke me. The day you told me I was useless - I hear it in the back of my mind every fucking day."

He was shaking his head, muttering it ain't like that softly under his breath.

"Then you come all the way to New York, to my restaurant in the middle of service, acting like you're the reason I am where I am now?"

"I was in town, thought it was the right thing to do. I wanted to see you. I-"

"It's always what you want, Joel. The doting wife. The accolade. You're pathetic. I hope your wife comes to her senses and leaves you, and for the sake of your kid, I pray they grow up to be nothing like you."

Weeks passed in flashes of numbness since Joel's fleeting visit.

For the first time in years, you slept soundly through the night. When the other chefs invited you for drinks, you accepted.

Soon, you laughed and drank too much wine without the aftermath of soaking your pillow in tears.

In moments of stillness, your voice was the only one you could hear, and it was kind. You treated yourself as you treated those around you, taking the time to care for yourself again.

The New York Times published their article on the first week of February. You arrived at the kitchen just as dawn peaked over the skyline, only to be greeted by the entirety of the kitchen staff.

That morning, expensive French champagne flowed freely and the article, written by Helen Anderson, was framed and hung above the door to the kitchen. The headline read:

A New Precedent Is Set In Greenwich Village.

The day fluttered by in flurries of pride, each other ringing through the kitchen with a joyful urgency. Phones buzzed frantically from pockets, messages of congratulations you would pick up after service.

At around 12pm, the UPS delivery man arrived at the back of the kitchen, holding out a tablet for a signature for a bouquet of flowers resting against the doorway.

"Chef of the hour, these are for you!" Sabrina skipped through the kitchen, blue hydrangeas and gypsophila outstretched toward you.

You cradled the bouquet before setting them down in your cupboard of an office. A small, cream card poked out of the side of the arrangement. Messy handwriting scrawled across both inner sides of the folded card.

Sweetheart,

I'm sorry I never found the words to tell you how I feel. I'm a miserable old man who's smoked too many cigarettes and never known a good thing in front of me.

You never needed me, but I needed you. I'll never forget the first time you walked into my kitchen. I'm a coward, and I should've told you I loved you all those years ago.

I'm sorry for treating you the way I did. I know I'm in no position to ask any favours, but please don't make the mistakes I did. Hell, you're too intelligent to live as foolishly as I did, anyway.

Hope you don't mind, Helen is a friend of mine. Told me a couple of days ago how your place is the best she's eaten in New York since Bourdain. Wanted to make sure these arrived on time; God knows I never could've.

Yours,

Joel

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, desperately rummaging around in your pocket for your phone.

Amidst the excitement of the morning, you had entirely neglected the copious buzzing of messages and alerts. Unlocking your phone, your eyes glazed over the most recent notification on your home screen:

Time Magazine Michelin chef, Joel Miller, dies at Austin home aged 57.

#fic: yes chef #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller #joel tlou #joel x reader #hbo the last of us #the last of us #tlou fanfiction #tlou au #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #ppcu fanfiction #ppcu #chef!joel

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breedbun · 3 months

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i want to strangle him.

warnings; possessiveness, obsession, not much more

desc; i cooked but im too damn lazy to actually write the sex part. lmk if y'all want the sex part later im too lazy :(

notes; im so gonna write howl, kaeya, and kaeya as howl fanfics after this istfg

"Did you really think you'd get away with this, comrade?" Tartaglia breathed down your neck, clutching your waist tight with his fingers digging into your skin. He's clearly angry, hostile, aggressive. And you know exactly why.

Getting used to the quiet, cold atmosphere of Snezhnaya when Tartaglia brought you all the way to his nation for a little public meeting between the Harbingers was an interesting time. Between watching Tartaglia eye you shamelessly, buy you endless amounts of lingerie and appealing clothing, you were also the subject of a few other of his colleagues.

Take Columbina, for example. She was teaching you the principles and needlework of sewing. Even if most Harbingers were absolutely insane and out of their minds, it's safe to say that some of them, too had.. normal hobbies. Whilst you accidentally pricked your finger with a needle, Tartaglia was just about to rush to your side and save you like he should as your prince charming, however.. Columbina takes the opportunity far too cheerfully. Gently holding your hand like a mother to her child, she'd lick your ever so small wound and taste your blood. You were just bewildered and you couldn't help but do anything except freeze up.. as usual.

The other day, Pantalone overheard your ranting to your dearest Tartaglia, words spilling out your mouth as if you had been holding these words in forever. What you endlessly and very passionately spoke about, was a rare flower that grew with gems growing naturally from the inside as it's nectar hardened. The flower's crystalline gem only lasted about 4 hours, before it'd start to mould and decay into nothing worth more than a speck of dirt. What did Pantalone do? Of course, since your beauty caught his eye, he had gladly offered this one of a kind, magnificent flora in amber, as it was preserved to keep the gem beautiful and shiny forever. As gorgeous, as unique and rare as the flowering diamond was, it wouldn't ever match up to your glowing self. To buy this, and see a smile crack from your face, would be the most utterly satisfying thing Pantalone could ever ask for. Delivering it in an exquisitely expensive jar, your little heart nearly burst out your chest, you even made a little jump and a squeak as Pantalone so kindly handed the precious treasure over to you.

Tartaglia had still been looking for that exact same flower, for you.. yet, he stood by a corner, silently glaring with blazing fury in his eyes. It was more than obvious, just how much the other Harbingers absolutely loved to see that envious look of possessive, unhealthy jealousy on Tartaglia's face. It was beyond amusing, his nose wrinkling, the way he'd barely be able to keep a poker face, the way he wanted oh so badly to rip them to pieces, yet he could never. Not when it'd risk not just him, his family, but you too.

Other small things, such as Dottore's disgustingly gruesome humour through presenting you with a clean, white, and very much real human heart in a special pink box.. that moment when Pierro had held your wrist in his large hand much too easily, kissing the back of your knuckles as a pink blush crept up your face.. when Arlecchino got the absolute nerve to invite you to be the House of The Hearth's "mother" as a male, to be her "wife" as a male, "jokingly".. when Sandrone deliberately called you a work of art, and she'd love to dissect—Pulcinella's special treatment with you!— He had absolutely ENOUGH. If he couldn't teach them a lesson, he'll just have to fuck it into you, then maybe your cute squishy pout can convince all of them to stop.

Maybe they'll find how envious Tartaglia was, knowing that they could flirt and pull moves on you all they wanted, but he was the one you would ALWAYS pick in a room full of their bunch. He was the one you stayed faithful to, he is the one you WILL marry, he is the one who will have children with you. He is the one you love. He is the one you will never forget. He will make sure of that.

@breedbun

#childe x male reader #bottom male reader #genshin impact #genshin #genshin fanfic #genshin childe #genshin ajax #tartaglia #childe tartaglia ajax #tartaglia x reader #gay #possessive #actually obsessive #I HATE HIMMM I WANT HIM DEAADDD NOOOWWWWW

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catfern · 11 months

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1 MILLION SUBSCRIBERS SPECIAL

pairing: ghost hunter!ellie x afab!reader (feminine pronouns used)

music: eyes without a face - billy idol

word count: 2.3k

summary: ghost hunter!ellie needs a new assistant to help film her 1 million subscribers special in a supposedly 'haunted house'. good thing you'll do anything she says.

warnings: SEXTAPE, oral (r!receiving) fingering (r!receiving), ghosts? spooky business, ellie is a shitty clickbait youtuber

an: heyyy this came to me in a dream. nothing much else to say. get ready to fuck dirty while ghosts watch idk. this is probably gonna be my only halloween fic while we're still in october. got some other ideas tho so get ready for a spooky november

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“come on! come on! it’ll be fun! something memorable on halloween.”

“jesus, ellie, you know I don’t believe in that shit.”

it’s a coy laugh. your fingers dance over your phone, unsure what to do. you didn’t believe her when she jumped and screamed, bolstering about her 1 millionth subscriber.

‘The Ghost Detective.’ her youtube profile was almost as shoddy as her Mr. Beast-esque clickbait video titles.

“then it doesn’t matter!” she had a hold on your forearm, intermittent squeezing begging you to fold, “please? the last girl I had thought her dead mom was talking to her and ran off.”

she had an almost pitiful look in her eyes, her eyebrows screwed together as she pleaded.

fucking hell. you were convinced if you hadn’t met ellie, hadn’t started falling behind her like an obedient dog, you’d actually submit most of your assignments on time.

“fine.”

it wasn’t that your tiny town was particularly superstitious, or religious, or any other ‘-itious’, but it was in unspoken agreement that there was something inexplicable here, on the hill that looked over the lights of the suburbs. a decaying prairie protrusion built god-knows-when, the moon shone high in its fullness through the rotting foundations, casting its shadows over the dead grass, falling at your feet with the cool of the wind.

the whisper in her voice ran up your spine, “gettin’ scared yet?”

ellie seemed all too giddy to be here, a wicked smile and a laugh in her throat. her hair was pulled back from her face, and you could lightly see the ghost of freckles across her cheek in the night.

“what? no, no. i’m just tired.”

“right,” she was poking fun, the words dripping from her lips like electricity. she dumped her arms-full of equipment in your arms with a huff, before digging around in her backpack. “here,” cold metal in your hand as she took back her stuff. redbull, “we’re gonna be here all night.”

you don’t know how she did it. even as a certified non-believer, the engulfing emptiness of the house, the darkness that settled in the cracks and corners caught up with you, something unsettling pricking the hairs on the back of your neck.

but here she was. she brought a lawn chair from home, said it was her dad’s. equipped with the built-in beer holder and everything, she was relaxed. her elbows settled on her knees, her hands fallen limp in the space between her legs. she had something in her eyes, a glint. something determined, charming as she stared you down. well, the camera.

but you were staring at her right back. memorising what little detail echoed through the lens of the shitty 2008 sony camcorder.

she said it was for the ‘found footage look’. you know it’s just because she’s broke.

“now, legend has it, ladies and gentlemen, that the last owners of this iconic hillside property were satan .. worshippers. and that this house, this very house that i’m sitting in right now, is actually an active portal. to. hell.”

you’ve gotta give it to her. she had a talent for drama.

“i’ll just point to you when i need you to do like, i dunno, a little camera pan or something, yeah?”

ellie was explaining it to you like you hadn’t just been at home binge-watching her channel for the past few days, meticulous research, you called it. to make sure you did a good job as her assistant. not like the blur of her messy hair and her face in the ghoulish green light of the night vision camera did anything to you.

you knew her video structure. front room first, then five minutes in a spooky hallway, then some time left to freak out in one of the bedrooms, find an old haunted toy that definitely wasn’t planted, and then a quick exit with a lot of swearing, screaming and camera shaking.

“right, you ready?”

you nod.

the front room was, unsurprisingly, boring, although ellie put on her best shiver-me-timbers face, as she calls it. something for the fans.

but when you got back into the hallway, something in the air had changed. you looked to ellie, and you couldn’t tell if what she felt was real, or fake. she just kept looking at you through the camera, the same dramatised ‘concern’ written all over her face.

everything ellie does is scripted. fake.

if there was something wrong, truly wrong, here, you would leave, right?

the feeling was violently oppressive, pushing down on you. run, run, run. a gush of something ran across the back of your neck.

“fuck! what was that? did you feel that?”

“hey, hey,” the sudden normalness of her voice felt misplaced, “just keep the camera on me, okay? eyes on me.”

you could barely see her fucking eyes. the imposing and suffocating darkness of the house seemed to wrap around you horribly tight, the only thing keeping you tethered to your sense of sanity was the sound of ellie’s breath, so close you could feel it wisp around your cheekbone, warm and inviting. the only comfort fighting the cold in the air.

slowly, your sight adjusts to the dark, and you could barely make out the outline of her face in the dim light of the moon. she was watching you, her eyes lidded, flickering over the shadow of your body. your own breath was quick, adrenaline laced, something sore and deep. you feel a slight graze against your arm and you jump, ellie catching your shoulders in her arms, pushing you upright,

“careful, it’s just me,”

there’s a closeness now, a beat. her grip is strong as it soothes the shaking, the fear, the absolute buzz that you’re convinced is the only thing keeping you alive. you quickly become obsessed with the design of her, you’ve never been this close. suddenly, you recognise the way her hair falls on her face, the look in her eyes, the shine as she looks at you. she clears her throat, and her hands drop, coarsely, from your shoulders,

“come on, you’re alright. let’s keep going.”

yeah, yeah. you fumble your hand back through the strap of the camera, a slight twitch in your hand as you press record,

“fucking hell,” her voice was raspy, deep, a soft but commanding whisper, “the spirits sure are stirred up here… i wonder what happened.”

stay close to me. it’s barely a breath, something not meant to be heard, but her voice is luring, and you nod.

your footsteps were a heavy echo against the aging wood floor, the creaks spreading through the house like a warning. to you, or to others, you don’t know.

the bedroom wasn’t far. you had to hike up a flight of decaying steps, but as ellie talked to the camera, she held a hand firm on your back. she wouldn’t let you fall.

the room obviously belonged to some kids, however long ago. abandoned toys and rotted posters littered the floor, and it almost felt painful to see the life that was once in this house. but why did they leave everything here? kids drawings, toys, a closet full of half-eaten, moth-ridden clothes.

what made them just get up and leave?

wind rattled against the window, it felt like it was rocking the house. something was uneasy here, unnerving. you tried to focus your thoughts on ellie, her dramatic storytelling and perfectly practiced ‘scared’ body language, but there was something here. and it was watching.

one final gust of wind surged against the rocky foundations of the house, and the closet doors flung open, an old wooden puppet flying out to your feet.

you were never a screamer, never. which is why, when you heard a blood-curdling shriek rush through the house, it felt like an out of body experience. something foreign. you fell back and tripped over your own feet, desperate to put as much distance between you and whatever was in this house as possible.

luckily, ellie’s fear is fabricated. she’s quick to respond, stepping in to steady you with kind hands and a charming smile. your heart rate was so intense, it rocked the both of you, chest to back, intertwined something fierce. your breath settles against her chest, and you meet her eye,

“thought you didn’t get scared,” she was being a tease. her hands ghosting over your body gently, carefully, thinly veiled under the guise of simply holding you, caring for you, she was keeping you safe. it was a little self-indulgent.

“i’m not,” you steel yourself, stubborn girl, although a soft laugh bubbles in your throat. there’s something unreal about the steady feeling of ellie’s hands, the roughness of her palms pushing through your clothing. you turn, and she’s smiling, the glint of her teeth in the soft light, mischief an echo on her face. her voice was low as she leaned in, tickles of her hair just brushing the apple of your cheekbone,

“really, baby? i don’t think you would even still be here if it wasn’t for me.”

“you think i’m here for you?” she’s so close you can feel your breath swirl with hers, heat brushing down your jaw and dripping onto your neck. her grip on your waist anchors, and you feel her settle in the crooks of your body, the corners of your skin, like she’s home. she’s looking at you, something jokingly fierce, but unsure, and her gaze falls on your lips,

“mhm,”

you’d think she’d been starved. restless, choked breaths fall between you in gaps as she pulls you in, heavy, her lips on yours in fervour. her hands are everywhere, tracing themselves in your hair, down your neck, feeling their way blindly along the softness of your skin. god.

her lips draw from yours, dragging a mix of spit and lip gloss down your chin, along the ridge of your neck, a trail glistening in the edging darkness.

“fuck, ellie.”

you barely register the weight lifting from your hand, only a visceral whine as she pulls from you, walking a safe distance to gently place the camera down, out of the way.

ellie finds herself back in the crook of her neck, dragging your skin through her teeth, soft groans rumbling from her throat as her hands pull their way down to the waistband of your skirt,

a skirt? really?

had you planned this?

“come on, sweetheart,” she’s barely audible against your skin, vibrations dripping down your torso as her hands dive under your shirt, lifting it to bounce above your tits, “that’s it.”

her palm cups the base of your tit, dragging soft moans from your pretty lips as she squeezes.

under her breath, she’s praying. vulgar, tenacious, she can’t control herself, lost in the dream of your body as she presses you against a wall she hopes won’t collapse.

fuck-god, fuck, jesus, baby.

if you’re who she’s praying to, it falls on deaf ears. you’re no god, you can’t help her, but fuck, she feels like she could worship you. properly, forever, falling to her knees and cupping her palms behind your thighs, it’s like she’s pleading,

“can i?” she’s soft, her cheek resting on the inside of your thigh, you’re her altar, “god, say yes.”

her nose just graces the wetness of your underwear and you flinch, “yes! ellie, f-fuck-please.”

she loops her pointer fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your thighs, almost too rough. she loses herself in the heat, the slick dripping from your pussy.

heat poured over your body like molten gold, the feeling of her tongue inside you, raw, animalistic, sending pulses sliding up the ridges of your skin. she hums against your clit, her hand coming down to pull your velvet slick from the rim of her lips.

you convulse, clenching around the encroaching absence of a feeling, of something you didn’t know you needed.

her.

“fucking hell, sweet girl,” deep, ragged breaths shadow your thighs. she needs air, but its not like she wants it. fuck, she wants you, she needs you. your taste on her tongue is metallic, a memory she’s chasing like a quick withdrawal. her tongue finds your clit and presses, a murmur leaving her drowning lips and echoing through your veins as you moan, desperation clawing through your hands and in ellie’s hair, binding.

“please, el-f-shit, i need you. i need to feel you, fuck!”

you didn’t need to ask twice.

fuck, you wrapped around her like you were made for her, godsent, a gift for her devotion. she stretched you, opening you with her fingers and you nearly melted, ellie’s arm wrapped around your thigh the only stability offered for your spent body. your head threw back, digging into the old, rotting wood of the wall, and if ellie looked up, pulled away from her firm spot between your legs, she would have seen you and completely unravelled.

she wasn’t gentle, the way her fingers moved inside you. desperate and completely unforgiving, she needed everything that you were willing to give her, her pace rough, fast, world-destroying.

and there she was, a lazy grin bearing her teeth against your clit, pussydrunk and delirious, tasting you and content enough to die.

she supposed she wouldn’t mind haunting this house, if you came to visit her.

low warbles against your cunt, you couldn’t hear her, even if you were listening. drowning in the push and pull of her touch, in the warmth of her, your head felt like molasses, your body something soft, mouldable to her design. ellie laughed against your walls, sweet and desiring, and you collapsed.

your vision bleary, you could just feel the tips of ellie’s fingers brushing through your hair, smoothing your slick across your skin. your head fell against hers, and you could just make out something blinking in the foggy distance,

the camera,

“hey, el,”

she sighed, heat in the crook of your neck, “yeah?”

“does the red light mean it’s on?”

A few days later, the thoughts of ghosthunting weighing heavy on your mind, ellie texts you,

thought you might want a copy <3

my subscribers will love you

attachment: hauntedhouse.mov

taglist; @whore4abby

dm me to join my sad lil list <3

#ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie williams headcanons #ellie williams fanfic #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #ellie the last of us #ellie tlou

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thedevilsfamiliar · 1 year

Text

Edit: I wrote a preview 💀

Imagine instead of Hawks, the hero commission decided to use Eraserhead to infiltrate the league of villains

But all Aizawa sees is mentally ill young adults with multiple issues that never got treated

“Jin… please take your medication.”

“Shigaraki, why are you touching everyone?”

“I can’t decay anyone with you around! :D I can touch things!”

“Dabi, That’s The 50th time you burned an endeavor printout. We’re running out of ink by this point.”

“I have to kill him.”

“Why?”

“He’s an abusive prick whose only goal in life is to be the number one hero”

Aizawa, with Shoto Todoroki in his class, “go on…”

“Yes, Himiko, your smile is very beautiful”

“😸”

“Compress, you’re the most functional adult here. Why are you here?”

“They told me I looked cool.”

“Oh.”

#bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #mha #Dabi #aizawa shouta #eraserhead

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mercurycft · 3 months

Text

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐆𝐎 — 𝐀𝐖𝐅𝐂

## awfc x teen!player reader - TRIGGER WARNING !!

therapy is expensive but tumblr is free. i love you all - PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS!! APPLY AFTER THE BREAK. THANK YOU. love always - RG x

tw self harm, suicidal thoughts, angst, foul language, anger, anxiety, depression talk.

please put yourself first. do not read this if you feel like you can’t. thank you.

——— 1.1k words

it didn't hurt, didn't burn.

it didn't feel the way you remembered it to.

it numbed.

you were hot, far too hot. the heat pricked at your skin and tormented the skin of your cheeks - now tight and sticky as your tears dried. the tiles were cold beneath you, pressed up against your legs from where you slumped on the floor.

the dull ache set in as a backdrop for the muffled voices just a few rooms away. you were pleased to hear them still occupied by whatever crap was on the tv - pleased by the possibility that you could slip away without causing a disturbance.

nothing phased you anymore. instead, the scrape across your skin soothed the fire raging in your mind. it calmed your beating heart and pushed away the anxious bubble in your throat. it silenced your sobs and subdued the race of your emotions.

you didn't know how long you had been there, laying limp on the bathroom floor. in some weird way that helped, not knowing whether time had stopped or sped in your determined absence. you didn't care for time anymore, constantly torn on the ability to have more or have less. time, that is. are you an avid hater of time or a waster? did you need less or want more?

the last time you were here, you remember it was quick. short and sweet, cleaned and sorted before you had the chance to long for more. this time, however, you were quite content.

finding comfort in the chaos of your thoughts when your weight shifted, head back against the bath as you drew in a shaky breath. your eyes grew heavy in the peaceful quiet of your own personal refuge from the monstrosity of life - the life that sat on the other side of the door.

you recall memories fondly, a weak smile pulling at your cracked lips. you recall your friends, family, the people you've met and the lives you have changed - it was never enough. never enough to dismiss the disgrace that followed you. it lurked in the shadows and clung to your back like an infection - sucking the nutrients straight from the source until you were a shell. left to decay under the ever-unforgiving eyes of the universe.

you were drifting, politely fighting with consciousness as your fingers twiddled with your poison of choice. the cold of the metal dancing with your shaking fingertips. the paint from your work splashing the blank canvas of the floor - decorating the space around you with a vulgar display of your wilting petals.

'it'll be okay,' you whisper into the space surrounding you, voice hoarse as it grumbles from your throat. you were at ease as your body became weightless, right hand fighting the exhaustion as it raised perpendicular to your left wrist. unforgiving, relentless.

your body didn't argue, embracing the sting when you felt it. humming contently at the final contact before your eyes became too heavy under the iridescent lights. your arms fell to either side of you, overtaken by the tiredness that crept through your bones - intoxicating each muscle until they couldn't take anymore.

this is fine, you think. mind finally quiet - no longer buzzing. this is fine. you hear the small clang of metal to the floor, internally amused as it bounces and chimes.

you can't hear beyond your breathing now, too focused on the shallow inhales as your lungs fight to stay useful - working overtime.

two minutes, or two hours, you weren't sure. unaware of the approaching patter of feet towards the door. a soft knock is what brings you back momentarily, still grasping onto the last strands of your being.

"y/n? did you fucking fall in" katie. she has a nice laugh, you think.

she knocks again. confused by your lack of answer, concerned by the eery silence that sits waiting to greet her beyond the wood. she knocks a third time, and the silence spreads and engulfs the house. the silence was soon interrupted by the approach of more feet and bodies towards the bathroom. you can just about make out the pounding of their knocks through the ringing in your ear.

beth calls your name. no reply.

caitlin shouts about a prank. no reply.

the ringing eventually overpowers their hollering and you let the darkness behind your eyes take you. peace.

outside your almost lifeless body, away from your slack limbs, the door opens with a crash - creasing invertedly on its hinges when lotte throws herself against it. the frame split in half at the lock when it's forced out of position.

you can't recall anything after that.

you come to for a moment in the back of caitlin's car, leah sat with your head cradled in her lap and beth with your legs against hers. your eyes stir, unable to make out anything other than the throb behind them. the stab through your temple and the sting of pressure against your wrists.

leah can feel you tense beneath her and halts her shouting of directions to sweep your hair out of your eyes and study your face. the blue tint to your lips and lack of colour through your cheeks, her stomach sinks as she watches your eyes flutter.

"it's okay, sweet girl, we're nearly there." she whispers with no reply, voice cracking with a silent cry as a tear slips from her waterline. shes quick to wipe it away when she feels your head droop again.

beth has her own hands wrapped around your wrists, tea towels stained with the life from your veins by the time they arrive at the hospital. she's squeezing, keeping the pressure consistent under the order of lotte who whips her head round from the front seat every couple of seconds - careful to not distract caitlin from driving. katie's voice is coming through the car, her, alessia and viv following behind.

lotte is out of the car as soon as it stops, sprinting towards the double doors and assembling help. sobbing and gasping for breath as she directs nurses and doctors to the car parked across an ambulance bay - unbothered by the glares of passersby.

you're surrounded by people, doctors, nurses - anyone who can provide an extra set of hands. each helping to pull you carefully from the car and carrying you into the hospital.

you can't speak, can barely here and can't feel your body by the time they got you in a bed and rushed you through the halls. your friends, your people stood watching them take you away through a set of double doors. parts of them shaded by you - beth's hands. leah's lap. lotte's shirt. caitlin's arms.

silence fell upon them. the world standing still when you disappeared into the depths of the hospital. they shared the moment, a breath. no words exchanged. just knowing touches - a shoulder clash, a patting hand.

you don't pay them a thought - unbothered by their fading presence. instead, your internal monologue tried to shout above the noise of your bargaining. let me go, you beg. silently. to no one. maybe to life - maybe to death.

let me go.

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bluemerakis · 8 months

Text

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ paper trails ❞

⤷ Word count: 2.5k

Pookies it was my birthday yesterday, so in honour of that, I wanted to write a lil something something with coryo 🤭 not anything grand, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless

═════════════════

WARNINGS:

Implied smut ig, teensy bit fluffy, just coryo being the cutest little gentleman ever (outside the bedroom)

SYNOPSIS:

There was nobody else that Coriolanus trusted more with his cherished garden of roses than you. You were the keeper of his flowers, tending to them with a delicacy that only you were capable of. He’d always admired that about you—how your green fingers always seemed to yield a larger bloom rate than his own ever did.

You’d always thought that you were nothing more than a district eleven nobody gardener to Coriolanus, but little did you know that he knew pretty much everything (however little) there was to know about your history, including your birthday. He gives you a gift of his own, an invitation he’s hoping you’ll accept so that he may celebrate your birthday with you—Coriolanus Snow style.

═════════════════

Crouched low to the ground, you bit back a hiss of pain as a thorn pricked the tip of your index finger, withdrawing your hand to wipe away the welling drop of red at your fingertip. You fashioned more conscious caution as you returned your hand to the culprit rose and gingerly bent the stem towards you, your other hand gripping a pair of garden scissors. You nipped the stem below the dying rose head, the decayed, featherlight petals drifting to the ground to form a scattered painting of a crime scene.

Each time you were forced to cut away the wilted flowers, a piece of your heart ached. It was a necessary practice in order to keep the bush healthy and set it up for a successful next season, but it didn’t hurt any less to know that you’d once poured as much effort into preserving that very flower, and now you would lay it to rest simply because it had lost all grace and beauty—and hence value. Funny, really, how much that concept seemed to equate to the real world.

Overhead, the sun seared on, taking full responsibility for the beads of sweat that now dribbled down your temples. You dropped your scissors to the ground, it’s fall cushioned by the decayed bodies of your rose victims, and wiped your dirt-strewn hand across your forehead with a sigh. You took a moment to glance around the garden of the Snow estate, your chest prickling with a sense of pride at the perfect order you’d managed to bring it to.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t much trust anyone to tinker with his garden, it was one of his most prized possessions—a symbol of sorts that only he knew the meaning of. No matter, he’d taken you in from the districts and trusted you enough with the duty of being his gardener, and he was a very generous host in return. You stayed on the property—in this very garden, in fact, in your own little rustic cottage. He didn’t often make a stop there, mostly tending to his own business, but there were a few occasions where he did manage to pass-by and would check in with you.

The last thing you’d expected him to be was generous—and kind. It was practically an unspoken rule in the Capitol for the higher classes to spit on and degrade anybody from the districts, merely because your lesser existence was offensive to their way of living. You had to admit that you didn’t much hold any love for the Capitol citizens, either, but you thought that your dislike of them was far more justifiable and valid.

But there was an air around Coriolanus Snow, not exactly the most humble, but he was far from boasting his wealth and luxury of a lifestyle from the rooftops of Panem. It was almost as though he were too afraid to, as though this life would and could be robbed from him in an instant. It gave you the impression that he was not like most other Capitol-born citizens—perhaps he’d known what poverty was like, whether it was him or someone he knew that had endured it. Maybe that was why he’d taken pity on your life in the district and offered you this opportunity to come and live with him in return for your services.

There were many possibilities at play, but because Coriolanus Snow was such an enigma of a man, there wasn’t much hope of closure. As if the mere thought of him was a summons, you heard footsteps clatter down the bricked walkway winding through the gardens, turning your head just in time to glimpse that signature red ensemble of the man who’d been plaguing your thoughts for the last hour or so.

You instinctively rose to full height to offer him a modest bow of greeting upon his arrival. It was a gesture he’d insisted on neglecting for the first few days of your presence here, but he’d soon after given up on the matter when he realised that you would not listen. Now, going off of the sheer delight that seemed to glint in those deep blue eyes, you thought he rather enjoyed the importance that your greeting seemed to imply.

“Mr. Snow,” you offered a formal greeting, feeling suddenly conscious at how ragged and sweat-stained your gardening dress had become under this hot weather. Quite frankly, you hadn’t expected him to pay a visit today, given the scorching weather. You only wished that you could have presented yourself in a better manner.

Coriolanus stood towering before you, his chin tilted down to glance you over as he merely said, “Coriolanus, please.”

You were hesitant at his correction, before offering a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Coriolanus,” you repeated softly, feeling out each syllable of his name. It felt odd to use his first name outside of your thoughts, but even then, you almost always addressed him by full name.

You noticed the way Coriolanus’ eyes had lowered down your figure, and the self-consciousness only seemed to worsen at the idea that he may be judging your appearance. But you were taken aback as he leaned forward to take your hands into his, his thumbs ghosting over the back of your hands before he turned them over to survey your palms. The way he cupped your hands in his felt far too intimate, and you hoped by the grace of all the Gods that the dirt plastered to your face was mask enough to hide the colour inevitably warming the apples of your cheeks.

“Have you not been using those gardening gloves I gave you?” Coriolanus asked as he trailed his thumb over the cuts littered around your palm and across your fingers. He lifted his eyes to yours, they were shaped with genuine concern.

You were taken aback at how blatantly careless he was in his handling of you, and for a second you almost felt like an equal in status. Capitol-born rarely laid their hands on district occupants, as though they feared the poverty and dirt they carried were a plague to be avoided at all costs.

It took you a few seconds to find your tongue. “No, I haven’t,” you admitted, then quickly added, “not for lack of trying, though. I’ve never used gloves, even back in the districts—they make it difficult to grab ahold of the stems, and I find that my cut becomes rather clumsy with them on. I prefer the unveiled contact with my greenery.”

The white-haired man seemed to nod with understanding, a faint smile stretching his full and soft lips. “I guessed as much,” he responded. The confusion that swept across your face prompted him to explain. “I never developed a taste for gloves, either. When I inherited this estate, the garden was in a ghastly state. No matter how many gardeners I managed to enlist, none of them could bring my roses to justice. For a while, I did all of the work myself, and the garden thrived.” He paused with a sudden and wistful look. “But as it seems, my time wore thin with all my newly acquired responsibilities, so I turned to the districts in hopes of finding a suitable gardener to continue my work.” He paused as his eyes lowered down to your hands once more. “And then I found you.”

Your heart lurched at the way Coriolanus’ fingers began to caress the curves of your palms. You felt that somewhere along the line, you had missed the part of the story where the two of you had grown close enough for this sort of intimacy. But even then, you didn’t find yourself withdrawing from his touch. It felt oddly soothing, the way he dragged a constant, rhythmic pressure across your torn and aching skin.

“Why did you choose me?” You asked suddenly, causing Coriolanus to lift his head with that lopsided smile.

“I just knew you were right for me,” he responded levelly. “When I found your stall, I watched you for a while—the way you tended the flowers and assembled the bouquets for that Capitol celebration order. I thought the work looked familiar, I’ve seen it decorating most—if not all of the foyers of the upper-class Capitol buildings. The bouquets have always had a signature crown to them—one flower in the centre that sits a little taller than the rest of them, like a king that gazes down across his people. I saw you do the very same thing with all of your orders, and I knew then that you were the popular artist whose flowers haunt me wherever I walk.”

You let slip a giggle at his last words, not caring for etiquette at this point. You thought that you’d long since left formalities behind when Coriolanus had taken up your hands.

“I was unaware of just how much of a fan you were, Mr. Snow,” you teased, instantly catching your fault and correcting yourself. “Coriolanus.”

“Involuntarily,” he chuckled, his smile quieting as his eyes flickered across your face rather intensely. You would have cowered away from his stare, had it been casted under a different circumstance. “In any case, I knew I had to have you. Your talent and potential would have been laid to waste crafting posies and ensembles for sanctimonious Capitol parties. I doubt either one of them could properly recognise and appreciate the true effort imbued into their side-piece decorations.”

You pursed your lips at those last words, feeling rather propelled by a sense of pride at his praise and recognition of your hard work. “Putting aside the “sidepiece decorations”—could you, Coriolanus, properly appreciate my work?”

“If you have to ask that, I’m afraid I’ve been too subtle in my efforts,” he responded. Your lips quirked at that, only to gape in slight shock as Coriolanus lifted both of your hands to his lips, and in elegant sequence, placed a tender kiss onto your knuckles.

You swore that the very skin of your hands shrank away from the feel of his soft lips, an explosion of shivers sent along your rigid arms. “Coriolanus—” you started softly, but he cut you off.

“I chose you because of what your potential had to offer me,” he said, slowly releasing your hands to return back to your sides, and there they quivered as he went on. “But also because I knew what I could offer you. Nobody understands the scars of labour more than I do—don’t forget that I’ve been kneeling in your place, doing your job, long before I brought you here. Gardening, it isn’t just an industry—it’s an art, one that very few can appreciate, letalone master. But you—you’ve perfected it. I’ve never seen flowers so full and abundant in bloom.”

“You’re being too generous.”

“No,” he politely disagreed, a faint smile trailing after. “I’m simply giving credit where it’s due. Please, allow me to commemorate your hard work.” Your lips parted to question what he meant by those words, but you were silenced by the shuffling of his hands as he reached into his crimson blazer and pulled a white rose from concealment. “Take this.” He offered you the rose, and you gingerly accepted it.

Upon closer inspection, you noticed that it wasn’t a real rose at all—not all of it, at least, but one whose petals were expertly shaped from paper. The stem of it was real, but the thorns had been carefully carved away, the leaves left behind already starting to wither at the edges.

“Coriolanus,” you breathed, tilting the paper rose in every direction to marvel at its beauty. “This is so beautiful. I never pegged you for an arts and crafts guy,” you added with a chuckle.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “It was one of the ways Tigris and I used to pass time as kids.”

You glanced up in faint surprise at the mention of Tigris. When Coriolanus had risen to power and status, shorty after inheriting the Plinth fortune, it was very difficult for his history to remain private. Everybody—even the districts, knew that Tigris was his older cousin, and that their relationship following his newly acquired fortune had since been estranged. After all, it was difficult to conceal the fact that his cousin no longer partook in his life, staying separated in her living quarters as well as neglecting the courtesy of attending his events of honour to show support.

You wondered whether Coriolanus ever regretted growing so distant with Tigris, but as you silently gazed at him, his expression let on not even the slightest hint of his thoughts or feelings on the matter. He was fashioned from composure, the only way to truly get an answer would be to hear it straight from his lips. But you wouldn’t pick at that particular scab, not when you had hardly known each other for more than a month—or spoken for more than a few minutes.

“Well, it’s beautiful,” you told him, gently clasping the stem between your fingers. “Thank you. I’ll cherish it forever.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity,” Coriolanus said. You furrowed your brows. He made a slight gesture of his chin toward the rose, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. “I left some notes on the petals. Feel free to read it once I’ve taken my leave.”

Your tilted down to the rose, your eyes narrowing in an effort to spot said note on the paper petals. After twirling the rose around for quite a bit, you managed to find the neat scribble of his handwriting nestled into the middle ring of petals. Before you had the chance to read the first word, Coriolanus’ voice stirred your focus.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said before offering a smile and turning to take his leave from the garden.

You lifted your head and watched him disappear around a winding corner. “Goodbye!” You called after him, not sure he’d heard you at all. You turned your attention back to the rose and manoeuvred your fingers between the various paper petals, managing to find the beginning of the note. You push down the first petal and began reading it’s contents:

Your breath hitched in your throat at that last sentence. Coriolanus Snow, you little flirt, you thought, but you couldn’t deny the flush of your cheeks as you entertained that possibility. You pushed the thought away as you continued reading:

You chuckled at that statement. You weren’t going to be the one to say it. You bent down the last petal, the writing a lot less than the last few notes.

You averted your attention to the pathway that Coriolanus had long since disappeared along, your heart brimming with a sudden warmth. Nobody, other than your now deceased family, knew of your birthday. It had never been anything special, only a grim tally of your miserable years in the district.

You wondered how he’d come to obtain this information, and you realised then just how true to his word he’d been—he very likely did know every single thing about you. But you hated being perceived, especially by somebody you knew nothing about. So you decided then and there that you would take up his offer on tonight’s dinner,

And then, you intended to find out his every secret.

═════════════════

This was so fun and refreshing to write. I’ve got about 7 unfinished drafts sitting around that I’ve been working on now and again, but I’ve been itching to get something complete and posted—so although this is something small, at least it’s something lmao. Sorry to disappoint y’all smut lovers, but I’ve got to keep it clean now and again.

Anyways, I just turned 19 yesterday, which feels surreal because I’m literally just a 17 year old teenage girl. I don’t think I’ll ever feel grown up. Every birthday is a goddamn existential crisis 😭

I hope you enjoyed this, likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Mwah!

𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸

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mal3vol3nt · 3 months

Note

Hi. You’re probably tired of seeing me dump stuff like this. (I’ll try to make this the last time). But I have to vent to someone. Because I see this one guy, claim to not hate Aang, only to villainize him to a ridiculous extent, acting like he’s unempathetic, forcing Katara to tend to his emotional needs and this user completely downplays Aang’s genocidal trauma. Not to be rude, but how much of a heartless prick do you have to be to invalidate genocide and the trauma it can cause. These fake fans should honestly keep their mouths shut about this show, they clearly don’t understand it.

the southern raiders episode needs to be freed from the zutara fandom i swear. i’m fully convinced they never actually watched that episode cause it literally ends with katara saying she still didn’t forgive yon rha and aang accepting that. he literally says “im proud of you”. it was never her anger at the man that aang disagreed with, it was the action she planned on doing—murder—that he wanted to talk her down from. not for yon rha’s sake, but for her’s. so even though she didn’t forgive him, aang respected that and was able to recognize the strength and validity in her decision. i’m so tired of repeating this rebuttal to this stupid as fuck argument

aang doesn’t force her to do anything in the entire series. katara has her own agency and free will to do as she pleases and not a single character has ever taken that away from her, and the one time where her freedom was threatened (by pakku), she fought for it and ensured she got her way. when yall say aang takes her agency away from her, you’re also ignoring the core traits of katara: her fierceness, her determination, her ability to recognize what’s right for herself, and her sense of justice

she never blindly follows or takes direction from anyone. when aang tried telling her and sokka to stay put while he made the trip to see roku in the fire nation, katara (and sokka) put her foot down and refused to listen. she demanded that they go with him, and he accepted them making that choice for themselves. when sokka tried convincing her to leave after she met up with haru and they had the chance to escape from the fire nation ship, she refused and said she wasn’t abandoning the rest of the earthbenders. her decision was respected by both aang and sokka. in fact, there are so many instances of her making her own decisions regardless of what anyone else says that it would be impossible for me to list them all. she never succumbs to what aang or anyone else wants, and she always makes her genuine thoughts on an important decision known. katara does not need anyone to tell her what to do nor does she allow anyone to tell her what to do. this is the same girl who single handedly changed the “no girls allowed” rule in the northern water tribe after having been told “you can’t do that”. yall think she would let aang walk all over her??? please put some respect on her name

now this may be a controversial take but i don’t care it’s the truth: comparing sokka and katara losing their mom to aang losing his entire culture and people is actually insane and insensitive but not for the reason zutaras think. its because absolutely nothing any other character went through can compare to what aang did, and to diminish his tragedy by saying katara’s trauma surrounding her mom’s death is somehow worse is actual insanity and i need yall to go to prison LMAO

katara did not witness her mom get murdered. that only happened in natla and i refuse to acknowledge that. she ran out of the tent to go tell her dad that a fire nation soldier was with their mom and when she came back, the man was gone and kya was dead. still insanely traumatic, but she was not literally standing there watching as kya burned to death

that’s literally what happened with aang. from his perspective, he had just seen gyatso only a few hours ago. gyatso was alive literally moments ago in his mind and then he was greeted with his decayed skeleton among the bodies of unwelcome fire nation soldiers. just like katara experienced insane whiplash from that heartbreaking change, to see someone alive only to come back to them gone, aang went through roughly the same thing

the only difference is aang didn’t just lose gyatso, he lost all his friends and mentors as well. and he didn’t just lose all his friends and mentors, he lost every single person who looked like him. and he didn’t just lose every single person who looked like him, he lost everyone he had grown close to and seen from the other nations. and he didn’t just lose everyone he had grown close to and seen from the other nations, he lost the animals native to the airbending temples. and he didn’t just lose the animals native to the airbending temples, he lost the native plants as well. and he didn’t just lose the native plants, he lost the structural beauty and integrity of the air temples. and he didn’t just lose the structural beauty and integrity of the air temples, he lost the ability to practice his cultural customs with others. and he didn’t just lose the ability to practice his cultural customs with others, he lost the ability to bend his native element with others. and he didn’t just lose the ability to bend his native element with others, he lost the time to mourn for all that he lost

i’m sorry to those of you who wanna believe your favs have suffered more than anyone else in the series, but none of their tragedies compare to aang’s. and i don’t believe in downplaying what the others went through to support a fandom narrative, but this is literally just me acknowledging the severity of aang’s story. to suggest any one else has gone through more is to be ignorant and nothing anyone can say will ever convince me otherwise

only reason yall think zuko or katara or sokka or toph or azula or whoever the fuck else is more tragic than aang is because all of their traumas are more relatable to the everyday person whereas aang’s is something that most people can’t even comprehend

#and before anyone tries saying ‘but aang still had bumi!’ i need you to quickly block me #cause i don’t need that stupidity interacting with my posts LMAO #/j #atla #avatar the last airbender #aang #aang atla #katara atla #katara #sokka atla #toph #toph beifong #zuko #prince zuko #anti zutara #anti zutara stans #anti zutara fandom

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melefim · 2 months

Text

Swearing in Dead Boy Detectives: Crystal Palace Surname-Von Hoverkraft

Overview:

115 curses total, 12 different words said in 8 episodes.

Episode 1: 2 Fuck, 2 Shit, 1 Ass, 4 God, 3 Jesus, 2 Screw

Episode 2: 6 Shit, 6 God, 1 Jesus

Episode 3: 4 Fuck, 6 Shit, 1 Bitch, 1 Ass, 2 Damn, 2 Hell, 3 God, 1 Jesus

Episode 4: 2 Fuck, 1 Shit, 1 Ass, 2 Hell, 1 God, 1 Jesus

Episode 5: 1 Fuck, 4 Shit, 4 God, 1 Pussy, 1 Dick, 2 Screw

Episode 6: 4 Fuck, 2 Shit, 1 Ass, 2 Hell, 3 God

Episode 7: 2 Fuck, 6 Shit, 1 Ass, 4 God, 1 Jesus, 1 Screw

Episode 8: 5 Fuck, 5 Shit, 2 Bitch, 7 God, 1 Jesus, 1 Prick

Curses Per Episode:

Episode 1: 14

Episode 2: 13

Episode 3: 20

Episode 4: 8

Episode 5: 13

Episode 6: 12

Episode 7: 15

Episode 8: 21

Uses Per Word:

Crystal’s favorite curse words are Shit and God, which she says 32 times each! In third place is Fuck, which she says 20 times.

Shit: 32

God: 32

Fuck: 20

Jesus: 8

Hell: 6

Ass: 5

Screw: 5

Bitch: 3

Damn: 2

Pussy: 1

Dick: 1

Prick: 1

Unique words:

Crystal and the Cat King are the only characters who say Pussy.

Crystal and Charles are the only characters who say Prick.

Crystal, Jenny, and Esther are the only characters who say Screw.

Crystal, the Cat King, and Twitchy Richie are the only characters who say Dick.

Percent of Total:

Crystal swears 115 times throughout the season, which is 35.9% of all cursing in the show.

Rankings:

Who Swears the Most: Crystal is in 1st place, with 116 times.

Most Curses in an Episode: Crystal holds 7 spots on the top 10 ‘Curses per Character per Episode’ list:

Curse Word Variety: Crystal comes in 2nd for swearing variety, with 12 different words used throughout the show.

Individual Words: She holds the top spots for usages of seven different words: Fuck (20), Shit (32), God (32), Jesus (8), Hell (6), Ass (4) and Screw (5). She is also tied for first for her unique word usages of Pussy (with the Cat King), Dick (with the Cat King and Twitchy Richie), and Prick (with Charles) one use of each.

Lines:

Episode 1: Oh my god, why can't I remember?

Episode 1: It's just a stupid fucking name.

Episode 1: Jesus, where did he go?

Episode 1: Oh, Jesus. I'm gonna wait in the bathroom until they leave.

Episode 1: Holy shit, did you take some of my memories? I don't have some screwed-up amnesia, you took them.

Episode 1: God! I just need a second, okay?

Episode 1: So maybe he's our fucking demon now!

Episode 1: God, I just want to take their heads and just crush them together, I am so mad!

Episode 1: Jesus, I am such an idiot.

Episode 1: Oh my god, I never even thought about the fact that they could still be alive.

Episode 1: Which was totally my bad and very screwed up and I should have told you everything.

Episode 1: Holy shit. (Edwin tells her about girl turned into small piece of plastic)

Episode 1: He's still a stalker, still an asshole. But I am going to get my memories back.

Episode 2: Ok, props for the like, Herculean-level effort, but vandalizing my shit isn't getting us anywhere.

Episode 2: Oh, shit. Sorry. (Almost runs into Niko)

Episode 2: Oh my god, holy shit! (Niko collapses)

Episode 2: God, I feel lonely too.

Episode 2: Jesus, you guys are like a dead married couple on acid.

Episode 2: Oh my God! Holy shit, how does today keep getting more disgusting?

Episode 2: God (After Edwin asks 'And were there any graves or decaying bodies near her in the woods?')

Episode 2: Oh my god, Charles back me up.

Episode 2: Oh, shit, uh... (Sees sprite-controlled Niko in butcher shop)

Episode 2: Oh my god, Niko! (Niko starts seizing)

Episode 2: Niko? Holy shit, your hair!

Episode 3: Holy shit, who knew this town was such a Mecca for troubled ghosts?

Episode 3: I just heard some people talking about it in the um, God, it was the… malt shop and it sounded super crazy.

Episode 3: What the actual fuck?

Episode 3: Jesus, I can't watch this again.

Episode 3: Just what the fuck is it?

Episode 3: So ok, if we figure out what sent that piece of shit dad over the edge, we can what? Free the family?

Episode 3: Good luck finding it now, asshole.

Episode 3: Where the hell did he go?

Episode 3: Thank god, there he is.

Episode 3: His dad was bad, Edwin. Royally fucked-up bad.

Episode 3: And if I have to hear that goddamn song one more time, I am gonna lose my shit.

Episode 3: Oh shit, yes.

Episode 3: Oh my god. Son of a bitch owned an electronics store.

Episode 3: Damn it, I know you choose the worst times to show up on purpose.

Episode 3: Go to hell.

Episode 3: I am done wasting my energy on your fuck-boy bullshit.

Episode 3: (Crystal we did it) Holy shit, we actually did.

Episode 4: Sorry, I've just been dealing with some shitty stuff with my ex.

Episode 4: God, it's driving me crazy.

Episode 4: What in the hell was that?

Episode 4: Jesus, she thought about it too, like she definitely knew something and then it was just riddle.

Episode 4: You fucked with my head, I'm gonna fuck with yours.

Episode 4: Niko- thanks for like, saving my ass today.

Episode 4: And I am tired of riddles and spirits and demons and not being any closer to finding out who the hell I am.

Episode 5: Holy shit! (Waking up from nightmare)

Episode 5: Oh god. Cash and condoms. Thanks.

Episode 5: Oh, no it's porn, it's all just porn. Oh my god.

Episode 5: Deep down, guys that make gay jokes are always the biggest pussies.

Episode 5: Because all nice guys give their girlfriends date rape drugs to screw with their future.

Episode 5: You walk around acting like the sun always shines, and then you lost your shit while beating the Night Nurse. Edwin and I are walking on eggshells around you instead of just saying 'what the actual fuck?'

Episode 5: I am really not sorry the world is short two toxic dickheads.

Episode 5: It's a really shitty thing to have in common.

Episode 5: Hey Jenny? Hey, what's with the fl- Holy shit.

Episode 5: No boy is screwing my life up.

Episode 5: I can't keep him out of my head. God, he just keeps coming, I don't… I don't know how to stop him. God, what if I can't?

Episode 6: What the hell? I have to pay my rent. I can't be a homeless person with a heart-shaped gem.

Episode 6: I want to keep this demon the fuck out.

Episode 6: God, I just want to be normal.

Episode 6: God, I feel totally useless.

Episode 6: So no, I didn't read the stupid tree! … Shit.

Episode 6: It's like he's fucking haunting me.

Episode 6: What the hell just happened?

Episode 6: I gave up my powers, OK? I got you out of my fucking head.

Episode 6: You can't get in anymore, asshole.

Episode 6: I am nothing special, So why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?

Episode 6: OK, enough uh, emotional bullshit.

Episode 6: Oh my God, are you guys OK?

Episode 7: Holy shit, you're still alive?

Episode 7: What kind of bullshit is that?

Episode 7: Jesus. You have never been to hell, stop acting like an expert. Look, when I got possessed, when I nearly ran off a cliff, when I screwed up and lost my powers, you both helped me.

Episode 7: God, Edwin is my friend too, whether he likes it or not.

Episode 7: God, if you really won't let me go, then I'll find my own way to Hell.

Episode 7: Fucking bullshit, like I can't help.

Episode 7: God, that's fucking insane.

Episode 7: Holy shit, Jenny. You shouldn't be here!

Episode 7: Just cut this shit!

Episode 7: These are mine, asshole.

Episode 7: Oh, bullshit. A good detective does what he has to in order to close the case.

Episode 7: God, I gotta figure out what I'm going to tell her.

Episode 8: Am I ever wrong about this shit?

Episode 8: My parents won't say shit, they don't even--

Episode 8: Jesus Christ! You guys scared me!

Episode 8: God, it's like being punched in the face and the stomach.

Episode 8: Yeah, well blame my parents. Holy shit!

Episode 8: Mom? Oh my God. Mom is that--

Episode 8: Maybe karma is just a bitch.

Episode 8: Oh, my God. Oh, I'm a fucking awful person. Oh, God, I'm the worst.

Episode 8: God, I was a bad person before him.

Episode 8: Because if you did, God, you'd hate me.

Episode 8: Oh my God, Jenny are you OK?

Episode 8: Shit! (digging Niko out of rubble)

Episode 8: Fuck! (Esther has the boys)

Episode 8: Because whatever fucked-up little thing you have going on with Edwin, you must care about him a little.

Episode 8: She probably put a, like, kill-you-instantly spell or some witchy shit on the door.

Episode 8: I am so sorry he was a colossal prick.

Episode 8: Hubris is a bitch, am I right?

Episode 8: I don't have to give up my new fucked-up life while I'm trying to sort out my old fucked-up life.

Notes:

Not Included:

Crystal flips Edwin off in the malt shop in episode 1.

Updated:

Added in top spots for usages of a couple words I missed.

Added in Twitchy Richie for unique usages of the word dick.

Added in a god I missed in episode 2.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More Dead Boy Detectives Swearing Posts:

Masterlist

Swearing by Episode

Swearing by Character

Swearing by Word

All Swearing Posts

And if you like lists of things like I do, you can check out my other Dead Boy Detectives ones here!

When Charles’ Shirt Colors Change

George Rextrew’s Edwin comic inspo board

Full soundtrack with timestamps

Moves, Incidents, and Cases Masterlist

First pass at finding where the songs in the score are used- full post with timestamps in progress

#dead boy detectives #dbda #dead boy detective agency #crystal palace #crystal palace surname-von Hoverkraft #dead boy detectives swearing #dbda swearing #swearing by character #compiled by me #Dbdshow

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shiyorin · 3 months

Note

Hope I'm not too late for the NSFW request. I just want you to write about Guilliman's yearning, please. Maybe when he gets horny thinking about the reader but can only masturbate. We can't let the primarchs get everything they want anyway ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

#Horny Guilliman in your area.

#Guilliman x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#All is just Guilliman's delulu so yeah, it still fine

#NSFW, Horny Heresy, Delulu, I don't have summary....

Guilliman sighed as he glowered over the latest rounds of logistical reports from the various Administratum functionaries. Honestly, the rank incompetence displayed in some of these projections and inventories was staggering. How in the Emperor's name had the Imperium managed to keep stumbling along for ten millennia with such crippling inefficiency?

But then, he supposed that was precisely why he resurrected, to restore some semblance of organization and purpose to the monumental bureaucracy and martial apparatus that had continued to decay in his absence. The task was utterly hopeless, of course... but he was a Primarch. It was his essence to struggle eternally against the inevitable ruin through sheer force of will.

Sighing, he sat back and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, trying to massage away the tension knotting his brow. All around him, the echoing grandeur of the Fortress of Hera stood in mute testament to the folly of misplaced ambition writ cosmic in scale. A distillation of humanity's proclivity for turning inward upon itself, for laboring across eons and light-years towards ends that ultimately crumbled into irrelevance and waste.

Perhaps that was why one of the few true sources of light in his world had become the presence of you, the agent. An embodiment of lethal, peerless focus and self-possession... A being seemingly without flaw, ambiguity or irresolution to impair your duties. While everything else surrounding him seemed mired in grandiose failure, yours existed as a bladelike flensing of harsh efficiency amidst the futile sprawl of the Imperium he had reawakened to.

Guilliman shifted in his throne, tugging absently at the collar of his toga as he felt a familiar ache stirring in his loins. Despite himself, his thoughts had turned to the lithe, deadly form of you. Not for the first time, his mind's eye conjured vivid phantasms of your grace, that cool serenity masking a core of coiled menace...

A bead of sweat rolled down his brow as he squeezed his enormous cock. He stroked the heated, veined length slowly, dragging a groan from his lips as need lanced through him. But his calloused palm, slicked with oils, was a pale imitation of what he truly craved.

Your face swam before his mind's eye, delicate features hardened by an ever-present edge of danger, like a beautifully wrought blade. Those full lips slightly parted, smoky eyes heavy-lidded with rapture as you sank to your knees before the throne in supplication.

"My lord..." You would murmur huskily, reaching out with hands far smaller than his own to grasp his pulsing girth.

He groaned raggedly, hips jerking of the own accord as he imagined the satin caress of your fingers trailing up and down his throbbing length. Guilliman hungered to see your hands wrapped around his cock's furious girth, dwarfed and engulfed by his sheer immensity.

He stroked harder, revealing the slick, purpled head of his member. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, serving only to ease the passage of his fist along the red-hot steel of his erection. But even that scant wetness taunted him with thoughts of what your mouth would feel like, soft and searing and so perfectly snug around his achingly swollen prick.

A low growl of need rumbled up from his chest as he imagined you kneeling before him and looking up at him through heavy lashes with an expression of molten sensuality. He could see the tip of your tongue peeking out to wet those full lips in blatant invitation, all pretenses of innocence cast aside in the face of pure, ravenous hunger.

"Let me pleasure you, my lord," You would purr, reaching out to run your hands up the flexed columns of his thighs before boldly grasping the base of his member. Your gaze would smolder up at him with heavy-lidded lust as you leaned in close, planting feather-light kisses along his straining length. Your toned arms would likely ache within moments, struggling to contain his bulk, so absurdly outmatched in size yet persisting through sheer determination.

Muscles rippling and bunched with tension, Guilliman rutted into his encircling fist as the torrid fantasy played out in his mind's eye. He could practically hear your soft, panting breaths ghosting over his fevered flesh as you lavished worshipful kisses upon the blunt crown of his cock's head. A long, insistent lick up the underside of his shaft, finishing with a swirl of your devilish tongue into the weeping slit to savor his musky essence...

"Damn...." he growled through gritted teeth, redoubling his strokes and causing obscene, wet sounds to slap through the room. Your face contorted with determination as you finally parted those smoldering lips, your mouth stretching wide to accommodate his outrageous girth. Just the sight of your delicate features utterly overwhelmed by his flared cockhead, lips distended and clinging snugly to his pulsing, vein-wreathed length...

His other hand impacted the armrest of his throne hard enough to crack the stone, knuckles whitening as you began to take him deeper into that heavenly furnace of your mouth. Your breasts would sway enticingly as you bobbed along his slick, turgid length with agonizing slowness. The streaks of glistening spit and pre-cum would escape the corners of your cheeks, dribbling down to coat the flexed root of his cock. He longed to bury his fingers in your silken hair, yanking your head forward until your lush lips met the root of his cock so he might feel your throat convulse around his pistoning girth.

A hitched, guttural moan shuddered through him and Guilliman arched sharply, muscles cording as he worked his dick furiously with hand. Squeezed and stroked the base and main length, attended to the swollen cockhead with quick, frenzied twists and pulls of his thumb and forefinger around the sensitive crown. Slick, audible squelches of effort sounded through the room as his calloused palms glided with desperate urgency over the tumescent steel of his fleshy tower.

He was close, so punishingly close. Every nerve ending in his body screamed for release, demanding the blessed catharsis that only the ultimate climax could provide. He grunted harshly, abdominals clenching as his loins gathered themselves for that final, explosive eruption.

There kneeling before his throne, worshiping every pulsing inch of his cock with your mouth agape and gaze glazed with ecstasy. Your petite form is dwarfed by his bulk yet accepting of his sheer magnitude. Guilliman snarled incoherently as the fantasy reached its zenith, hips snapping forward to jackhammer his cockhead against your lush lips while your tiny hands...

"Nnnnngh ...!" he ground out in rapturous surrender, throwing his head back as the dam finally burst. His entire body went rigid, cords of muscle standing out in sharp relief and backlit by the guttering candlelight. Great plumes of steaming semen lanced from the flared tip of his cock, spattering out in his hand before him in whipping, gouting arcs of creamy seed. Pulse after pulse, driven by shuddering convulsions of his hips and loins until his very essence pooled in sloppy puddles. Only when the final pearlescent spurts dribbled over his fists did the tension gradually start to uncoil from his frame.

Panting harshly with exertion, Guilliman slumped forward, forearms draped over his quivering thighs as the hot, acrid musk of his release filled the chamber. He felt wrung out, hollowed, yet bearing a sense of fleeting peace in the aftermath of such feverish indulgence.

But despite the sweetness of release, pangs of shame were already taking root within him. The thought coiled in his loins like a slithering serpent, rebirthing his smoldering embers of desire into a rekindled flame, one eternally damned to burn even when physically spent.

The thought should disturb him, but it only makes his cock throb harder.

#shiyorin's answer #shiyorin's writer #wh40crack #warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #reader insert #nsfw.#lol

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val-cansalute · 10 months

Text

PICKING UP THE ———- PIECES -———

ch. 1

ch. 2

ch. 3

ch. 4

ch. 5

ch. 6

a/n: short first chapter 🫤 also BORING AS FOCK but the next few will be longer and better, just stick with me cw: implied depression/ptsd, dark themes, not too heavy but please don’t read if this might trigger you, angst, no smut in this chapter but there might be some later on, creds to cafekitsune for dividers, MDNI 😡

Six months ago today, your gaunt figure limped through Jackson for the first time, arms scarred and trembling, and face adorned with a vacant expression. You’ve been here for a while now.

You heard Maria say, with time, you’d come out of your shell - actually speak to the others. But, no, you still stay holed up in your decaying room, recalling what happened that day obsessively, and only ever leaving to go on patrol. Only when you absolutely have to.

God, you don’t even know if you can call this grief anymore. Seems as though you built a nest in the sorrow. Would it still be considered missing him if you desperately want to stop seeing his face whenever you close your eyes.

Fuck, don't say that. Never say that.

Promise I still love you, big brother. Promise I'd do anything to see you again.

Well, nobody really pays you any mind; you just sink into the shadows of the shitty little apartment you've been put in. And it doesn’t matter to you because the thought of getting close to people again makes you sick anyway.

Never wanna feel this pain. Never again. Fuck, just go away, please.

I'm so sorry, Soren.

You’ve waited it out for months but, at this point, you've given up hope. Feels like maybe it’s time to go be on your own. You know it’s dumb, but you haven’t got much to live for now that he’s gone.

Late night, you crawl into the comfort of misery, chaining yourself to each painful memory; you cannot leave a single shard behind. Not one.

You will carry this with you for the rest of your days.

Somewhere along the line, dark fades to light and your mind goes blank for the first time in an eternity as you get up to follow that same routine.

Today, same as yesterday, and yesterday's yesterday, and yesterday's yesterday's yesterday, etc., etc., your partner is Ellie.

Maria seems to think the two of you are acquaintances, especially since the extroverted people around your age hadn't been able to drag much more than a few words out of you, but you don’t really talk, you stay out of each other’s ways.

You struggle to keep the smile up against the pushback of your aching cheeks when you’re talking to other people. Can never let them see.

Not even for a good reason. God, it’s just such an effort to talk about. It’s better for it to just nestle in your mind, where it’s made it’s home, where it’s comfortable.

Maybe part of why you stay out of each other’s ways is because you'd inadvertently come off as a dick during your first encounter, which would've been enough to push the already closed off Ellie to not interact with you at all. You weren't actually being rude though; she's hopefully figured that out at this point. She probably just got used to the interactions between you; silence dusted with passive aggressive remarks.

But, she doesn’t say much when you freak the fuck out if a clicker comes at you in a way that brings back memories. You’re grateful, regardless of her reason for doing so.

Perhaps it's the thought of leaving that is the spur to prick your sudden violence and, now, even you can tell you're getting worse. The feeling - it ensnares you like a bear trap when you see a clicker, so you fire frantically at its head. Blood splatters all over your front and you pull at the hem of your shirt to get a better look, mumbling, "Shit..." when you see the white fabric soaked through with the clicker's blood; cold water to the face.

Among the chaos, you must have turned on your foot weirdly, because your ankle feels like a stake has been stabbed right through it with each movement and you don’t know if you can walk.

Ellie finally manages to trace the sound of the gunshot to you after calling your name in worry for the past couple of minutes, running over to you. She pulls you around and looks over your jittery body for anything to worry about - brushes a thumb over the wet material, jerking it away before you can notice; you’re hyper aware, so you always manage to anyway - and then furrows her brows at you.

“Can you stop fucking around?”

You nod apologetically,

"Sorry. Feeling a bit out of it today..."

She sighs, still clearly angry, and turns away, "Let's go. We’re done here.”

You watch her figure retreat as you mount your horse with shaky footing. The ride back is a silent one. Once you reach the gates, you get off and pat the horse’s side. It has a name; you never cared to learn it. Maybe you knew you couldn’t stick around for long.

“Come on. Why are you just standing there?"

When your eyes meet hers, you feel utterly pathetic, but you don't have much of a choice.

“Can you… find, like, a stick? A big one...”

She stays quiet for a moment, seemingly thrown off by your question, so you're quick to add,

“I would do it but... I don't know, fuck, never mind...”

Ellie raises an eyebrow at you, her line of sight flicking down to your ankle as she takes note of your awkward stance and mutters with a sigh that makes you feel small, "Pain in the ass," before shaking her head.

"Yeah, it looks pretty bad," Ellie says after she crouches down and touches the wound, eliciting a pained wince (and a farewell to your last shred of dignity) from you.

She rises to her feet and brushes herself off as you wait for more of a response.

"Stick, right? You want a stick?"

You nod with a clenched jaw. She keeps looking down at you and the constant anticipation is starting to piss you off.

"No, you gonna ask for what you really need?" she says. "And drop the whole ‘tough guy’ act?"

You chuckle dryly, turning your eyes to the floor.

"You ever considered that maybe I actually am just a tough guy?"

“Ha ha,” she states in monotone, “Think you gave away the fact that you're not when you started crying over a twisted ankle," to which you raise an eyebrow at her.

“Uh, okay, nothing you just said was true, but, sure. Sure.”

“Yeah? Come over here and say that with some heart then, tough guy.”

You manage to take a few steps before falling.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought. Gonna need to be carried back," Ellie says.

“What about the big ass stick?”

“What is i-Fuck. Listen, even if that helps, which it won’t, you’d wreck your ankle even more and everyone’d be on my ass about it. So, quit talking and get over here," she says, reaching over to lift you off the floor.

You grimace jokingly, but Ellie doesn’t pick on the humorous nature of your words, “Oh. No piggyback?”

Ellie sighs, turning and crouching in front of you before you get on.

"I swear to god, you're infuriating," she sneers. "Now put your arms around my neck."

You’re acting slightly outside the confines of your silent, gloomy self again, and pretend to strangle her, “Since you asked so nicely.”

And you laugh at your own joke as you properly wrap your arms around her neck

"I'm glad you're having a good time; at least one of us is enjoying ourselves,” she grits out but you can hear the repressed smile in her voice.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”

"Good. Now shut up and enjoy the ride." Ellie says before turning her gaze back to the front.

As the two of you make your way through the fairly empty paths of Jackson, Ellie remains silent, her expression unreadable.

You keep your eyes focused on her, the small puff of air that leaves her mouth with each step, and staying quiet as your chin finds itself resting casually upon her shoulder

After a few minutes of walking in silence, Ellie finally speaks up again. Her voice is so close, the warmth of her breath and heat.

“You got them girls off your ass yet?”

“Who? The ones that are trying to... befriend me?”

“Mhm, the ones that you’re kinda friends with.”

“Yeah, they quit trying.”

"Don’t blame you… I mean, I can understand, but don’t make it too obvious.”

“I’d rather not-“

“Right, it’s just- well, if you want to be alone, fine. I… can even… make sure those assholes don’t bother you, or whatever- but, not on patrol! Don’t go wandering around on your own like that ever again. It’s dumb."

“I know, I just got caught up in the moment. Sorry.”

"Good."

A heavy silence befalls the two of you as she trudges on.

"Why are you so damn heavy?" she eventually mutters.

You lift your head off her shoulder reflexively, aware of your weight pulling her down all of a sudden,

“Sorry.”

Ellie looks over her shoulder at you, her eyebrows knitted in unexpected concern,

“Hey… I was kidding.”

“Right… I knew that…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever," she says. "Hm, look at that, we made it," gently patting your thigh before pushing the doors open. "Time to get off."

You slowly slide off her back, making sure to land on your good leg as you watch her search the area curiously in a waiting, one-footed stance.

She returns after a second, picking you up to place you on top of one of the quaint, makeshift hospital beds before she begins rummaging through the supplies. You watch her muscles flex and then, the sight of a woman you'd seen around captures your focus.

"What happened to her?" the woman asks, causing Ellie to lift her head, looking down at you.

"Twisted my ankle."

"Well, obviously," her tone is laced with sarcasm. "My question was how you twisted your ankle."

"Turned weird."

Your response earns you a bemused raise of her blonde eyebrows, "Alright, whatever," she says, pulling up a chair and sitting before you.

After a short, boring while, she lets go of your leg and looks up at you again,

"So, you got a sprain. I'm gonna have to wrap your ankle up, alright?"

A lock of her hair continuously pesters her as she begins carefully tending to your ankle, pulling fresh bandages taut around the injury.

"It's gonna stay sensitive for a few days," the woman states, "And you shouldn't walk on it for at least a week."

She places a hand upon Ellie's shoulder, pulling her out of the deep-end of her thoughts, and turning her away from you. A muffled, but aggressive, hushed conversation ensues between them as you glance around the room restlessly, only making out the irritated tone of Ellie's responses. It ends with her pinching her nose bridge and mumbling a, "Fine," and they're facing you again.

The woman gives the two of you a nod before exiting the room,

"You two be safe out there."

“Alright. I’ll take you home. Now, get on," she turns, arms out, backpack on her front, as she waits for you to get onto her back again.

The route to your place is short and quiet as night blankets the world, or what’s left of it. Before you know it, she's pushing open the door and setting you down on yet another tattered bed - your own.

You hiss at the contact your ankle makes with the bed, but Ellie seems unfazed, patting your thigh in the same way she did before, the way that made your stomach twist,

“You gonna be okay?”

You nod, though her deadpan tone doesn’t leave much room for the honest truth.

“Alright, well… I’ll get going, then.”

There’s a stark contrast in life between her coming and going; the constant rustling of the fabric of her coat and the sound of her heavy winter boots against your creaky floorboards, the sound of her sniffles and low voice, and the flurry of gusts of nippy winds whistling - all shut out with the cold of the outside once she closes the door behind her. Well, most of it.

Now, you’re left with the bite of cold air and the deafening silence that haunts you as you sit still upon your mattress with darkness cast over the room, seeming to melt everything together.

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mahiiimahiiii · 6 months

Text

the less i know the better

Cw/: hurt & comfort, sloppy “I’m sorry for being rude” sex, service top gale, body image issues, shapeshifters and enchanters have some things to discuss, multiple orgasms, some crying, taking care of each other, piv, durges previous encounters, mentions of durges necrophilia, gortash ruins relationships like no one’s business, mentions of squirting and intense orgasms, durge is in they feels.

a/n: i would like to have a big bath, like swimming pool sized. we didn't get a beach or bathhouse episode so i took it upon myself.

what do we want??? Service top gale!!! When do we want it?? At a decent time!!!! I’m pretty sure I pinched my shoulder at the gym and it stingssss. Please play the world’s tiniest violin in my honor. I love bathhouse scenes, so I hope y’all enjoy this one.

(durge is a wood elf storm sorcerer, once again they are brown with loose curls at chin length hair)

(read on a03 or below the cut!)

(if you like what i write- please consider donating to my ko-fi!)

“You could’ve told me that one of your alias’s was lady gortash sooner.” Gale’s voice soured slightly, as you shuffled back into the tiled specialty changing room. You dispelled a few things, taking a few shuddering breaths.

“How was I supposed to know.” Your steps are a bit shorter as you step out of your boots. Hair once silver returning to a charcoal black. The crimson left its stain on your eyes, its color pulsing with every anxious heartbeat.

“You didn’t know what? You’d think something as important as being spoken for would be remembered.” His back turned to you as he worked on un-buttoning his robe, the stiff white collar of his shirt slowly revealed.

you held your head in your hands, rubbing the khol around your eyes. Your previously too perfect features dissipating, revealing the molted and decaying flesh underneath. As you stared at your own face in the mirror, tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, you blinked them back. “It’s not…it never was like that.” Your voice warbled more than you thought it would. The reflection that stared back at you in the large vanity mirror looked pitiful.

“Oh.” His tone softened, “Avi…I didn’t mean to push.” He turned around, hesitant to approach. His eyes were round pools of emotion. Your ears twitch at the sound of your own chosen name, one gale insisted you find- he qualified his nagging on saying ‘the dark urge isn’t a great name for such a gorgeous person.’

“I didn’t know it would hurt this much, I felt… a stinging loss when I saw him. It got worse, when I got called that. Urgh- I don’t like this very much. Feeling like this. Unhappy.” Tears began to roll down your cheeks staining your skin with dark burgundy and black smears. You wiped them on your robe’s sleeves, setting your head in your hands again.

He placed a warm hand on your back, rubbing small circles.

“It’s ok to cry, I do it a lot.” He chuckled softly, kissing the crown of your head. He inhaled your hair’s scent, draping himself over you. A few tears trailed down your cheeks, you buried your head into your arms.

“You must think me weak.” The steaks of enchanted silver that danced in your hair faded into deep brown. Your ears shortened their length not as elegant, bones popped and reshaped, freckles and moles began to fade onto your skin. Scars, and marks and all. Your hair returned, short curly and shaggy, you looked now like a typical wood elf. What you were bred to be. Unremarkable.

“Not at all really…” he curled a strand of hair behind your twitching ear, the pads of his finger ghosting the fragile flesh. “Let me embrace you fully, it’s what you deserve.” His breath brushed against your ears; your skin itched under his touch. “It’s my apology.” His voice was light, “to show… my devotion to you.”

“You needn’t do any of that.” You chided, pushing in the chair, your robes hung off of you slightly. “I don’t wish to become another idolization, I’m but a mere mortal.”

“Nothing but mere, and anything but mortal.” He twirled a curl of yours, fingers braided in your hair. He cups your chin, tilting his head his pupils wide. His lips curled up into an easy smile. “You are mine, despite having… a rather unfortunate birth parent.” He giggled. He led you to the chair that draped his clothes, you curled up, embraced by his cloaks scent. He unlaced his sleeves, and the side of his shirt, finally tossing it at your head. You tucked it behind your head, watching his nimble hands remove his taught pants, the golden buttons glinting in the light. He stepped out of them, his calves flexing as he moved. It left him in his bloomers, which shimmered and crackled with weave. You had seen him in this state of undress multiple times before, every time it felt like the first, a breath of fresh air, an embrace, an urge much sweeter than the ones embedded in your flesh and crawled along your spine. He hummed, unlacing his underwear, again throwing them at your head. Should you be gross? You held it to your nose and inhaled, a rumble rising through your chest. a sound akin to a moan rose from gale’s throat. They smelt of sweat, ozone, and rosemary oil.

Of course, he applied rosemary oil to his crotch. He stretched, bending over as his bones stretched under his skin. “Come, sit up. Let me help you.” You followed his command, he worked diligently to unlace the corset that held your robes together. “I do rather like this look on you. Plum is such a becoming color.” His lips tickled your neck as he placed a knee fearfully close to your slowly heating core. “You look gorgeous, like this.” He kissed a mole on your cheek and another on your forehead; “much better than pretending to be something your not.” He removed the corset with ease,

his fingers hooking under your robe. He wiggled it over your head, a similar wrap shirt that he wore clad your shoulders. He sharply inhaled at the realization that that you didn’t wear your usual camisole underneath. Your breast peaks and nipples erect. “Oh, my love, what you do to me.” He kissed up your chin to the corner of your mouth, his hands slipping to the sides of your shirt to loosen the wrap.

You exhaled, leaning into his touch. Perhaps this was the one person able to make your urges feel at bay, to feel safe. A thought creeped into the back of your mushy skull, what if he wasn’t. The easy smile the lord held, his posture- warm and inviting. The sweetness he held in his eyes, how his hand caressed your shoulders, fell at your hips and drew you in. You could taste him, you could remember his scent, embedded in every primal part of your head. He smelt deeper than gale, whiskey and crude oil, musk and amber. Your skin itched to taste his sweat, and the coppery tang your tongue knew so well. to trace the bites of the blade along his hips and stomach, the almond scented paint that clung to your hair. The clench of his thighs along your shoulders. You felt disgusting, fantasizing about another man’s touch in the presence of the one you loved.

“Gale- stop for a second.” You noted a flash of concern in his eye, he knelt back down again, tilting his head in a silent question. Tears budded again, as you held your head in your hands. “I am ashamed. I can’t… I’m terrified of my own thoughts. Flashes I see the lord, in the way I see you now. He will not leave, be gentler- and diligent” you paused trying to think how to phrase it. “To possibly… take my mind off things.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, “perhaps we should establish something, and you’re sweet for saying that. I’m glad you felt safe enough to tell me.” He sat back on his haunches. “Perhaps… the shower will help? Ill leave you to finish undressing if you feel uncomfortable.” He squeezed your shoulders, kissing your forehead. “I’ll depart for now then. Come join me when you feel ready.” His movements were fluid, hands drawing a sharp sigh from your lips. He left through the open doorway into the showers. His nails scratched against the doorway; your core ached immaculately. You finished off his work, the dark plum verses bright magenta robes draped against each other on the chair. You felt oddly exposed without your enchanted spells guarding you, waddling into the cedar and teakwood showers you felt more at peace. Gale was nowhere to be seen, but a satisfied groan emanated from the bright hallway ahead. You settled down on the stool testing the water on your hand before handling the wand. The water smooth and warm against your skin. The soaps and skin serums to remove dirt and dead skin smelt herbal. Tonics infused with healing potions, an intriguing way to go about things. You scrubbed your skin until it was red and raw, you felt clean but not clean enough. You sat in the steam of

the water for a moment, debating on continuing forward. You decided too, the warmth of the light and the pools beyond beckoning you forward.

The light was blinding once stepping out the hallway, plants and fauna lined the tiles surrounding the baths, a plush bed with towels and robes on top of it. a table next to it and a patterned robe with tassels. Candles, sherry and crystal goblets, candies and small sandwiches, a platter with fresh fruits and perfumes, and bottles that shone like gems. Gortash really pulled the full 9 yards. Towered over the bath, curiously was a statue of Mystra, her gaze focused on the bath itself, arms outstretched in a surrounding gesture, the sun perfectly framed around her head. It was almost reminiscent of a greenhouse. Gales head peaks between the waves of foam. He floated upwards, paddling to the side of the bath to grip the edge and prop his head in his arms.

“Feeling better?” he beamed, rose petals and violets clung to his hair, they floated on the surface of the foam. You walked towards the steps, dipping your toe in carefully. It was a wonderful temperature.

“a little.” You hum, lowering your weary limbs in the water. “it’s a little unnerving to have a statue of my partner’s ex staring at my naked form. I feel judged.”

“Often statues of Mystra are depicted with her eyes closed…” he swam closer to you, “I am... uncertain why this one is open, perhaps its just another god that looks similar.”

“Let us hope it’s just that.” You settled on a side edge seat, the sun a warm lazy glow on your skin, a warm and floral breeze churned the air. He almost seated himself in your lap, his head tucked into the alcove of your neck, his face a mottled pink from the hot water. His eyes laid shut; his breath warm against your chin. You leaned your head against the tile, allowing him the access to fully intwine with your limbs. You began to become drowsy, tapping his shoulder you escorted him to the bed, comfortably placed within a warm sunbeam.

You both curled up again like lizards on a hot rock. An overwhelming sense of contented sleepiness taking hold of you. Your dreams, or what you could call them flitted with the same images of the man, contented to a stretch within your core- they filled you with bliss. His voice moved against your senses like molasses, crashing wave after wave as his blunt nails dug into his skin. He smelt of crude oil again, wearing a black undershirt underneath his overalls that hung off the dips of his hips, the pale skin contrasted with dark moles on the edges of his thighs. His

nose was buried in your neck, one of his hands covering your mouth and nose the scent of gasoline making you lightheaded.

Keep quiet his voice hissed in your recesses, you bit down on his hand, drooling onto his fingers like a fool. Another snap of his hip’s heaven sent to your core.

He suggested a bath after making a mess of your temple attire, his warm hands scratched your scalp in the cool night of the moon.

His poor bhaalist, his assassin, right hand to the tyrant, his.

You slept on the cool bed curled up on his chest, nose crested his sternum listening to his sighs and mumbling as he slept.

But that was under the moon, you lived in the sun now,

You stretched your legs out a pinging pain setting off in your calf. he muttered, adjusting his body to snuggle closer. His legs intertwined with yours, a throbbing heat coming from his crotch, you could feel the weight on your thigh- a gentle twitch now ang again.

“Gale- “you whisper.

“Mmph.” Was his plain response, rolling over to face you, his eyes closed shut. He had a slow and easy smile on his lips. Rain began to patter on the big glass roof, the vibration of the droplets making small ripples and rivulets from the puddles that gathered. You traced the curve of his chest, your fingers knitted through the hair on his skin.

“Do you love me, gale.”

An eye snapped open. He began to laugh, loud and throaty his cheeks pink. “what a silly question!” His tone changed, one more serious and concerned. “Is something troubling you? A thought deeming you not worthy of my affections?” He raised his brow.

“More memories.” You rub your eyes, “the lord permeates most of them, I feel… disgusting to say the least.”

“it’s not your fault- “he rubs your shoulder, his fingers tracing the soft scars from your flaying. “You had no memory, and frankly that was previous- you don’t mind my discussion of Mystra, so I won’t mind your discussion of… gortash.” He pauses, chewing his inner cheek. “Tell me about him, little love.” You were the one to pause, closing your eyes, searching for the best recollection. “His skin was warm, for once. It made an aching difference in my heart. The only flesh I’ve touched was to consume, or in an act of kill. This was even not to say- that those I’ve killed were simply safe in death. I’ve rutted against and filled with- the same cooled flesh. Malleable,

stiff to the touch. Cold.” You shiver out of instinct. “He liked how I looked without the glamor; he said I was beautiful. He told me I was pretty.” A tear pricks at your eye, you warbled slightly continuing your thought. “no one has told me that before. A part of me felt- that glamor was the only way to command respect. Who would respect the most common creature? Not gifted with power and strength like Sarveok, or fantastic shape changing like Orin. A part of me thinks he’s lying, as is his nature. But Enver- Gortash, I know he was hurting too. It makes it worse, those shared moments we had.”

“You were gifted with plenty more than your family ever will have. Orin isn’t the least bit as beautiful, in my frank opinion. I never liked the silver hair on you, clashes too much with your eyes.” He cups your chin, his thumb stroking absently at the sides of his chin.

“Tell me how I look then, in this form.” You plead softly.

He sighs dreamily before beginning. “What I see is a witty and intelligent person. their skin dotted with freckles like the night sky. A mole on the most kissable spots on their face. Pretty and rosy cheeks, greater in hue than any in a garden. A voice like a ringing bell, or the clink of a crystal goblet filled with wine. Their skin as brown as a deep butterscotch, its taste smoother than any whiskey. Don’t get me started on your scent- “

You giggle, kissing his lips sweetly. “No- do, I’m enjoying it.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, “oh I will, but if you insist…” he kisses your nose, rolling you onto your back, your thighs seated on his low hips. He bent down adding kisses as emphasis with his words. “you’ve always smelt like the weave- fresh and bright like citrus fruits.”

“Must be the oranges I eat for breakfast.”

“Oh, hush you- “he kisses you, his hands wrapping into your long curly locks. His lips trail down your chin to your neck, he inhaled deeply. “One thing I do not like is your adult name you chose, with your 50 years of living and you chose ‘Avrice.’”

“It sounds nice- “you insisted. You were 50, which was around late 20’s early 30’s for a human.

“My sweetest love- do you know what ‘Avrice’ means.” He asked within your neck, to this you shrug. He snorts within your skin, placing small kisses on the alcove of your neck. “It means greed.”

“Explains a lot. I’m certainly greedy for your affections. I’m greedy to not be known as just-another-bhaalspawn. I am more than bountiful in company- I lust after all that life has to offer.”

he laughed again, his voice like the warm roar of the hearth, “indeed you are my love, indeed you are.”

“Can I try… something else, I’m in the mood, I think.” He hummed; his gaze soft.

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” You replied sarcastically, shifting your thigh up. The pressure earned a soft groan from him.

“You know how I don’t last as long as you? I have a small idea on that end. Perhaps I start you off sooner, if that makes sense.”

“I’d be up for it- as long as you are gentle.”

He hummed again, this time in acknowledgement. His movements were slow, deliberate. A quick cast of buzzing mage hand, which busied itself on uncorking a bottle of oil. It scooped some of the liquid out spreading the lubricant out on its fingers. The oil smelt of jasmine and tropical flowers. He helped your legs into a bent position before seating himself on your waist, you felt one of the soft buzzing digits braces against your opening. Gale cupped your cheek bowing over for a kiss, his hands reminded you of the branches of a willow tree. His hips gently rocked against your torso, a slow and satisfied grunt drawing from his lips. He kissed you again, showing a devotion to the way your lips felt on his. Then you felt it, a soft buzz underneath a bulb of spongey tissue, the incorporeal hand must’ve entered quite easily into you for you not to notice. The thumb of the spell pressed against your clit, enveloping around it slightly. A warm heat spread steadily to your core, not enough to be considered stereotypically pleasurable, but quite lovely, nonetheless.

You wound an arm around him, your hand rooting itself in his curls as his thighs and calves spilt off your body onto the sheet below. He smiled between kisses, wanting your other arm around him. His beard scratched at your skin in a nice way. Your hands navigated to his hips, letting out a low gurgle when one of the fingers drew circles inside of you. He chuckles lightly as your hip bones tap his stomach. You felt it fleetingly, a little burst of flame that made your chest tighten. How quick was that? He could tell too, a peck to your nose before the intensity of the spell picked up, the thumb against your clit lightening up for a moment- before engulfing you again.

“That is one then, hm?” he smiled sweetly, combing a hand through your hair. “I shall make my way down- unless you have any objections.”

“No- “you murmur softly, scratching the back of the wizard’s scalp, a contented rumble emanated from his chest. with your legs lowered his sat back on your thighs He palmed your chest, the pads of his fingers grazing over your nipple. He gently pinched the flesh, hardening it between his fingers. The other neglected nipple went into his mouth,

his lips encompassed the flesh of your chest. he sighed, a happy one at that, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

The other hand not in use went to his groin, cupping and palming his balls quite gently. His hands traced the seam of his perinium, pressing up into the sensitive tissue just below the skin. His mouth and hand switched, leaving blooms of bruises and bites in his wake.

He began to mark the skin of the other breast, his tongue swirling around the pebbled nipple, eliciting a soft groan from you. He began to kiss lower, his lips hovered over every freckle. Every mole was cataloged and memorized by his kiss, every scar traced and groped.

You admired the soft dip of his stomach, full of soup, he would always say. The warm curve of his hip, and the twitch of his ear. How his brow furrows, and the sunspots on his cheeks. The crinkle next to his eyes, and the smile lines and dimples on his cheeks. What a gorgeous man you’ve managed to acquire, you were more thankful every day.

He spread your legs like softened butter, kissing down your calves and thighs. He settled back onto his knees, his joints popping underneath the weight. The fingers curled inside of you, a stretch warming up your walls. He braced the sides of your legs, bowing his head to hover over cunt. He stretched his leg out, laying off his stomach, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your legs locked his head in place, spit dribbling off his tongue. The pressure lightened off your clit, the tip of his tongue tracing anxious circles. His lips covered the sensitive nerve, providing ample suction. The transparent fingers lovingly stroked your insides, cramping down on them ever so slightly. His lips were downy and soft, her eyes pools of deep dark brown. They gazed at you through long brown lashes, they fluttered every so often.

“You are a treat- “he was almost breathless, enraptured with your pleasure. His tongue was warm and thick against your folds. His kisses against your clit were sloppy and wonderful, drool and slips of tongue, his beard scratched your inner thighs deliciously.

You bucked your hips against his nose, to this he squeezed your thighs to stay still. He removed himself, sweeping down quickly to your inner thighs. He quickly bit down; his teeth left indents.

You groaned again, your abs tightening, you felt a quick forced rush like a cramp in your lower abs. Gale chirped in surprise, a wide smile growing on his lips.

“Aha! I have turned on the tap it seems.” His tongue memorized the outlines of your folds, sweeping up the salty ejaculate. Your face burned. Gale’s gaze turned quizzical “this hasn’t happened before?”

“No- not really.”

His eyes widen, and brows raise. “The child of bhaal I know very well- that has done heinous things that in the eyes of any a god would have them hell bound, hasn’t had their tap turned.”

“there’s only so much you can do with a corpse.”

He huffs, a slight frown at the mention. “Not even your noble friend?”

“No, no- I suppose not. I received pleasure- yes, but not that. It feels odd.”

“it’s completely normal, don’t worry your head.” He stroked your thigh, shifting his weight back to his haunches. “Is this position ok?” he slid his knees under your thighs,

The hand dissipated inside of you, another jingled into life to grab the bottle of lubricant. He poured it over his hands and shaft, lubricating it. he smoothed the rest of the hydrating oil onto your knees, giving both a peck.

He lined himself with your entrance, holding your hips before leaning forward into you. His head bowed, lips grazing yours as he let out a slow and shaky moan. He hit hilt, a tight squeeze forcing a rumble from his chest.

“Gods- “he hissed, “look how tight you are now- for me- so sweet like this.” He nestled his head into your neck, pulsing slow shallow strokes into you. “My pretty star, hm? Does this feel good?”

“Quite lovely- thank you” you gasp out, pressing him closer into your skin. Your toes curled uncomfortably, yet your heart sang. The buzzing returned to your clit, the sounds from your cunt were absolutely sinful, wet and erotic- followed by the steady slap of gales thighs against your ass. Again, you felt a taught pressure in your groin, catching gale off guard. Moans fell from his lips, as he canted his hips into you. You could feel his cock head nestling near your cervix. Your eyes clamped shut, your thighs steeled around him. He let out another happy groan, buried now balls deep inside of you. You rocked together in earnest, happy sobs leaving your lips as a sweet numbness spread throughout your body.

His breath was warm against your neck, leaving scattered kisses along the alcove. His thrusts became languid, like ocean waves, another orgasm crashed through you. Gale let out a louder hiss, his teeth scraped against the soft skin of your neck. “At this rate. I’m about to break- can you cum for me once more?” he whispered against the cusp of your ear. You nodded feverishly, your hands scratching up his spine, he lifted your legs over shoulders using your thighs to brace and stabilize his weight. His thrusts now were sloppy and excitable, kissing your calves and knees. You reached for him, holding his

hand. His breaths puffing out, as he rutted into you, your knees folded back as he found a rhythm. He began to sputter out, kissing you sloppily, his mouth hot and tongue needy. He cried out, buried deep within you. You felt a warm rush as he rode out his orgasm, another snap within your core had you shattering like a mirror. Another warm rush cascaded around you, dripping down and around his crotch.

“The tap turns!” he exclaims breathless, seated within your heat. He softens inside you, turning you to the side, and flopping next to you.

You felt fresh in your newly laundered robes, they smelt like roses. It seems the bath had a similar effect on your companions. All left contented, a flush of alcohol on their cheeks, and a pep in their newly shiny step.

You held hands with Gale taking your leaves, the less they knew the better.

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eclecticmiasma · 1 year

Text

Size Gap (Foul Legacy Childe x Reader)

Working through Childe's trauma by literally riding it out.

NSFW

[Warnings: tooth decaying fl*ff my lord, a bit of cumflation]

By the time it happens, you're none the wiser until it's all too much to bear. It occurs in the dead of night, during the rare moments where Childe is truly vulnerable with you. The moments where he's fresh from the kind of assignment that plucks at his nerves rather than energizes them, where he's buried his face in your neck and wrapped you so tightly in his arms that you feel nothing but his presence.

Whatever happened earlier this evening must have opened old wounds. The typically boisterous man falls into you without a word as soon as he enters your bedroom, desperate to get your bare skin on his own as soon as possible. His rough palms splay across every inch of your heated flesh as if he's memorizing every curve by hand.

When he does speak, his words are nonsense in your ears. Frenzied, babbling praise. Precious thing, so good, so incredibly good, dushen’ka**, so tight, my love. All of it comes flooding out as your body accepts him, as you desperately ride the waves of his outpouring of sincerity together.

Secretly, this is the Childe you prefer. The Childe that doesn't remove his length for even a second for fear of leaving the safety of your body, but rather drags it along your walls with such deliberation it's as if he's trying to meld your bodies into one. The Childe that groans so sweetly in your ear that his voice becomes hoarse and shattered. The Childe that wets the pillows beneath you with saliva and, though he'll never admit it, tears. Even though you can barely breathe with how strongly he holds you close as he takes you, the feeling of his heartbeat reverberating through your chest is sheer bliss.

Just as that familiar feeling is building in your gut, right before you tangle your fingertips in Childe's fiery locks and drag his lips to your own, a strange sensation hits you. A twinge of pain around your opening. Your hands still, but Childe continues thrusting into your wet heat as if everything is right with the world, nearly whimpering with pleasure. In fact, he hasn't noticed that your moans have ceased, your body's movements with them.

You feel it again, a stretch. This time accompanied by pressure in your lower abdomen.

"Ch-Childe," You breathe, unsettled. A sound that you've never heard your lover make meets your ears as he releases a guttural growl into your shoulder and continues rutting his hips as if his life depends on it. His body feels heavier somehow, crushing you beneath its weight as you struggle to inhale. Every thrust strikes deeper, and deeper. Your lower back stings where Childe grips you, almost as if his nails are pricking into your skin. This time you whine as the pressure in your abdomen suddenly builds again and searing pain begins, "Ajax!"

As a last ditch effort, you shout his given name and beat on the Snezhnayan's sweat-slicked back, enough of a shock to jolt him into reality for long enough to still his hips. When he looks up at you time itself seems to stop.

Blue. It's the first word that comes to mind and the only word that rattles around your reeling brain as you search his features. One of Childe's eyes is glassed over and a brilliant, dazzling blue. The other is wildly flitting between your face and his own body as he scrambles, sitting himself up and cursing loudly.

Your neck strains as you look up at him with something between horror and curiosity nagging at the edge of your nerves. He must be a full head taller than usual, half of the skin over his rippling muscles blackened and charred. Childe's hair flows behind him, shoulder length and the color of sunset. Hulking, frightening, beautiful.

"Y/n," He says, voice cracking, "I..."

The source of your discomfort is obvious to you now, as your eyes trail down Childe's abdomen to meet where your bodies intertwine. Though your own body had forced most of your lover's hefty member out as it grew, its tip still sits snugly just past your opening, stretching it open painfully. You swallow hard at the sheer size of it, certain that even wrapping two of your hands around its girth would be a struggle.

Childe's grip on your waist releases as he shifts to unsheathe himself, shame written in his movements. In a split second decision your hand flies to his own, intermingling with his clawed digits and squeezing hard.

When Childe told you of his time in the Abyss, it had been the closest you felt you would ever come to understanding him. Through haunted eyes he spoke of the trials and tribulations, of the mentor who helped him through, and of the self-proclaimed monster he could become as proof of the taint the Abyss left on his soul. He spoke of it with clear disgust, and something akin to fear.

"Stay here..." You plead softly. Childe looks down at you in disbelief. Though he has made it very clear that you were to never see the physical manifestation of his trauma, a secret desire to do so has always floated in the back of your mind. To love someone is to love every part of them- and you couldn't love what you couldn't see.

For the first time since you met him, Childe looks uncertain. His eyes, both glowing and not, dart from your face to your body to his own mutated hands. He starts to shake his head, crestfallen, and you know what you have to do.

It hurts, Archons does it hurt, but you shift your hips just enough to stretch the seeping opening of your cunt slightly. Childe makes a strangled noise, voice deepened by the change in his body, and a jolt of arousal hits you over the pain. Despite everything in you screaming to pull away, you want to hear it again.

You squeeze his hand for dear life and move again, gasping as your hole is stretched to its limits. Childe's massive length slides in millimeter by millimeter, and through your ministrations your lover begins to change more. His skin darkens further and hard scales flare out over his chest. His other eye becomes clouded and glows as he watches you spear yourself along his throbbing member, a mesmerizing sight for the both of you to behold. You sweat as his cock finishes its transformation, growing ever so slightly larger still.

"Y/n..." The hulking man sighs deeply. He lets you move along him at your own torturously slow pace, wrapping his massive clawed hands around your torso and pressing his lips to your cheeks, eyelids, and neck. His long crimson hair falls over your brow, and as you inhale through it all you realize he smells inexplicably like the universe itself.

It isn't easy and it isn't graceful, but Childe's baritone grunts of pleasure lead you to finally, finally bottom out. For several moments the two of you simply breathe together, the sweat from your bodies soaking the bedsheets beneath you. Even Childe's cock is warm inside of you, as his new form seems to radiate heat. It pulses in anticipation and you cling to your lover's back, ready for whatever is to come.

What happens next is a blur. Childe trails wet nips and kisses all the way to your lips. He pauses, giving you a look so full of adoration you feel that you might burst. You card a hand through his crimson locks and bring his lips to your own, opening the floodgates.

As Childe begins to unsheathe his enormous girth, his tongue slides past your teeth and nearly down your throat. You moan desperately around the intrusion in response, gripping the man's shoulders for dear life as he completely and utterly takes you.

At first, it seems impossible. The painful stretch of your cunt around him is almost too much to bear. Childe is so lost in the pleasure that you barely have room to breathe, his lengthened tongue and his cock wrecking you from both ends. You'll split apart, surely, or suffocate around the wet muscle that bullies down your throat in the process.

Just as your consciousness starts to fade at the edges, Childe drags his tongue from your pharynx and growls your name against your open mouth. His length stretches you open again and again as he ruts into your heat, thrusting so deep it feels as if your stomach is in your chest.

"...[Y/n]...[Y/n]...Archons..." The pain subsides as pleasure slowly takes its place, and the way your abdomen bulges with every snap of Childe's hips has you practically screaming his name. No one had ever seen Childe like this, his rawest and truest emotions manifesting in the creature you lay with now. To know you've brought this out of him, you alone, it fills you with unparalleled elation.

Your back arches as your muscles tense. As you clamp down on Childe's cock like a vice, he eagerly fucks you through your orgasm so hard you see stars. He sputters on about how beautiful you look, how good you are for him, how much he adores you. Tears wet the corners of your eyes as a second wave of spasms hits you, and you sob into the crook of his neck all the way through.

Childe uses his massive arms to pull your spent body off of the bed and spears you bonelessly on his girth like a ragdoll. All you can do is feebly wrap your own arms around his neck and let him, sobbing as he somehow cants deeper and deeper.

It takes every ounce of energy to stop him when he announces his own climax, pulling halfway from you before you force your cunt to slide back down to the hilt. You want him, all of him, even to be filled to the brim with his release.

Childe's semen spurts out of him in thick ropes, warmer than anything you've ever experienced. You moan and gyrate your hips in his lap, milking every last drop and gasping as it seeps out around your swollen hole. His nails dig into your skin as wave after wave of spasms wrack his heaving form.

When he finally stops shaking, gazes down in awe at the swell of your abdomen. It deflates as he begrudgingly lifts your trembling, a flood of white fluid coating his cock as your womb empties.

Exhausted, Childe flops down next to you and immediately wraps you in his arms. Though he's returned to his usual self, he still radiates a warmth that invites you to entangle your sticky, sweat-slicked body with his own. Dazed, weary, and floating on feelings of pure love for your partner, you ignore the aches and pains starting to make themselves known and fall into a much needed slumber.

Childe says it when he's sure you're fast asleep, quieter than most would be able to register just in case. Two words that he's found nearly impossible to utter since his fall into the Abyss all of those years ago.

"Thank you."

**my soul

*do not edit or re-upload. please consider reblogging, as mature content is often buried by Tumblr!

[RULES] [MASTERLISTS] [AO3] [KO-FI]

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ackerifle · 9 months

Note

Yandere Levi finding out reader is pregnant by another man

a word with you!

yan. no regrets levi ackerman x fem prostitute. reader

+ CW. — harassment, coercion, delusional behavior, kidnapping, confessions of murder, threats of domestic violence/abuse, implied: slight past age-gap relationship, baby-trapping; darling’s pseudonym is galatea; not proof-read.

it was simply too good to be true, you had known it then, and you know it now. but wishful thinking and desperation will do terrible things to good people, no soul would willingly continue living in the underground should they find themselves with any better alternative. at a constant risk of disease and decay, mother nature’s evident distaste for her children dwelling beneath the surface, careless to the living that remained untouched by the sun. abandoned by its creators in favor of more ‘pressing matters,’ the people left relinquished in a forgotten city of ruins had fallen on hard times, people like yourself.

and thus, you had found yourself in quite the predicament. although nothing in your life had ever come particularly easy, and this once, just this once, you could manage all on your own. there was no shame in working in a brothel, not when the people around you were often worse off than yourself, and pride was a small price to pay for simply surviving. it was only once you had first bared witness to the frequent deaths of the other prostitutes had you ever come to the realization that the madam must have really favored you a lot— to clean you, to clothe you, to feed you, to care for you; to keep you. but the state of affairs in the underground have since changed from the time of your youth, you’ve changed. you wanted out, and you were not immune to making grave sacrifices for what you wanted.

you’ve encountered and met many clients in your time, men and women alike, and it is rare for new faces to draw your attention. but as of late, there has been one. a soldier from the surface, a military police member who seemed far too young to be venturing below the safety and security of the royal capital by himself, and far too naïve to be falling absolutely head over heels for some prostitute who only offers an hour and faux moans in return. it almost tugs at your heartstrings, almost. he isn’t as innocent as he looks, and you are reminded why terrible things happen to good people. he had held citizenship over your head since the moment he met you, through legal marriage, and one simple request: that you give him a child. after all, who was a man of his merit to invest such a scrupulous amount of time into a common whore without the reassurance she won’t leave him right away?

so you do, allowing him to touch and hold you in a way your other clients could only dream of. to whisper sweet nothings in your ear about your future together, because admittedly, you too are thinking the same thing. thinking about your future, but you find that there is nothing romantic about it. and perhaps the worst of it all, he hasn’t come back for you.

laying down on your tarnished bed of tattered sheets and thin blankets, you stare aimlessly at the darkened ceiling. without thought and without interest, it has been weeks, maybe months, and you think you’ve truly fallen ill, “dammit, i knew i shouldn't've let that prestigious prick back in here.” forever grateful and beholden to the brothel keeper, she continues to tend to your needs, even now.

“look at you. so sad, little girl.” the madam coos apathetically, but her actions say otherwise. a gentle hand checks your temperature, brushing aside any loose strands of hair with the swipe of her thumb. her frown only deepens when she just barely pushes your head back, met with complete compliance as your head tilts further into the pillow from even the slightest of movements. somehow, you’re still so tired and still so restless, “i’m sorry.”

she’s upset with you. she’s been upset with you ever since you’d been involved with that shady scumbag, but truthfully the madam is more upset with herself. and she wants to ask why you of all people are apologizing, but she doesn’t, “i’m sorry too.” there is more she yearns to say, her mouth is still open, as if to somehow keep you responsive in this one-sided conversation, but nothing comes out. and it’s too late when there are three loud and concise knocks banging on the door downstairs.

the madam is quick to pry a worried hand from your unresponsive body, storming towards the exit of the oppressive room, but not without taking a curious glance in your direction. her remorse does not last long, as she shuts the door with a shove, but is intentional in not forcing it too hard. and you are left alone. swallowing dryly, your eyes dart around the room, and you wonder just how intense that person must have been hounding at the door for both you and the madam to hear it from a story above. but that was no matter, it was already noisy in the brothel, the walls were thin because peace and quiet was no luxury anyone living there could afford; and who knows how many women you shared the small space with. and surprisingly, it benefitted you greatly to be sick, as the madam refused to work you; and you’d known girls who worked during pregnancy, it never did end well for them.

deafening commotion could be heard ringing throughout the brothel, to the point it had felt as if the walls were shaking and the building was caving in. you chalked it up to hysterical figments of your imagination, that the floorboards beneath your bed weren’t vibrating, and that the sound of a panicked woman and determined man arguing with one another weren’t getting closer, “sir! galatea isn’t well, she’s not seeing anyone right now!”

“i don’t give a shit, lady. i know name is still here, she hasn’t left this fucking whorehouse in a month.” it pains you that you recognize this voice, and it isn’t the one you want to hear.

brazenly, the door is reopened with much more ferocity and wrath than it had initially been closed with, and it startles you. despite anticipating a confrontation as the verbal fight had neared your room, it comes as a surprise when the door nearly breaks free from its hinges, revealing an all too familiar black haired man. he looks awful in the dour lighting, and he adorned a uniform that haunted your very soul. a lesser version of what the military police had dressed in, lacking the coat with their respective symbol, it was the odm gear that struck you odd. eyes averting, you had noticed madam — who was standing behind him, with a languid arm extended towards his figure as if to grab him — was somehow much worse for wear as she had a dramatic hand over her heart as she caught her breath.

you regret not locking the door, but then again, that has never stopped levi from doing what he wants. he calls to you only by your name, and your spine crawls. whipping his head around, the hand levi had placed over the hilt of one of the unsheathed blades draws it from the holder, and he wastes no time in threatening the madam. it only takes the sight of the sharpened edge looming dangerously close to her neck for you to yell at her to get out. she hesitates, and you know why, the madam has failed to protect you countless times from levi, but this will be the time it counts, and she knows it too. but the downright malicious glare levi sends her way has her halted in her steps, and she makes no effort to stop levi as he enters the room and places a deceivingly quiet palm flat on the door, all whilst maintaining eye contact with her, before he slams the door behind him.

you set your hand on the bed, forcing yourself to sit up as levi stomps his way over to you. and the closer he gets, the more uncharacteristically messy you realize his clothes are. the white shirt he so often wears is not clean, it’s rather dirty in all honesty, sullied with what appears to be sidestreet grime and dross filth. his boots are muddy, dragging in sludge and black water that hadn’t already been scraped off at the doorstep and staircase. but perhaps what was the most disturbing were the stains of blood on his gear, ranging from inconspicuous flecks to big streaks that were likely still wet. levi must’ve noticed your perturbed observation, because when he finally finds himself standing before you, he bends down and grabs your jaw in his hand, roughly squeezing your face, and leaning down until your noses are just barely touching.

“i leave you alone for a month, and you let some piece of shit from the mp’s knock you up?” it’s his eyes that are the scariest, more than his strength, and you crumble underneath his scrutinizing gaze. your retaliation is much more timid than you intend it to be, as if you were guilty and confessing your sins. sins of disloyalty to a man you aren’t even with in the first place, “you can’t expect me to want to stay here, i saw a way out, and i was going to take it.”

it doesn’t cross your mind to question how he knows all of this. you’ve simply accepted it as fact that you will never experience true privacy after meeting levi. in retrospect, it’s ludicrous that you’re even explaining yourself to him, but you are and it’s not helping your case, “and how did that work out for you?” levi spits venomously, violently shaking your head side to side in his grasp until your eyes were rattling in your skull. levi only lets go to prop his foot up onto the side of the bed.

instinctively, you lean away from his knee, which is almost parallel to your head, setting your hand on his calf in an attempt to direct his body away from yours. levi places the blade he had refused to release from his grip back into the metal box it belonged in, dropping his leg to the ground and hoisting you up by your shoulders, “groveling at the feet of those pigs, you’ve become real pathetic, haven’t you?” you want to defend yourself, to call him a hypocrite, to call him pathetic for harassing someone like you that was undeserving of his badgering.

“how did you even know he was a soldier?” deflecting the topic from yourself to your genuine concerns, you go limp in his arms as levi twirls you around the room until he’s satisfied with your placement. positioning you in front of the windows, leaning slightly on the stool as he pushed you backwards until you could feel the cold glass frame through your nightgown. levi slovenly flicks the sash lock, holding onto the lift and pushing the window up, “where do you think i got all of this from?” you didn’t need any clarification to know that levi was referring to his equipment.

your chest tightens, constricting your airway as you stop breathing altogether to attain perfect stillness. you only look at him with vacant eyes, and it becomes too much when he doesn’t elaborate any further, “what did you do, levi?” he sticks his head through the window, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the top rail, and peering down at the ‘city,’ below. it isn’t as if he needed to, there wasn’t anyone on the streets. when levi pulls himself back into the room, he slings an arm around your hips to bring you closer, “what do you think i did? the man’s dead, do i have to spell it out for you?”

the prickling sensation underneath your skin erupts in waves across your entire body. you were no stranger to the realities of what went on around you, the hushed rumors of what men and women who had the will to do what they wanted to others simply because they were capable, and not out of survival necessity, “you’re sick, what is wrong with you?”

“call it what you want, but he has nothing for you. you want to leave the underground? hmph, well don’t we all?” levi mocks contemptuously, tightening his hold when he feels you threaten to slip away in the slightest. he moves you around like a rag doll by the sides of your body, until you're in front of him. levi closes the little space that was left between you, until you’re forced to grab onto him for support, seeing that straining your wrists to secure yourself by the windowsill was becoming too painful, “we can go wherever you want, but you won’t be going anywhere without me.”

suddenly, levi veers down. his body collapsing onto yours until you’re nearly halfway out of the window, and he, looming over you, “oh my god, what is wrong with you?!” you repeat, blood rushing to your head as you try to prevent your upper half from being upside down and being taken by gravity completely. levi guides your arms around his neck, loosely as you refuse to acknowledge you’re even embracing him in the first place, but your fear of falling surpasses your personal grudges. and in one swift motion, levi thrusts the rest of your body out of the window, and he follow suits mere seconds afterward. and you scream, as loud as humanly possible.

levi’s body never leaves yours, and you’re uncertain as to whether it’s because you won’t allow it, or because he won’t allow it. either way, the detach hold you had on his neck fastened into a tight chokehold the moment you had felt yourself even remotely lean back any further. the landing is much smoother than you anticipated, levi doesn’t let you touch the ground before he does. and if you hadn’t shut your eyes, or buried your face into the crook of his neck, you may have gotten to witness the vertical maneuvering equipment in action; what used to be a dream for you, to leave with it, but you could kiss those fantasies goodbye now that they found themselves in the hands of levi. and he’s cautious, all too cautious with you.

you’re trembling like a leaf, and he thinks that if he lets go of you, you’ll fall to the ground, “don’t think you haven’t pissed me off, now. there’s a million things i ought to do to you after getting with that sorry excuse of a man.” levi rests a warning hand on your shoulder, loutishly hauling you towards him until you just about trip over your feet. he makes sure you’re aware of the desolate area that surrounds you two; and it becomes increasingly obvious that no one would come to intervene. if not by your shrieking, then never. levi tilts his head with an unimpressed frown, “you’re lucky you’re pregnant with our kid, because i won’t even be half as merciful once they’re born.”

#ackerifle #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere attack on titan #yandere aot #yandere aot x reader #yandere levi ackerman #yandere levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader

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