#they're STILL sick and abandoned

[thecoffeelorian]

Friendly reminder that NOBODY in canon or fanon still hasn't discussed how Hunter was just fine with never going back for Crosshair.

Also, he STILL isn't getting any better by himself.

[flufflecat]

Really not feelin it this week. Tag rant incoming

[reiderwriter]

Okay but, flirty reader majority pointed at Reid, and the scene where he has to get hosed down and says "I'mma bout to get naked, I don't think you wanna see that" and reader's just like raising her hand and says "don't worry I'll stay". And after she walks out to go to the hospital and sees everyone and with an open mouth and wide eyes just goes " woah" cause big dick energy

A/N: Hi, thank you so much for your request! I've been a bit sick lately, so I haven't had a chance to write much, but this was fun and quick to write! I might do a part 2 with the actual smut in the future, so if that's something people would want let me know in the comments!!

Warnings: suggestive content, public dirty talk?

“I really want to see that.” 

You heard the words but weren't sure where they'd come from for the longest time. It had been a confusing morning, with a high alert for anthrax and your coworker trapping himself inside a contaminated lab to save you from dying a presumably very painful death, you couldn't be blamed for not realizing that you'd said the words in question. 

He'd meant the words sarcastically, of course, and they'd warned Morgan off immediately with a chuckle and a “You better survive this, kid,” but you'd stood rooted to the earth until he'd repeated them again. 

“Y/N, they're going to strip me down. You don't want to see that.” 

“I really do, though.” Your eyes unabashedly trailed down the contours of his body, soaked from the hoses currently decontaminating him. You could've sworn that he was moving in slow motion as his hand pushed back his hair and cleared his face of water. 

If there weren't this many CDC agents around, you'd have likely joined him in his impromptu shower to feel your way along the lines of his clothing, checking to see what was outline and what was the thick layers of shirt and pants that unfortunately still obstructed your view. 

Another minute of you ogling him went by before your eyes finally returned to anywhere near his, and you realized that your desire for the man could no longer pass for camaraderie. 

“You better not die, Spencer. Not before I can enjoy the meal I'm about to sample.” 

His doctors were either ignoring the conversation completely or were busy focusing on other things, and luckily, they didn't react to your words. Other than to take Spencer's temperature one more time when he flushed bright red, and stared at you slack-jawed. 

“We're going to have to speed this along, Doctor Reid. Please start unbuttoning your shirt,” one of the hazmatted men said to him, but his eyes were fixed on you. 

“Yes, please do, Spencer. It's for your own good. And mine.” 

You expected him to blush and fawn again, but his day had been as long and confusing as your own, so you were unsurprised when he looked you directly in the eye and began unbuttoning his shirt. You watched his descent, and your breath faltered, seeing the water drip down his bare skin now. 

“I'm not sure which of us is wetter right now,” you tried to joke in earnest, but you felt a sharp jolt of lust in your gut as soon as his hands reached his belt. 

“Y/N, you need to leave now. Before you make this any harder for everyone here.” The innuendo in his words were clear, but you were thankful again for the considerate and/or oblivious doctors either side of him bagging up his discarded shirt and jacket. 

“Only if you promise I can make your life as hard as I want to when you're in the clear.” You smiled again, hoping the full force of your lust would reach him. Spencer was always oblivious to genuine flirtation, you'd observed enough women throwing themselves on him (had discouraged a few too many with a hand on his arm and a finger playing with the abandoned curls at the back of his neck, too) to know that for sure. 

You needed to make your need for him explicit. 

“I mean it, Spencer. I really mean it.” 

His eyes locked with yours for the last time ad you made to turn around, doing your best to convince him without becoming distractedly horny. 

“I know. I'll see you at the hospital.” 

“At the hospital? Risky, I like it.” You winked and turned away, leaving him calling back after you as you walked over to the car Derek had pulled around the front of the property. 

“Wait, not the hospital! Those beds aren’t comfortable. Y/N! Y/N, really!” 

You giggled as you sat down in the car, but you bubbled with anticipation still. 

[makingqueerhistory]

Spooky Queer Books

Since spooky season is starting, I thought I would share a list of my favourite queer books that are great for this time of year.

Some of these links are affiliate links.

It Came from the Closet: Queer Reflections on Horror

Joe Vallese

Horror movies hold a complicated space in the hearts of the queer community: historically misogynist, and often homo- and transphobic, the genre has also been inadvertently feminist and open to subversive readings. Common tropes--such as the circumspect and resilient "final girl," body possession, costumed villains, secret identities, and things that lurk in the closet--spark moments of eerie familiarity and affective connection. Still, viewers often remain tasked with reading themselves into beloved films, seeking out characters and set pieces that speak to, mirror, and parallel the unique ways queerness encounters the world.It Came from the Closet features twenty-five essays by writers speaking to this relationship, through connections both empowering and oppressive. From Carmen Maria Machado on Jennifer's Body, Jude Ellison S. Doyle on In My Skin, Addie Tsai on Dead Ringers, and many more, these conversations convey the rich reciprocity between queerness and horror.

Into the Drowning Deep

Mira Grant

The ocean is home to many myths, But some are deadly... Seven years ago the Atargatis set off on a voyage to the Mariana Trench to film a mockumentary bringing to life ancient sea creatures of legend. It was lost at sea with all hands. Some have called it a hoax; others have called it a tragedy. Now a new crew has been assembled. But this time they're not out to entertain. Some seek to validate their life's work. Some seek the greatest hunt of all. Some seek the truth. But for the ambitious young scientist Victoria Stewart this is a voyage to uncover the fate of the sister she lost. Whatever the truth may be, it will only be found below the waves. But the secrets of the deep come with a price.

The Devouring Gray

C. L. Herman

After her sister's death, seventeen-year-old Violet Saunders finds herself dragged to Four Paths, New York. Violet may be a newcomer, but she soon learns her mother isn't: They belong to one of the revered founding families of the town, where stone bells hang above every doorway and danger lurks in the depths of the woods. Justin Hawthorne's bloodline has protected Four Paths for generations from the Gray--a lifeless dimension that imprisons a brutal monster. After Justin fails to inherit his family's powers, his mother is determined to keep this humiliation a secret. But Justin can't let go of the future he was promised and the town he swore to protect. Ever since Harper Carlisle lost her hand to an accident that left her stranded in the Gray for days, she has vowed revenge on the person who abandoned her: Justin Hawthorne. There are ripples of dissent in Four Paths, and Harper seizes an opportunity to take down the Hawthornes and change her destiny--to what extent, even she doesn't yet know. The Gray is growing stronger every day, and its victims are piling up. When Violet accidentally unleashes the monster, all three must band together with the other Founders to unearth the dark truths behind their families' abilities...before the Gray devours them all.

Tell Me I'm Worthless

Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, Ila and Hannah. Since then, Alice's life has spiraled. She lives a haunted existence, selling videos of herself for money, going to parties she hates, drinking herself to sleep. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when Ila asks her to return to the House, to go past the KEEP OUT sign and over the sick earth where teenagers dare each other to venture, Alice knows she must go. Together, Alice and Ila must face the horrors that happened there, must pull themselves apart from the inside out, put their differences aside, and try to rescue Hannah, whom the House has chosen to make its own. Cutting, disruptive, and darkly funny, Tell Me I'm Worthless is a vital work of trans fiction that examines the devastating effects of trauma and how fascism makes us destroy ourselves and each other.

[moondirti]

due to popular demand, a follow up to this featuring: 18+ content, gaz, ballerina!reader, internet stalking, men being gross, another a thinly veiled character study

Kyle is a good man.

Granted, his metric is not attuned to common standards for morality anymore, nor has it been that way since basic. He's sure that if he were to pick any sheltered samaritan off the street to read out his laundry list of transgressions, they'd balk at the fact that their taxes go to keeping him fed. They'd rather their image of the army stay unsullied and ideal. They'd rather keep him at arms length with a thank you for your service and not confront the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

But he can no longer be held to their degree. No longer exists within these spaces. No. Kyle – or Gaz, if one were to go off of what he's called most often nowadays – is a doorstop. A pestle. Something inconspicuous, obscure, that serves the sole function of making life easier for everyone but itself. And he assumes this role with a handful of others who have nothing else to live for, exiled to crowd the back of Foxhounds and kill at a moment's notice. Foul men. Friends.

If someone were to line up every operative on a special forces unit, or better yet collect the likes of the 141 and asses each for their moral standing, Gaz can rest knowing he'd come out on top. He's not yet as far gone as they are; can enjoy a night out or a pretty bird writhing underneath him without wanting to choke her out. Only devoted to his captain, or the others, to the extent that their professional relationship calls for (no matter how much it itches at him to watch Ghost take care of Soap, or to reject Price when he offers him a drink).

Sure, he laughs at their jokes. Might pitch in when they're swapping stories of their filthiest catch, Soap rattling on about the lass who'd stuffed her tongue up his arse, or encourage them to shoot on sight if they spot a potential threat, civilian or otherwise. Yet the difference is this: when he goes home, he can stuff that all away.

Knows not to let it infest the boundaries of the real world. Off deployment, his comrades play pretend at the noncombatant lifestyle, but the guise is ill-fitting. They're too big for their skin. They stretch and tear at the conventions holding them in place, like feral dogs made to heel. Kyle doesn't have to be tamed. He's still functional, familiar with the expectations held of him. Can submit to integrity more easily than most.

Kyle is a good man.

And that's what he tells himself as he returns home, train car completely void of anyone but himself. He's good for having given you up. He's good for not have followed you home. There'd been a brief lapse of judgement, but he's good for doing something about it before things passed the point of no return.

You've lived this far without his protection, he reasons. Yet it doesn't change the unreachable itch, closed away in a supposedly locked box. Gaz. Or, his captain's voice, cigar-smoked and advisory.

But why should you continue like that.

It's hard to fall asleep that night.

He's sick with worry wondering if you ever got home, bile broiling and distending up his throat at the thought of having abandoned you. It's pure concern that compels him to find your socials, really. Kyle is only searching for an update, or recent post, indicating that you're alive.

With nothing to go off of but a face, he searches for dance studios in both Acton Town, your area, and the Kensington, the area where you'd boarded the tube from. He makes a shortlist of the most reputable ones (your attire seemed to imply that you were a seasoned ballerina) and cross-checks them as hosts of upcoming recitals. Two renditions of Swan Lake and a production of Giselle turn up, each with their very own cast lists. Thus begins a tireless search of every name credited.

His heart almost leaps out of his nose when you eventually load into view, then plummets at how easy you'd been to find.

Your vulnerability only sets Kyle's conviction in stone. Bloody good thing he's got your best interests in mind.

Locked twitter, a LinkedIn, and a public Instagram page which sends his blood pressure skyrocketing after checking your follower count. Popular. And of course he can see why. Over a hundred posts chronicling bright smiles and flattering outfits. You mainly use the account to promote your practice, though; feed full of skimpy little outfits, leotards and exposed sternums and impossible poses.

Stop it. He's here for something specific.

Kyle sips in a deep breath, scrolls back to the top of your page, clicks on your most recent post. A casual video of your leg raised on a barre while your friend counts how high above your previous record you're able to stretch. Your skin is sweat-slicked. Your mouth is thrown open in a half-laugh, half-pant. He almost forgets why he clicked on it in the first place, before the timestamp catches his eye.

30 minutes ago.

So, you'd gotten home.

He can go to bed now.

Exit your account. Swipe up on Instagram to clear it from his running apps. If he's extra disciplined, he'd block you. Rob himself of the temptation to tug himself over the photo of you in the splits.

Kyle is a good man because he knows his limits.

(But Kyle now also knows the address of your studio. That, even if he blocks you, it'll take up space in his chest. A ticking-time bomb. A knowledge that'll haunt him whenever he's on the District, Circle, or Piccadilly lines, and the train announces Gloucester Road. A force, a stone in his throat, that'll grow so large it'll force him to stand up and disembark, to walk until he's standing right outside and wait on you to wrap up rehearsal.)

It occurs to him that the point of no return has long since passed.

inclusivity note: i felt the need to say that, while reader is a dancer, her profession is not meant to imply anything about her body type. flexibility and agility are not limited to thin builds, and while the ballet industry can be very toxic, i've seen my fair share of spaces where all figures are embraced and success is determined only by ability!

[damianbugs]

i think about Batman/Nightwing: Bloodborne like. all the time. if you know me there's nothing i quite like more than a blood motif, pair that with the horrors of the body (not to be mistaken with Body Horror) and/or disease and sickness... nothing is more human than what kills us. love is what destroys.

there's a lot about this comic that's so fucking insane. just to name a few:

bruce buying flowers for the graysons every year to place on their graves and not telling dick about it until he finds out on his own because bruce is dying and misses the date. dick looking through ice and snow and empty wastelands for bruce's heartbeat and draping himself over the man when he realises he's alive. bruce telling dick to leave him and escape when they're attacked. dick stopping at nothing to save bruce because abandoning him isn't even an option.

but the thing that really tops all of this immediately is when dick injects himself with a experimental vaccine for the virus bruce is about to die from, and then doing a blood transfusion in hopes of sharing some of the resistant viral antibodies — fully well knowing that there's no guarantee that it will work. bruce might still die. now dick might die first. but, well, this could save bruce and —

and that was always the goal.

LIKE WHAT ???

YOUR BLOOD LITERALLY RUNS THROUGH MY BLOOD.. THIS POISON WE SHARE. THIS DEVOTION WILL KILL US. TOP TEN MOST SADDEST QUOTES ABOUT SACRIFICIAL LOVE. SOMETHING SOMETHING FROM THE BIBLE. SAD PICTURE OF BLOODY KNIFE FROM PINTEREST. I WOULD DIE FOR YOU, BRUCE. I COULDN'T ASK YOU TO, I DIDN'T KNOW HOW TOO. INSERT OUT OF CONTEXT LINE FROM POEM HERE.

[annabelle--cane]

tma s1 thing I just caught- in martin and sasha's statements, they both have a moment where they're describing the creature they encountered and stop themselves from using a gendered pronoun and go to "it" instead.

I could see those… thin, silver worms crawling in and out, and their black tips twitching as they squirmed through that… pitted… meat. I mean, it wasn’t human. It can’t have been. Sh-She… It took a step towards me and as it did so the worms began to writhe out of every hole and cavity, falling to the floor in a cascading… wave and starting to crawl towards me with… with alarming speed.

+

I didn’t want to call him Michael; it didn’t seem to fit somehow, and the way he said it made me think that it definitely was not his name. Still, it wasn’t like I had any other name for him. No, not for him. For it.

but martin doesn't refer to jane by pronouns for a while after that passage, and the first time he does is when he's having his "oh god was she just a sick woman I left to die" moment, and after that he reverts to using she and her pronouns for the rest of his statement. conversely, sasha uses it and its for michael the whole way through her statement after that, except for, debatably, this one line near the end. both the snarp and rq official transcripts have is down as "its," but I distinctly hear "his."

I looked up to see Michael, reaching into my shoulder. Its fingers were long and distorted as they reached through my skin, cutting it like paper. I screamed. After a few seconds, it withdrew its hand. Held there was a single silver worm, wriggling pathetically in his grip. I hadn’t even felt the thing burrowing into my arm.

to me these differences are interesting from a few angles, both from the martin/sasha and jane/michael sides of things (also just for clarity I'm going to use she/her for jane and he/him for michael going forward in this post).

michael consistently self-describes as non human, or slightly human but only begrudgingly and against his will, and to sasha's knowledge michael was never human at all, whereas jane is more simply a normal person who got creaturefied, so "it" and other traditionally non human language may just be a better fit for michael's reality than for jane's, but I also think the specific places where sasha and martin switch back to traditionally human pronouns are telling. in michael's case, it is the moment where sasha sees that he's directly saved her life, even though he did so by using a distinctly inhuman aspect of himself: his distorted hands. in jane's case, it's when martin contemplates whether she was in need of help and he abandoned her, and after contemplating that he doesn't try using "it" for her again. sasha re-humanizes michael when he is being vitally helpful, and martin re-humanizes jane when he thinks about her as vulnerable.

I also think martin trying to see jane as non human and not managing to keep it up even a little bit speaks to his reoccurring issue of being inconsistent in whom he dehumanizes and at what times. he wants to see jane as a monster when she's in his line of sight and scary and gross, but once he's away from her and conceptualizes of her as being theoretically vulnerable, he can only see her as a person.

[coldfanbou]

Vengeance comes by Cucking

Day 23 has Natty cheating and cucking her husband while Hanni is used as a pawn.

Length 2.4K

Natty X mreader x Hanni

You quickly got close to your tablemate at your new school. It was nice knowing that you had her for nearly every class. You were both majoring in the same subject, but it was still a happy coincidence. You were the same age, so it clicked well. You got close to her over those first couple of days and invited her to your home. Hanni quickly accepted, saying she wanted to spend more time with you. You learned a lot about her, like that her mom and dad met sometime after she was born. It wasn’t all too interesting, but you liked learning about her.

That day, you ended up having sex with her for the first time. The two of you would often go to your place after class and have sex at least once. One day, though, Hanni invited you to go to her house. You agreed, and you both made your way over. “Are you’re parents going to be around?” 

“No, they're going to be out today. Dad usually comes home later anyway,” She replies. You both continue on your way. Hanni opens the door and leads you to her room, where the fun begins. She opens the door, letting you walk inside before she shuts the door behind you. Hearing the sound of the door closing, you turn around to Hanni, throwing herself up to you. Her arms wrap around you, and her warm lips press against yours. You put your hands around her waist, holding her close. Your hands snake under her shirt, moving up her smooth stomach before they reach her bra. Hanni’s breasts were small, but you still enjoyed them as much as possible. Your hands slip behind her back and undo her bra, letting it fall down her body. Hanni gets to work on your pants, unbuckling your belt and pulling them down. Hanni moans softly as you attack her neck, leaving small kisses along it.  You yank down her skirt, getting sick of how long it was taking you to undress. Hanni chuckles, “Can’t wait, huh?” You get her skirt off her and lift her. Holding onto her upper thighs, you carry her to her bed. She squeals as you come crashing down on top of her. You slip your hand down to her panties. Hanni moans into your ear as your fingers rub her folds through her panties. “You’re going to fuck me good, huh?” She says, asking a rhetorical question.

“Of course,” Hanni slips her hand into your underwear and starts stroking your cock. 

“I want it real bad.”

“Then let's get to the good part: you’re practically soaked.” You remove your underwear, and Hanni moves her panties to the side. You rub your cock between her folds, groaning from the bits of pleasure you get before you push into her cunt. Hanni’s thin frame makes your cock easily visible as you move in. Her walls are wrapped around you tightly, making you moan as you push the last couple of inches inside. Hanni lifts her hips, helping you bury your cock in her. You start thrusting, quickly driving your cock in and out of her tight cunt. Hanni’s moans come fast as she lets you do whatever you want. She grabs one of her pillows, hiding her face behind it as she tries to muffle her moans. As you thrust, you notice a picture on her nightstand; it’s one of her family. What catches your eye about it, though, is you see your deadbeat dad in it. After leaving your mom, you figure he must’ve run off to be with Hanni’s mom. You had only seen him in pictures with your mom, but you recognized him immediately; he abandoned you at birth. It fills you with anger, and you become more aggressive.

You pull out of Hanni and flip her onto her stomach before she can utter a word. Cock in hand, you position yourself and ram it back inside Hanni. Once that’s done, you snake your hand around her body and around her neck, choking her as you thrust. Hanni is turned on by this as she grows tighter around your cock. You impale her with every thrust, knocking on her womb. You add to her pain by slapping her ass as hard as possible. Thundering cracks fill the room with every slap. “Again, more!” Hanni moans after every strike. You don’t care too much about her pleasure and focus on taking your anger out on her. You drive her into her bed, slamming your hips into her ass. Yanking on her hair, Hanni’s head is pulled back with it. She continues to moan, unaware of why you were being so rough but still enjoying it. You know she’s about to cum, from her whines. They become high-pitched and quickly follow each other. Hanni’s cunt tightens around you as you bury your cock inside her. “Shit, I’m cumming!” She yells. Hanni’s body shakes as she goes through a powerful orgasm. You continue to slam your cock into her sensitive cunt.

Hanni weakly grabs your arm, “Wait, I just came.” You push her head down into the bed as you thrust. Spanking her ass again, you hear her muffled moans. You fuck Hanni into submission, making her cum again and again until she broke. When she wakes up some hours later to your cock slapping her face, she gives a delirious smile and tries to suck your dick. You smack her mouth away from your cock.

“Let’s show your mom how much fun we can have next time.” You say before putting your clothes on and walking toward the door. You pause as you reach it and turn back, pulling out your phone. You snap pictures of Hanni, her face stained with cum and her body a sweaty mess while cum leaks out of her cunt. You flip her onto her stomach, taking pictures of her rose-red ass with a hand imprint. You leave her home and return to yours, where you think more about how to hurt your father. You had a rough idea when you saw the picture, but you wanted to really hurt him. So you came up with the idea of showing his wife and daughter as nothing more than sluts. You would take away what he cared about most. 

As luck would have it, your father often returns home very late, and you wouldn’t meet him. So you visited Hanni’s home every day, and every day you would fuck her until she was a mess, all while leaving hints about what you were doing. You’d print out the photos you took and leave them in places where she would find them. Hanni’s mom, Natty, was a good-looking woman. You found her curvy body attractive. Natty never said anything about the things she saw or heard. You’d make Hanni moan so loud that Natty could listen in from outside Hanni’s room.

Natty would get turned on hearing her daughter get fucked so well. As time passed, she got curious. You left Hanni’s door open as you left. Seeing the door open, Natty entered Hanni’s room after you left, only to find her daughter an absolute mess. Hanni was sleeping on her back; legs spread wide with cum oozing out of her pussy. That was not to mention the cum you left on her body and face. Natty walked closer, shocked at what she saw, but at the same time, she was turned on. She didn’t notice her hand wandering under her skirt while she bit the fingernail on her other hand. You returned to the room a minute later while she stood over her daughter. You only left and stood outside the door, planning to return a few minutes later, and luck let it all go to plan.

You get behind Natty and squeeze her tits. “Do you like what I did to Hanni?” 

Natty restrains a moan, “What are you doing?” 

“Answer my question first. Do you like what I did to your daughter?”

“I- No, it’s…it’s,” Natty struggles to find the words, the pleasure she’s getting from you fogging her mind. Natty begins to trace her folds softly, moaning as she watches her sleeping daughter. You kiss Natty’s neck, making her hair stand on ends. 

“Do you want to feel what she felt? With your husband not being around until the night, it must be hard to please yourself. I can give you that.” You keep kissing Natty’s neck, licking the spot you kissed before moving on. “Make you feel good. Don’t you see the look on your daughter’s face? She loved being fucked by me. I can do that for you, fuck you better than him.” You sneak your hand down her skirt and place it over hers. You guide her fingers inside. Natty shuts her eyes and moans.  She feels your bulge press against her ass and begins to imagine what it must feel like. You pull Natty’s shirt over her head, smiling as you see she has no bra on. You pinch her nipple, pulling it away from her body slowly. Natty gasps, and her breathing quickens. You push her hand out of the way and finger her yourself, pushing your fingers inside before curling them so they rub against her walls. Natty unzips her skirt, letting it fall to the floor as she gives you control. “Did he ever think about doing things like this to you?” Natty refuses to speak, forcing you to twist her nipple. The pain and pleasure mix, driving the older woman crazy. 

“K-keep going.” She moans, bringing a smile to your face.  You continue to finger her and play with her tits. Natty moves her hand to your thigh, rubbing it as she comes closer to cumming. You feel her walls become tighter, “Are you going to cum?” Natty doesn’t respond. You inch closer to her ear, giving her an order this time as you increase the pleasure. “Cum for me.” On command, Natty’s body begins to shake. You feel her nectar run down your fingers as you toy with her. You pull your fingers out and start to play with her clit, making her cry out. Hanni begins to stir after hearing her mother moan so loudly. 

She sees you behind her mom and cocks her head to the side. “What are you doing?” 

“Your mommy wanted to have a little fun with us. Isn’t that right?” Natty nods her head weakly. You push her onto the bed. Getting close to Natty, you pull down her panties and ready your cock, pressing it against her entrance. “Beg for it.”

“Mommy wants your cock too?” Hanni says quietly. “We can share, Mommy. He has more than enough cum for the two of us.” Natty is shocked to hear her daughter utter those words but soon forgets them as the pleasure overcomes her senses. You start pushing into Natty’s cunt; her soft lips give way to warm walls that hold you tightly. Your thrusts go deep, stirring her inside as you pull back on her arms. Natty begins to moan freely in front of Hanni. Hanni watches you fuck her mom as she cleans herself, collecting your cum and sucking on her fingers. She can’t help but become aroused and starts to finger herself in front of Natty. 

“How does it feel, Natty?”

“Good, so good,” She moans. You pull on Natty’s arms, forcing her upper body off the bed so they can bounce freely. You hook Natty’s arms, leaving her completely helpless. “Oh, god, I’m going to cum.”

“You’re going to cum on someone else’s cock. Why don’t we show your husband what a real man does? Hanni, get your mom’s phone and start a video call.” Hanni smiles and follows your orders like an obedient dog. She searches through Natty’s clothes until she finds her phone.

“I want your cock, too.” Hanni whines. “I don’t want to hold the phone.”

“Just start the call and place it on the drawers. Oh, and remember to say hi to Daddy.” Hanni does as she’s told, starting the call and ensuring the right camera is used. While she does that, you position Natty in front of the phone. She’s sitting on your lap with her legs spread, inching toward her orgasm. You hold onto Natty’s waist as you thrust her, breasts bouncing each time. 

“Hi, Dad! Me and Mommy are having lots of fun tonight.” Hanni says before she moves back and lets the camera take in the sight before it. Hanni kneels before you and begins lapping at your shaft, her tongue occasionally running against Natty’s cunt.

“I’m cumming!” These are the next words that come across the call. Your father from the other side of the screen is watching as you defile his wife, making her cum in front of the camera. Natty’s walls tighten around you as she has her second orgasm. You feel your cock begin to throb inside.

“Tell him how you feel.” You whisper into her ear. 

“It feels so good!” Natty moans; her words are beginning to slur. “I love your cock.”

“I’m going to cum, Natty.”

Your words excite her; something inside her triggers. “Give it to me. Give me your cum!” Natty shouts as she drives herself down onto your cock. “I’m sorry, honey, but it feels so good.” She says to the camera. You hold her waist tightly as you bring her down on your cock. “It’s here!” Natty roars as she feels your cum flood into her pussy. Hanni happily licks your cum as it leaks out of her mom.

You can hear your father yell. He sounds broken as he’s just watched you fill his wife and make her yours. You turn Natty’s head to the side and kiss her; she warmly welcomes you into her mouth, going as far as to moan. “Go get the phone, Hanni.” Hanni stands up, walks over, and gets it before filming her mother's blissful face. 

“Mommy really liked your cock. Look, she’s still grinding.” Hanni says as she points the phone to your groins, forcing her father to see the close-up of Natty’s cum-filled cunt. Hanni turns the camera around and waves, “Bye, Dad. I’m going to get my turn now!” She says before ending the call. You feel satisfied with the result. Though you couldn’t see his face, he sounded broken, and you were happy with that. You even got two playthings out of it.

[athena-theunicorn]

i'm in hyrule castle right now looking for zelda, on this, although smaller scale, skyward sword-esc style goose chase for my wife. and i'm running through the castle like a madman and i realize that everywhere zelda turns up are probably places link and zelda went frequently 100 years ago. like the library, her bedroom, the guard's quarters, the sanctum. they're all places where link would have made a lot of memories with her. whether or not he remembers now is irrelevant because full memories or not, it's probably still familiar seeing her in those places. Like seeing ghosts, or a strong sense of deja vu. how many times did they sit inside the library reading together? how many times did zelda sneak to the guard's quarters to see him? how many times did link sneak inside her bedroom when he was supposed to be outside the door? how many times did they stop and talk or kiss in that seemingly normal, abandoned hallway? how many times did they stand in that sanctum, wishing to be anywhere else? it's yet another layer of phycological torture for link and it's honestly sick.

also, when zelda re-does the sanctum, there are two thrones. one for each of them. when did they talk about that? before the calamity, did zelda want him with her side if they won? after the calamity, while they were rebuilding? did they talk about, years in the future, him standing by her side as king?

[heartfullofleeches]

You know what i would like to see a goldfish reader cause i mean goldfish can be really tiny and can get fairly big, maybe reader is from a pet store and gets bought for a young rich yandere and gets absolutely pampered and gets huge, clifford the big red dog style

"Sorry, I can't make it this year."

"Mom won't drive me out that far....."

"Maybe next time?"

"Next year."

Next year... Next year.. They'll be forty by the time that rolls around. It's always the same. People stick around for the lavish parties and taste of the high life, but the second they want to downgrade for something small with close friends and family everyone's suddenly too busy to come see them. The presents have always been shit too. Flashy jewelry or clothing from brands they couldn't care less about. Whatever happened to giving kids toy trains and dolls? They're sick of it. Sick of everything. Why can't anything turn out right-

Auryn hurls their phone at the door, anger fleeting as it smashes into a million pieces. Mommy and daddy will just buy them a new one, and while it won't do a scratch they love the idea of burning a hole in their pockets. Wasting all the money they gave them instead of time. The door creaks open once the coast is clear and in peaks a frightened maid. Her eyes fall to her arms, soothing whatever she held with a soft hush. They return to her master, waiting for their answer.

"Come in."

The maid opens the door completely and steps inside. In her hands was a glass bowl. "From your parents."

Auryn drums their leg against the frame of their bed, wondering why their arms were still empty. "Well?"

The maid shoves the bowl into their chest as passive she could, prioritizing the creature within over her annoyance. They look into the glass. Floating at the bottom; staring right back at them, was a little goldfish. Poor thing had been startled awake by the loud thud and trying to squeeze its tail into the castle it had already outgrown. It still couldn't have been any bigger than their hand. Beyond its human features, there was nothing special about it. A fish.

A fucking fish. Out of all the things they could've sent. The maid could sense their rage flaring. "Please give it a chance. Your brother couldn't keep it, and he knew you'd be the next best owner."

Their nails scrap the glass. That only makes it worse. Their family dumping their trash on them was a new low. What were they going to do with this thing? They should put it out of its misery. Abandoned, weak, unable to feign for itself.... just like them.

Auryn looks at the goldfish again. They stick a finger in its tank, swishing it around as the guppy takes interest. It swims up to them and puts its mouth around the digit, nibbling at the skin. They smile a bit, pulling their finger away which in turn causes the fish to dart away. Their brows furrow in worry.

"... I'm..sorry for scaring you. You're just like me aren't you? Alone. Afraid. I'll take care of you. I promise. Why don't we start off by getting you a new tank?"

.

.

.

"Noooooo"

You shake in their arms as the divers attempt to fit their measuring tools around your tail, successfully knocking two of them away and sending the third packing. Auryn strokes your tears into your scaly flesh, fighting a laugh as the hired help resurfaces.

"I don't want to get measured!"

"Shhhh. It's okay. If even one scale is missing off that gorgeous tail I'll cut their oxygen and add a few bricks to their suits."

You still aren't convinced. Auryn melts at the way you curl against their chest. The first time they held you like this you were about the size of a puppy. Now, your tail alone was bigger as their entire torso and your arms were tree trunks compared to theirs. They had done exactly as they said. After you came into their life no one else mattered. They got you a nice large tank to start off with, fed you a healthy diet with plenty of treats since your speak lessons were going so well, and spoke with you for hours. You were already half their size by the end of the year. They used to take you on walks in your little bowl, then they had to buy a wagon to carry you around, and now you lived in a glorified swimming pool no one else had access to besides care beyond their capabilities. Having you turned them into a more compassionate, but closed off person, and got them through the worse in life. They were successful in nearly every endeavor and it was all for you.

Auryn gets close to your ear as their voice rises in pitch. "But if you reaaaally don't want to - I'll have to find some other guppy to give all the brine shrimp I have in the house to."

Your tail cracks against the pool's wall, ripping the water's surface with tidal category waves and pushing the workers back down under. "I'll be good! I will- please!"

"Haha - ok, ok." They give a thumbs up to the divers as they climb in the pool. You work with them this time, channeling your fright as their tools stretch and stick around you into the grip you hold on Auryn's arm - careful not to apply too much. They grit through the pain and as one of the divers comes up again they take the measuring tape still held by the rest and lines it up to your head.

"4 meters!"

Auryn exclaims in glee and grabs you by the cheeks, cooing and kissing your nose as they laugh. "Look at you! A whole nother meter in just one year. Keep this up and we'll have to buy an island."

A servant knocks on the sliding glass door. Auryn excuse themselves with one final kiss to your wet lips as they hop out of your tank. They hand them a phone.

"It's your parents. They are in town with your brother and would like to take you out for your birthday this evening."

Auryn gets real close to the receiver as they speak. "Eat shit and die. Stay the hell away from us."

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

read chapters one, two, and three here.

warnings: 18+ content, canon-typical violence, gore, angst, graphic smut, scissoring, fingering, use of marijuana. | word count: 11.7k.

chapter 4: match in the dark

❝ the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. ❞ — richard siken.

. . .

The stories always say that love is something you fall into.

For you, it's always been a bludgeoning, throttling force, bone-shattering and breath-robbing; sudden and violent and jarring.

So why does this feel not like a punch to the gut but a slow and tortuous ailment of your health? An intrusion of sickness and vein-pulsing agony?

Instead of pummeling you with a lethal blow, your feelings for Ellie crept and slunk through your bones, a terminal parasite, malignant and festering inside. Until it was a sure thing. A cancer. Until your veins were blackened with heady need. Until there was a dark, frothing plague teeming from your heart, hammering to a consistent tune.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

Or maybe you don't love her.

Maybe it's some third sinister thing. Living in the cracks of cruelty that stretch between friend and lover.

Last night, after baring witness to Ellie's breakdown, the sound of her wailing, heaving sobs followed you into a tenuous sleep.

You dreamt of a young girl, a smattering of freckles garnishing her sun-kissed face and arms, familiar, mossy blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. She clutched a watch in her fist, it's face splintered, cracks like lightening fracturing across the broken surface. She lurched it into the rapid waters of the river she stood before, her eyebrows pinched in earnest, chest heaving.

"Why are you so sad?" You had asked the girl, your voice a whisper in the wind, not fully belonging to you.

The girl only released a long, heavy breath and pivoted away, marching down an unmanicured path of ferns and overgrowth. She grew taller and leaner as she strode away, until the figure that dissipated through the line of trees was one you have slept beside. 

And now you are woken up in that damn 7/11 to that same girl firmly shaking you.

Except now she's older— and a new scar marred her lip. A new slit cleaved her brow. And a new, harsh edge of ferocity contoured her face— still so young, in a world that would never allow her to be.

She had to shake you a few times before you came to, snapping awake in a bleated panic, lurching up. She was huddled over you, a finger to her lips, a solemn alarm flaring in her pale eyes. The overhead vines careening from the high rafters billowed gently with the breeze; the serenity of it deceiving to what prowled the weeds.

"To the left," she mouths meticulously, and you nod, carefully slipping out of your sleeping bag, heart drumming ceaselessly.

She unsheathes her switchblade and slinks away, her eyes trained on the glassless wall as she stations behind a counter, distractedly gesturing for you to follow.

You slowly retrieve your shotgun from the littered floor and pocket a shiv you crafted the night prior, shooting brisk glances over your shoulder as you inch to Ellie's side. A faint whistle rises from the swaying grass.

Fuck. More Seraphites.

They must be tracking you, if they're spreading this far into Seattle. They tend to lurk on the outskirts, basing along the edges of the city so they can terminate anyone who attempts to get inside.

You never heard of them abandoning posts before. Killing over a dozen of them must have earned you their vengeance.

Ellie must have a similar thought, for when you reach her side, she whispers, "I should have gone to their base and killed every last one of them." Her face was grim and hard with fury, jaw barred, as she glared over the counter in the general direction of the whistle.

You follow her gaze and your muscles tense. The piercing afternoon sun glints off the metal tip of an arrow— aimed directly at you.

"Get down!" You shout jitterly, just as the potent snap of the bows tension unleashing splits through the silence of the day. You shove Ellie down and duck over her right as it spears loudly through the chipping wall behind you, where her head had been precarious seconds before.

She looks up at you with wide eyes, her knuckles gleaming white against the shine of her blade. Her momentary shock morphs into a scowl that manifests on her face.

She shrugs her shotgun off her shoulder and aims it for the weeds— blasting through the first outline of a human that she sees without a second thought. Thickets of seared, chunky blood burst through the air, followed by a series of sharp, undulating whistles. Your ears ring boisterously from the gunshot.

You sense movement to your right and crawl past Ellie— who clips another Seraphite, her body rocking with the force of the shot— to investigate. Fortunately, your backs are covered by two withstanding, cavernless walls, leaving only the hole to the right and the sizeable gap overhead.

Ellie seems to have the other wall covered.

You use a rusting shelf as a barricade, crouching, shiv in hand, the blade biting through the cloth you wound around the bottom. You turn it over in your hands, tongue prodding your lip, casting furtive looks above you every couple seconds to ensure nobody inflicted an unexpected aerial attack.

Arrows rain down, piercing the walls, clattering off the concrete. Gunshots boom thunderously, reverberating through the vacant city, paired with the guttural screams of those they met. You chance a peek at Ellie to find her completely unscathed, propped on one knee, squinting through the thick scope of her rifle. She must've swiftly exchanged weapons while you were looking away; always efficient.

You swivel back around and feel the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck raise at the shaved head poking through the whirling canary, only about ten feet away. You hold your breath and flush your back with the shelf, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He slithers into the room, bow drawn, frame veiled by a cloak seeped with rain water. Brutal, discomfiting burn scars eclipse half of his face, as if he were lowered, sideways, into a pit of roaring flames.

Back at the Front, everyone always refers to the Seraphite's as Scars. It's starting to make sense why; you had never seen one this close before.

He puckers his lips to whistle, and you deign that as your opportunity, before he summons another Scar. You spring out from behind the shelf and drill your blade through the side of his neck, tearing through tendons. "Gotcha!" you breathe sardonically.

His large body crumples in your arms. You lower him to the floor with a dull, sappy thud, blood instantly pooling across the concrete, lapping at the tips of your boots.

An insistent whistle echoes closely from the weeds he emerged from, and you mutter a curse, hoisting up your gun and loading it with bloodied fingers. You're about to shoot the nearing figure when a brutish man descends from the crater in the ceiling— landing on top of you.

"Fuck!" Your scream of raw surprise rips through your throat as you plummet under his weight, your arm twisted unnaturally and agonizingly beneath his body.

He yanks you back by your hair, peeling your body off the ground with ease, and you wrestle with his unyielding grip, grunting as you squirm and peer at him over your shoulder. His eyes are crazed, a deep, rigid scar splitting his cheek, fatal determination overtaking his face.

You think fast, hastily fumbling for the blade in his companions sputtering throat, writhing under his formidable hold, your breathing sparse as he crushes you. "Feel Her love," the man growls in an accented drawl, his pick-axe reered back, poised to strike.

You successfully dislodge your blade just in time.

You arch your arm back as forcefully as you can from the obstructive angle, nicking him in the chest— just enough for him to stagger back and graze his digits over the superficial wound— and for you to crawl out from underneath him.

You only make it up to your knees before the handle of his pick-axe is caging your throat, crushing your windpipes, a hoarse whine wheezing from your lips. He hauls you back, and you flail for the bar compressing your neck, feet aimlessly lashing and kicking the floor. "El—"

Dots swim and flood your vision. Your flickering pulse rattles droningly in your skull. You can't breathe. You're dying. You're going to die. You're going to—

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Ellie bellows.

Suddenly, the pick-axe falls from your throat, clattering with a resounding echo to the floor, and you drop right along with it. Through the haze of your disjointed vision you see the previous keeper of your fate— Ellie's switchblade protruding from his head, before he slams lifelessly to the floor.

You rake in breaths hungrily, the sudden, painful burst of oxygen blazing like fire through your lungs. You claw listlessly at your throat, as if that will stop the blistering burn, or vanquish the coppery tang of blood rendering your tongue.

Ellie then shoots his already deceased body twice— his immobile carcass lurching, jolting with the swift bullets— and doesn't spare the dead Scar a second glance before shooting the one approaching in the weeds with masterful precision.

He thumps to the ground with a muffled groan of anguish, and his departure is followed by a wave of dense, apprehensive silence.

Ellie lingers in that taut, defensive stance for a moment, her shoulders tense, face lined with concentration as she sweeps her gaze over the sprawling field. Eyes skittering over the towering buildings in a speedy examination.

And then her eyes fall to you, alarm leeching the color from her sharp face. She quickly lowers her gun and bunches her stiff shoulders. "Are you alright?" She demands brusquely.

You nod skittishly, chest heaving with your rapid, hungry breaths. "Fine," you croak out, voice hoarse and gravelly, scraping out of your raw throat.

She nods absently, slinging her gun over her shoulder and bending down to fist the knife puncturing the man's head. She gives it a forceful, ruthless tug, his upper body heaving off the blood-blemished ground. A harrowing crimson cascades down his skull, glistening over her fingers. She yanks it out of him with a second, ardent jerk, and he slumps onto the floor, his own gore splattering repellently through the air. She surveys the blood and bits of cartilage on her blade before calmly wiping it off on her pants.

You scarcely register the disturbing scene of the Seraphite's you downed together.

Ellie's callousness must be wearing off on you. The dark pond of sudsy blood gathering around your feet ignites only a faint ripple of disgust in you; and a hint of knee-buckling relief, that you had someone so unapologetically cutthroat at your defense.

She offers you a steady hand and you take it. She hauls you to your feet, and you waver, your grip unabashed and bruise inciting. "Are you okay?" You ask attentively, a tremor underlying your tinny voice as you eye her top to bottom.

On the exterior, she's untouched by harm, and the relief that floods you is instantaneous.

"I am if you are," she says with a dim smile, surveying you for injury in turn. "We should get the fuck out of here, though. You sure you're good?"

"I'm fine," you offer a meek, hopefully reassuring smile back, unhanding her. You clear your throat and discard your broken, useless shiv on the floor, your breathing evening out. "Lead the way, my noble Knight," you tease with a shaky grin.

She rolls her eyes with affection and mimics a flourishing bow. "Yes, my Queen," she snorts, before pivoting away, heedlessly overstepping the dead body of your attacker and trudging for the opening she'd been guarding, her backpack already slung over her shoulder.

Your scratchy, cackling laugh scorches your throat, but you stifle the dizzying pain, her responding laugh, breathy and chittering, making the hurt worth it.

It was the sweetest thing you have ever heard. So light and natural and opposing to the violence she had wielded mere minutes ago to protect you.

As you trail after her, trusting her direction without question, you think you'd let her be as mean to you as she needed to be if you could hear her laugh like that again.

Which may be the scariest thing of all.

• • •

ELLIE

Her resolve was dissipating through her fingers. Now particles, everything she fought for was reduced to inconceivable dust, streaking through the wind, escaping her clutches.

She had destroyed versions of herself, tapered off past selves, trimmed and manufactured herself into this precarious thing that she was now.

A shell, filled by a need to take back all that had been stolen; a vessel for her grief and anger. She felt like she lived and breathed the horror that clung to her insides, fermented and congealed, taloned rage clawing it's way out of her with every step she took closer and closer to reclaiming the vengeance she was owed; the debt that was due.

But now the calamity in her mind has quieted. Her pain felt distant and hushed; it watched and whispered. She was never truly liberated from it. Only when she's with you does she feel that boulder lift, that bone-crushing mass of misery eased off her soul. But it's hearty weight lingers phantomly, etching itself into her bones.

She glances at you through the waning firelight, your thoughtful expression dim in the flickering amber glow. Your eyebrows are skewered, lips pursed, eyes indulgently roving over the pages of the tattered book splayed across your lap.

She had no idea how you found the room to store useless objects. From your brothers stuffed childhood bear, a chunky, faded hot-pink cassette player, to a couple weathered, worm-eaten books, you seemed to carry only your indulgences.

When she was fourteen, her backpack was similar. It overflowed with graphic novels and worthless trinkets. Joel had everything they needed, carrying double his weight in supplies. Despite everything she'd seen, despite everything he did, he gave her a simple life. One she could not envision herself pursuing ever again, without him there to urge her on.

She wonders if your brother was that guiding light for you, too, a match in the dark, as Joel had been for her.

She looks at you, and she wonders if you have ever truly been alone.

You perform with a buoyancy and easiness she cannot replicate. Either you have never known suffering at all, a portrait of innocence under a brush of death; or you knew it too well, with an intimacy that left you unblinking and acclimated to its sharp edges. When it tried to cut through you, it's relentless knifing was fruitless, it's slashes meeting metal, sliding off the shine of your armor.

Do you even know it's there? That even though you are not brutal and unforgiving— as she herself had become— remaining steady and balanced under the ruthless beat of the worlds bitter drum was a shield in itself?

She both admires and envies your ability to let it all roll off your back as it's hurled at you.

"What?" You drawl at her notably indiscreet examination, amusement seeping into your tone like liquid gold, eyes unstraying from the pages— though she can see, even from the distance that separates you, that your eyes are bright and swimming with it.

For months now, she has locked her feelings down, imprisoned them behind walls of adamant, impenetrable steel. Had deliberately tailored a mask that would keep them from slipping through.

And then there's you. Feeling unabashedly and unapologetically and, unknowingly letting her know she can do it, too. That you see the wounds that gauge her soul and do not flinch at the sight of blood. That you see the hurt that shines in her eyes and do not pity the tortured girl, but embrace the wrath of the killer that torture had birthed.

Being understood was once something she ached for. But now that someone is starting to understand her, to see through the defenses she constructed, she is afraid. She is terrified of being seen, of being known.

Almost as much as she fears being alone.

She is facing that fear day by day, and it is just as fucking scary as she anticipated.

She was cripplingly alone, and she felt the aftershocks of it belting through her. She's a lost, untethered soul, searching for its other end, though the thread had severed and all that remained was remnants of fragmented, disjointed memories, and rippling regrets that would never be ironed out.

She has nothing to return to; no home, no person. Instead, she keeps coming back to that hollowness inside, where the grief is stored, and fed to the flames of rage that blaze there. It is the only consistency she knows now. Even you are not a promised thing. Not when you had a brother somewhere out there waiting for you.

And not when she had a list of lives to end.

You are not enough to mend the gaping hole inside of her; you will never match the shape of that gauge. No one will. No one can replace the things he taught her, gave her.

But at least now... when she lays her head to rest, there's a beaming voice, illuminating the shadow-shrouded void of her mind. Beckoning her toward the light.

And it's yours.

She fights the darkness. Wrestles out of its restraints— the guilt and sorrow that anchors her down— and runs to that voice, desperate for the sun.

But the darkness always seems to win in the end.

"Ellie?"

Your soft, tentative voice lulls her out of her clouded thoughts, and she averts her gaze from the fire to look at you. She blinks the dark specks away and discerns your earnest face. Your attention is honed in on her now, the book dog-eared and closed in your lap, head tilted inquisitively. "Where'd you go?" You ask quietly, your voice a whisper under the crackling embers.

She feels her head shaking before she even forms a response. "Nothing. Nowhere," she insists, blinking rapidly, stroking a spectral scar on her forehead. "I'm just tired. How's your book?" She urges casually, craning her head back and resting it on the tree stump of the sprawling oak behind her, studying you.

A big, unadulterated grin contorts your face. Your cheeks dimple, smiling teeth luminous in the firelight. Her heart skips a beat at the mirth glimmering in your eyes. "So good. It's my favorite. I've read it six times," you chuckle at the look of disbelief that slips through the cracks of her facade and continue, "My mom used to read it to my brother and I a lot when we were kids."

She nods, plucking the grime out of her fingernails, swiping her tongue over her teeth. She glances down at her hand to conceal the warmth rising to her cheeks at the sight of your infectious smile. There is no other way to describe it; it is debilitating, impossible not to mirror.

"What's it about?" She murmurs, ducking her head, her emerging smile evident in her tone. She hopes the shadows eclipse her face from your view.

"Oh, it's just a collection of fables," you sigh contently, wistfully, reclining back, clutching the fraying book endearingly to your chest. You sway your knees back and forth, feet planted to the ground, peering up at the star-speckled sky before tilting your head to face her. "Do you like to read at all?"

Ellie yawns gingerly, extending her legs out in front of her, staring down at her muddy, threadbare Converse. "I used to read comics. There was this series I collected... Savage Starlight?" She winces as she pronounces the humiliating name.

Your responding gasp is so sudden, an animal audibly skitters through the weeds. You lurch up in astonishment, wisps of staticky hair fanning around your shocked face. "Wait, really? My brother loved those!"

Ellie laughs, and you visibly loosen at the sound. She pretends not to notice. Just as she pretends not to feel the warmth budding and blooming in her chest, a sprout of something gentle taking root in her heart.

"Yes," she huffs out, rewarding you a vague smile. You were the only thing that made her feel like she could smile anymore. "I read them all. Probably more than 6 times, actually. So. I got you beat."

"Pfft," you bat a hand of dismissal, rolling your eyes playfully, laying back down— resting your head on a smooth, upturned rock, leisurely prying your book back open. "Does looking at pictures even count as reading?"

"Comics have words!" Ellie protests defensively, straightening.

Your boisterous laugh echoes through the dense forestry, booming out of you, as you drop the book and cradle your stomach, rolling over with the force of your guttural laughter. "You are so easy to rile up!" You cackle tearily, wiping your eyes.

Ellie snickers. "You're an ass," she chides, laughter bubbling in her chest, threatening to escape her sealed lips. She threads her fingers through her unruly hair, sweeping the russet strands out of her face. You jeeringly stick your tongue out at her, and she flips you off, earning her another one of your exuberant laughs.

"Read your book," she scolds with a raspy chuckle of her own, pointing at the now discarded fables. She rummages through her backpack, the sound of your stifled giggling following her as she fishes out her journal.

She waits a couple minutes, until you're helplessly engrossed with your novel, your brows once again pinched in concentration, before thumbing through her journal, flipping to that tarnished, browning page. Her eyes flicker over the names she memorized distastefully, that familiar anger burning bright.

Abby

Nora

Owen

Mel

Jordan

Manny

Whitney

She absently ghosts her fingers over that taunting, four-lettered name. Abby. Her throat swells with grief, searing-hot anger boiling in her stomach. The condemning red marks slashing through the names of those she already killed grant her only momentary satisfaction. It's not enough to quell the hatred the unmarked name at the top sparks within.

Nora she killed weeks ago. She let the spores smother her lungs, debilitate her of breath, ring her dry of any vitality and will to resist her tragic fate. Then she took a pipe to her head. Over and over. Just as Abby had done to Joel. Just as she would do to her.

Then she killed Nick, and Jordan, after the Wolves tailed and captured her. They beat and chained her to a counter, as if a pair of copper-rusted handcuffs would restrain her— would save them from her blinding wrath. The scar she brandished him with was rigid and pink and poorly stitched, dismantling his otherwise smooth cheek. She told him that stopping her from extracting her revenge would be futile.

Then she broke free and stabbed him persistently, with ferocious, vehement arches of her arm, until his blood had coated her face in fine beadlets and puddled in heaps that sapped her feet to the floor.

And, most recently, she killed Whitney. At the hospital, where she took you to bed and tasted every glorious inch of you, high with adrenaline, pulsating with want.

She told you she took out a few infected.

But it was only Whitney there, alone, guarding the sewage system, swaying to the boisterous music that reverberated through the concrete-walled boiler room. She slit her throat and kicked her into the murky, sludgy water. Then shot her twice just to insure that she did not inexplicably survive.

After the night you shared, a part of her was horrified of you unveiling the deplorable, merciless acts she committed. She did not know if she could face you. She slaughtered a person in cold blood and touched you with the stained hands that did it.

She left, just in case you found that bleeding body floating in the basement, and turned terrified, accusatory eyes on her. She did not know if she could bear your disdain. Or worse— you being disgusted by the harrowing life she has dedicated herself to.

Because she could not change.

She has a purpose, now.

To take everything from those fuckers. Leave them with nothing as they did her.

She's going to take and take and take. The life of Abby's friends, crushed and squandered beneath her foot. The solid foundation of security they built, ripped apart at the seams, until walls topple and plans expire— until all the Wolves are scurrying through the wastelands, tails tucked, howling for mercy.

She abandoned the safe, armed walls of Jackson for this mission. Nothing could jeopardize it; not even her captivation with you.

Fortunately, you never found Whitney's body.

She should've been relieved. But when she stumbled upon you again, in that blossoming valley, there was spite there, and for a completely different reason. One she never considered; that you were truly scathed by her abandonment. She thought you would be better off without her; better rid of the sucking parasite leeching the good out of you with each moment she spent in your presence.

"Hey, Ellie?"

She snaps the journal closed briskly, sucking in a sharp breath. She thought you had fallen asleep; you had not shifted or spoken for an impressive duration of time. Especially for you.

"Yeah," she responds groggily, scratching her head, slipping the journal back into her bag, the list temporarily forgotten. She glances up to find you gone.

She staggers straight to her feet, calling your name, her tone dripping with apprehension. "Where are you?"

"Shh," you instruct quaintly from the shadows, whispering meticulously, "Over here."

She peers through the darkness encompassing the camp you'd assembled together, trailing your voice, conveyed through the cloying, nectary wind. The warming spring breeze fetters her hair.

She deciphers your figure in the tall, swaying canary, your stature hunched and diligent. "Come here," you whisper urgently, loudly, beckoning her over fervently. She reaches for her gun but freezes when you make a noise of disapproval.

Instead, she follows your voice, curiosity and concern weighing the scale in equal measure. "What is it?" She rasps quietly, cresting your side. Your eyes are trained intently on a small, shapeless shadow, lithely prowling the weeds.

"Come here, kitty," you drawl sweetly, clucking your tongue, drumming your thigh. The small creature pauses its strides, slowly lowering itself to the ground, giving an impassive lick of its paws.

"It's a cat," you mutter to Ellie, as if she had not already gathered that.

She refrains from rolling her eyes. "I can see that. Why were you even over here to begin with?"

You pointedly disregard her, taking a heedful step forward, crouching to be level with your new feline friend. "Come here, sweet thing. Come on. It's okay," you lull in a reassuring tone, patting the ground insistently. The cat only stares at you.

You sigh, arms draped defeatedly over your knees, frowning. "Okay. Never mind. Go back, please, I think you're scaring it."

"What?" Ellie snaps, and the cat startles, bracing it's paws in the dirt, back arched. "No way. Animals love me."

"Kay, well, it was coming to me before you came over here, stepping on every single branch you could find." You argue flippantly, shooting her a glare.

"It's your fault, you're the one who called me over here, dick!" Ellie defends airily, waving her hands.

You clap a hand over your mouth to conceal your automatic chuckle. Your rumbling shoulders and escaping snorts give you away. "Okay, okay, fine," you chortle breathily, shaking your head. "God, that look on your face never gets old."

She groans out a husky laugh, falling back a few paces, propping a mocking, insulted hand over her heart. "You are evil."

You flash her a sinister, lippy smile, mischief twinkling in your eyes, before averting your focus back to the cat, who had inched closer while you argued.

"Yes, that's it. Come here, baby," you click your tongue in a series of encouraging noises, and the cat— ears perked, nose sniveling— prances over to you, as if you waved a heaping bag of treats.

You tenderly, dubiously scoop the cat into your arms. Though acutely tense, it allows you to hold it, claws hesitantly retracting from your sleeve, piercing green eyes slitted and alert. "She's hurt," you inform, scratching it's matted, furry back. You slowly ascend to your feet and nod back toward the camp, following Ellie as she begins to trudge back. "I saw her limp by and followed her over here. Do you have some more gauze?"

"For the cat?" Ellie drawls incredulously, shooting you a look over her shoulder, stepping over a cluster of unearthed roots.

"Uh, yes? She's small, it won't take much." You assert, hiking the cat up as it starts to thrash and mewl anxiously. "Please?"

She wanted to tell you no, but she found that it was impossible to form the word— especially when you were gazing at her with sheer hope, head tilted pleadingly. "Fine."

"Woohoo!" You exclaim triumphantly to the cat, softly stroking between its luminous eyes with your thumb, easing its trepidation. It whimpers, pink nose prodding your jaw, pawing at the latticed hem of your tank top. "She said thanks, El-Bell!"

"How do you know it's a she?" Ellie asks as you enter the fire-illuminated clearing, the light casting ominous, flickering shadows over the deep, towering pine trees.

You shrug, hoisting the cat by its underarms, promptly spinning it around and baring its tattered, grimy belly to Ellie. "Yeah. You were right. Girl." She concedes with a grimace.

Ellie resumes her original position as you perch cross-legged across from her, planting the knotted cat in your lap. She's coated in a sweep of sleek, midnight black fur, so sumptuous it reflects the moon's sapphire glow. Her green eyes are unnaturally bright against her dark coat, penetrating through Ellie as she unpacks her gauze.

"I'm getting it," she mumbles to it warily, and it pivots away from her with unnecessary drama, curling it's tail.

"Don't be rude," you reprimand the cat, who ignores your scolding and persistently licks her splintered paw.

"Here you go," Ellie says, tossing you the gauze and medical tape. "You better hope your little friend doesn't get hurt again. I don't have enough supplies to fix her boo-boos."

She swears the cat fucking glares at her, before curiously, reluctantly sniffing at the gauze.

You must have seen it, too, for you giggle smugly. "What was that about animals loving you?"

"Shut up," Ellie grumbles, leaning back, hiking her knees to her chest. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her eyelids. She surveys you, bleary-eyed, as you scoop the cat into your arms and gingerly pry the wound, a pained shriek tearing from it's tiny body.

"Shh, it's okay," you comfort genially, petting her back as you fumble with the gauze, lightly encasing her wounded paw. "See? Almost done, already."

The cat relaxes in your gentle grasp, allowing you to seal the bandage around her paw. Ellie herself is nearly lulled to sleep by the pacification in your tone— the soft, honeyed melody of consolation rolling off your tongue.

"All done," you state quietly, pressing a forbearing kiss to her nicked ear, delicately peeling her out of your lap and placing her on the ground. "Be free, little one."

The cat lingers, staring at you nearly contemplatively. She blinks slowly, languidly, before swiveling away and skittering through the craning grass, disappearing through the trees.

You watch her go with a bleak, placid smile, the wind whipping your hair. Then you turn to Ellie. "You sleep, I'll keep watch."

She opens her mouth to refute, but you slice her a cutting, silencing look. "You're actively falling asleep as we speak. I'm good. You rest. I want to read some more, anyway," you insist blithely, dusting off your pants and walking back to your previous spot.

Ellie merely mumbles a response, her head already drooping. She falls into a brisk, fitful slumber, so tenuous that the snap of a twig could send her lurching. For once, she does not dream. Visions of terror did not cleave her conscious or beat her breathless. She saw only the flicker of light through her eyelids, and the quiet fragility of her own mind.

Until a faint meow has her bursting out of her slouch, eyes darting frantically around the clearing.

The black cat has her uninjured paw primly resting on Ellie's thigh, peering up at her expectantly with eery, incandescent eyes. Upon her attention, she nimbly removes her paw and demandingly rubs her head against her leg instead, another tinny meow ringing out of her.

"She's back. And I think she wants to lay with you," you explain humorously over the pages of your book— now nearly finished.

"Oh?" She replies in bewilderment, as the cat spins and pads her feet a couple of times before nestling into her side, resting her head on her dark paws.

"Can I come lay with you?" You murmur sleepily, casting fleeting, cautious looks at her as you stow your book away. As if already bracing for the sting of her rejection.

Ellie's heart throbs perniciously in her throat; she swallows in trepidation, sweat gathering on her palms. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," she forces out, wiping them on her jeans, straightening. Even after viewing your body after dark and eating your pussy, you make her nervous as fuck.

Even more so now that she knows how good you taste. And how perfect you are. Now she's burdened the knowledge that she cradles something precious in her hands, and she could unintentionally destroy it.

"I added some wood to the fire," you announce wearily, words punctuated by tiny, bursting yawns, as you adjust your oversized corduroy jacket around your shoulders and clamber over to her, a sheepish smile transforming your fatigue-dulled face.

"Come here," Ellie finds herself muttering, mimicking your exhaustion, spreading her legs and gesturing to the grass-cushioned ground beneath her. The cat still pressed into her, undeterred by her shifting.

You crawl delicately into the space between her legs, smiling through the yawn splitting your face, drawing a yawn out of Ellie, too. "Want me to keep watch again? You need to sleep some more," you say, reclining back against her chest and comfortably situating yourself, humming richly in unsuppressed delight.

Ellie wraps her arms around your shoulders, steering you back into her embrace, resting her chin on your mussed head. The affection should not come so naturally; she should not instinctively reach for you. It's not good.

Not fucking good at all.

"No," she whispers navally into your ear, eyeing the blazing fire through the tendrils of your unbound hair, that gleam with the dwindling light. "You sleep. You didn't sleep at all last night."

You tense fragmentarily in her grasp, muscles tightening under her arms. You hesitate, before craning your head back to face her, eyes searching. "You didn't either..." you whisper heedfully, lifting a hand and resting it on her forearm, stroking soothingly.

She had suspected you heard her cries last night. Instead of the confirmation making her feel ashamed, she felt... free. You saw the depths of her despair turn inside out and you did not cower at the hideous, wretched pain she unleashed.

"I never do," she replies baldly, swaying you gently, mouth hovering near the crest of your ear. Your thumbs tenderly caress the scars garnishing her arm, your eyes fluttering blissfully, your body sinking into her warmth. "Just sleep."

The lack of resistance proves just how desperately you needed it. You are whisked into a precipitated, fragile sleep, your breathing light and measured, your frame tucked up and slumped into her chest.

Her mind wanders only briefly to the violence lurking in its dark crevices, as she watches dense tendrils of smoke arise from the tamed fire, whirling and cascading toward the abrasive, glistening night sky, polluting her view of the stars.

She fantasizes of a smoldering house; a massive fire roaring from its pits, erupting in rippling flames that smolder the caving ceiling and dissolve the weak floorboards. She imagines the sear of blistering skin and the melting screams of anguish, of those who had incinerated her heart. She envisions all the relics and archives of her past being licked up by the fire and consumed by the glaring, ravenous heat.

Then she glances down at you, your blank, unconscious face illuminated by the flickering, dim orange glow. Something inside her softens, and she knows, grievously, that she has become malleable and pliant under your molding hands.

She stares at the slumbering, unbothered cat before returning her gaze back to you.

All of her hatred seems an afterthought to what she had right in front of her.

• • •

YOU

Blood pools on the fractured pavement. Firefly laps at it ravenously, her whiskers tinged crimson. "That's disgusting," you scowl disapprovingly, snatching her off the ground. She hisses in protest, clawing aimlessly at your sleeve, eyes crazed with hunger. You tap her bloodied nose reproachfully. "Bad."

She nips at your finger and you relent with a hearty sigh, placing her back on the ground. She skitters behind the rotting carcass of a clicker, it's head blown off in odious, blossoming cordyceps, pulsating dimly in a puddle of venomous blood. It's the first of hundreds.

You lift your head and examine the carnage that laid, revoltingly and obscenely, before your squinting eyes. Dozens upon dozens of butchered infected— cleaved into indistinguishable bits, sputtering blood, gushing decayed organs and crumpled flesh— piled in the lush street.

"What the fuck happened here?" Ellie drawls with a surprising amount of disgust, eyebrows furrowed as she ascended from her crouch, kneading a clump of clotted blood between her fingers.

You gulp down the thick lump of trepidation bulging in your throat, fretfully shaking the tremor out of your hands. "Don't know. It's gnarly, though," you respond, fighting the wobble out of your tone.

Truthfully, you recognize this distinctive gore.

After your parents tore each other to bits, Zander adopted a newfound disdain for infected. Before, he humanized the restless, ungovernable creatures— sympathized with their fucked up fate, to be killed and morphed into a monster.

But after the accident, he hated them. He found impressively disturbing ways to terminate them. Eventually he founded a signature method; to slice them into pieces as your parents had done, unbidden and under the influence of the infections debilitating madness.

This was him. You know, in the deepest caverns of your soul where your joint grief was stored, that this was his doing.

Not to mention the ragged Z carved into the blistered, yellowing flesh of one of the dead runners. You kick it's gnarled, unseemly body over to hide the exhibiting brand from Ellie, curling your lip with rehearsed repulsion. "Gross," you whisper, though internally, relief swarms your nerves, cacooning your apprehension in a warm blanket.

He is alive.

And the mark signifies that he is leaving signs for you to find.

"I'm just mad they beat me to it," Ellie complains under her breath, glowering at the expanse of cadavers cloaking the broken road. She tips your chin up, extracting your lingering gaze from the reeking bodies. "You good?"

You brush her off with a forced, invigorated smile. "Yep!" you chirp, nodding robustly, side-stepping a clicker. "At least we don't have to deal with all of them. Whoever did it, we should thank. Saved us some ammo," you craft your words meticulously as not to unearth your burrowed truth.

Ellie studies you a moment before dropping her hand. "True," she eventually yields, eyes wandering to Firefly, who was attacking a cord of muscle that protruded from the gaping stomach of a dead clicker, gnawing at the tough tissue. "Get your batshit cat. We're losing daylight."

"She's a perfectly normal cat," you retort, though your rebuttal is contradicted by the face you make. You grimace as she swats at a springing cordycep, growling ferociously. "Firefly! Stop that!" You shout, snapping your fingers.

Her ears twitch, head lurching up, green eyes wide. She is deathly still. You snap again, and she darts after Ellie skittishly, following her lead.

You chance another look at the wreckage, toying with the gold wedding band dangling from your throat. It was your mother's. Zander wore your fathers matching one around his neck. You usually kept yours stowed in the pits of your backpack, but you needed that touch of home.

Ellie had lifted your hair and gently latched it around you without questions asked, a hint of understanding in her eyes. You were grateful for her silence in that moment. Usually it unnerved you when she didn't speak. But in that moment it felt like a gift as opposed to a punishment.

"Where are we heading?" You question plainly, tucking the wedding band under your shirt, the memories a wild, unleashed zoo animal, tranquilized and thrown back into its enclosure. The ring is damp with your incessant, sweaty fidgeting.

"There's a place up ahead I like to go. Thought we could rest there for the night," she replies vaguely, glancing furtively at you, then the cat, her lip curling. "I still can't believe you named that thing Firefly."

"It's a cute name," you grumble back, sweeping your sweat-glistening hair off your neck and fanning the hot skin. "You could've come up with something too, you know."

This morning, you had awoken in Ellie's arms, jovial and recharged. For the first time in months, you had an uninterrupted, rejuvenating sleep, one that added a spring to your step and an effortlessness to your trekking. The cat was curled snugly in your lap, her affectionate purrs vibrating against your legs.

Ellie was stiff-necked and ill-tempered for the better half of the day, massaging the tension out of her shoulders and grumbling her responses.

"What should we name her?" You had asked, sprawled on your back, hefting the cat into the air as if she were a wailing baby in desperate need of motion and entertainment.

"Dramatic?" Ellie had quipped dully, and you rolled your eyes skyward.

"What about... oh!" You jerked upright in excitement, still cradling the cat in your arms. "Firefly."

An indecipherable emotion passed over her, tension lining the contours of her face. A hint of contempt glimmered in her eyes, and it felt like she was glaring down her nose at you, judging you like God weigh's pupils of sin, even as she sat at your eye-level. "Don't tell me you believe in that Firefly bullshit, too?"

Her reaction both intrigued and befuddled you. You possessed minimal knowledge on the Fireflies beyond the basics— that they were a reformed militia group that was majorly massacred by a man, who resulted in the death of Abby's father— and that she recruited a few friends to go after said man.

And someone was hunting them down for his murder. You had lost Nora and Jordan to the spiteful hands of his avenger; which is the only bright side to being excluded and shunned from Abby's circle— you were not involved in the man's murder, meaning you will not be involved in whatever vengeance they earned themselves.

Every now and then, back at the base, they get a few former Fireflie's filing in to join the Wolve's. Isaac— the focal overseer and governor of the WLF— was wary of stragglers that claimed past allegiances to the Fireflies, but welcomed them anyway, if they guaranteed to defend the base and protect his established citizens, as you and Zander pledged to do.

"No. Not at all. All of those stupid groups are bullshit," you agreed ardently, shaking your head in aversion, stroking Firefly's tummy. "I meant the actual insect, fireflie's. I just think they are so pretty at night. And I swear I could see the moon reflecting off her. Just seemed fitting."

Ellie had paused the sharpening of her blade. She analyzed you in the dewy, clouded sunlight, combating the interest off her face. But it flashed too late for her to conceal; her eyes lit up. "What other groups do you know about?" She asked carefully.

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "Like the Seraphites," you hummed, finger-combing Firefly's shiny black coat. "And I've seen another group around here. But I think they were just travelers."

Ellie said nothing, resuming her survey of her switchblade. She polished it with a tattered cloth and studied it, and that was that, the subject abandoned.

Now, Ellie snorts, peeling back a looming, overgrown branch to allow you passage. "Nah. That's your cat." She says as you saunter by, even as the cat pads after her, nose tipped to the air, breathing in the sent of damp soil, heady rot and the faint, sweet traces of a budding spring.

You trudge along the rocky, uneven path, bricks and shattered molasses-brown beer bottles specking the dirt, holding hope tight to your chest.

After stumbling upon Zander's mess, all the worry you harbored for your brother had ebbed away. He's alive. You hope the others are, too.

Even if you are not amicable with a large number of his group, a couple of them treated you fairly. Whitney was the closest thing to a friend you had there; she always tracked you down in the mess hall and shared her lunch. She even alternated her watch-shifts with Manny to join you on yours when she could, and shared her access card to the armory to practice shooting with you.

When you had first arrived, you scarcely knew how to use anything beyond a hand-gun. She trained you on a variety of firearms when your free time corresponded; you owe the new capabilities that kept you alive on this expedition to Whitney. She was the only one who never made you feel bad about it. She simply demonstrated for you without comment or judgement.

You hope whoever was sent to retrieve you— if anyone at all— was safe. Though, considering that Isaac didn't even send out a search party for Owen when he went missing, you doubt that he would gamble the life of his prized soldiers just to find a meaningless girl who was bullied and deluded out of his faction.

Clearly it did not stop Zander from looking for you, if the mutilated bodies of those infected were any indication. It could not be a coincidence. You know it was him. You just know it.

A strange part of you just hopes he doesn't find you yet. You have an intuitive, twisting suspicion churning in your gut, that this tenuous thing between you and Ellie will snap if anyone, or anything disrupts it.

You have a feeling that in finding him, you'll lose her. And you don't know what that means. You don't know where you're supposed to go from here; but you know that you can't just let her go.

With that, you saunter up to Ellie and flash her a winning, mindless smile, slithering your hand snugly into her back pocket. She tugs you flush into her side with a finger curled in your belt loop, and you stumble into her with a stunned laugh, Firelfy at your heels. You wish things could stay this easy.

You look at her and find strength beyond what had been forced upon you— a strength to fight for a better future.

• • •

Tangled, warm white Christmas lights dimly illuminate the abandoned teen-girls bedroom. Peeling posters are plastered to the walls, fraying with age and weathered by earth's course battering. A threadbare beanbag chair collected dust in the corner, the once vibrant purple now grimy and muted with time. Cobwebs edge the corners of the room in a luminous sprawl, their thick tendrils sparkling under the light.

You could see why Ellie found comfort in this place.

A black rack of CD's lined the desk, where the residue of ripped and prodded band stickers marred the refined oak. A thick coating of dust blanketed the surface. Your eyes flicker from the impressive album collection to the hot-pink poster board taped haphazardly to the closet with leopard print duct tape. Emboldened words scrawled in bright marker and glitter gel pens jut out in bubbled letters— MAISIE'S SUMMER BUCKET LIST 2003!

You avert your attention back to the desk, and the stack of mussed, tattered sketchbooks. The black covers are stained with charcoal and splotches of solidified paint, pages scattered. You rummage through one idly, thumbing through the doodles that range from gleaming sunrises to descriptive depictions of infected in a variety of stages, flowers blooming from their skulls instead of cordyceps.

You hum, grazing your pinkie over the elaborate drawings. "Have you seen these? They're..." you trail off in bewilderment when you glance up at what had captured Ellie's attention.

The dead body of a fallen solider.

Ripped camo dangled in tattered strips from the skeletal frame slumped against the unhinged door. It's jaw was missing, baring decaying teeth. Flies rattled in its hollow skull and buzzed busily about its frame. Ellie crouches and examines the chain enveloping it's neck. "They were a firefly," she informs you bleakly from over her shoulder, smoothing a thumb over the raised design etched into the pendant.

She rips it off it's neck sharply, and an involuntary screech bursts out of you when the head rolls off the body with a sickening crunch, thudding to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Ellie watched it fall with disinterest, holding the necklace up to you. "We should put it on your cat," she says, glaring pointedly at Firefly, who nestled herself into the bean bag and chewed on something dead she scoured, tail waving lethargically.

"Go ahead. I'd wait until she's done eating, though, or else she might maul you."

She releases a long-suffering sigh but ascends from her crouch, jingling the pendant tauntingly in your face, eyebrows raised. You laugh as she pursues Firefly with rightful caution. Her deliberate movements do not stop the cat from freezing and glowering at her, dark fur elevating.

"It's okay," Ellie drawls with no conviction. "Relax, dude."

Firefly makes to dart away, but Ellie swiftly wrestles her into her arms, holding her firm, as she hisses and screams in protest, squirming. "Come here, little devil," she grunts out harshly, sloppily clipping the pendant around her neck. Firefly swats violently, nicking her with a razor-sharp claw.

Ellie relinquishes her grip and Firefly wastes no time scrambling away, scurrying under the half-dilapidated bed. Her brilliant green eyes flare with menace from the shadows, narrowed at her.

"The shit I do for you," Ellie clicks her tongue and brandishes the furious scratch that superficially sliced her arm.

You ignore the jest. "Should we get rid of... of..." you stutter, gesturing at the body apprehensively, shifting from foot to foot. "That?"

Ellie nods, and you follow her to where it's rotting. She carelessly scoops up the skull and chucks it out of the gaping hole in the wall, before bracing her hands on the remnants of its body, leveling you with a look. You scramble to aid her, mustering a confirming nod back.

With joint effort, you shove it over the edge of the building. You peer over the jutted lip of the bedroom; numerous stories stretched between you and the pavement. Mist gathers in a dense, ominous cloud, shielding your view of the ground below. The bones clatter and deconstruct until they're engulfed by the haze. You were so far up, you couldn't hear them break against the earth.

You glance at Ellie to find her already observing you.

"What?"

She simply shrugs and rises, dusting the loitering essence of death off her hands, changing the topic with a fluidity that came with her consistent avoidance. "We can either try to fix that bed or sleep on the floor. Take your pick."

"I don't think Firefly would appreciate it if we took away her hiding spot," you quip, and it was settled.

The day was not yet done, but you set up camp regardless. Both of you maneuver in a pleasant silence as you unbundle your sleeping bags and roll them over the stained, carpeted floor. Ellie positions hers a whopping ten feet away from yours, the distance nearly offensive. "What are you doing?" You ask in disbelief, pausing your bed-making to gawk at her, open-mouthed.

"What?" She snaps in alarm, glancing around, looking for tangible evidence of her misdeed.

You point at her bed roll incredulously. "Why are you so far from me?"

She tenses and flicks her gaze away, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor with a hefty thud. "I didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep by me."

You blink fervently. "Ellie."

She watches uncertainly as you punctuate her name and drag her sleeping bag next to yours, until they're close to overlapping. "You literally had your tongue inside of me. Stop being weird all of a sudden."

She visibly reddens, a vicious blush blotching her cheeks. You open your mouth to continue, adrenaline coursing through your veins, when she charges at you and cups a silencing hand over your mouth, a pained smirk tugging at her lips. "Just stop!" She hisses, her lips a wobbling line as she resists a grin of her own.

You chuckle and stumble back, licking her palm. She blanches and releases you, wiping her spit-damp hand on her jeans, her sudden movement sending you plummeting to the floor. You drag her down with you, your breathy laughs mingling as you collapse in a tangle of limbs onto the sea of slippery blankets.

You both burst into another fit of laughter when Firefly growls at all the commotion. She pads out into the foyer, swaying her tail with sass.

"Do you ever shut up?" Ellie mutters lowly, laughter clinging onto every lulled syllable, as she props herself on an elbow and gazes down at you, running a finger over your bottom lip.

You smile, and she traces the shape of it.

"Do you want me to?" You whisper humorously, and her thumb joins her finger in its exploration of the curves of your face, stroking your cheek with an unlikely tenderness that had the power to undo you.

"Never," she mumbles back, applying a chaste, shapeless kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's not enough. She deigns to pull away but you sling an arm over the back of her neck and hold her in place, lips seeking hers with repressed fervor.

She groans into your mouth, the decadent sound rumbling through you, alighting a glimmering need within. You increase the speed and intensity of the kiss— her noises an invitation for more— and propel yourself up with a hand plastered unsteadily to the floor, combing your fingers through her hair with the other.

Her hand rests on your throat, the pressure existent but not imposing, as she guides you into a languorous dance with your tongues. You buck your hips up to sate the craving for pressure and she slips a hand down to your waist, guiding you up and into her.

"I want you for real this time," she blurts breathlessly, words blasting into your tingling, swollen lips. Her eyes are teeming with earnest, pupils so dilated with lechery, they reflect you, doe-eyed and wanting. "No interruptions. I don't fucking care what it is... I'm not going to stop." She utters the words with quivering determination, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You desperately nod your assent, arching up to assist her in removing your jeans. She brushes fluttery kisses to your exposed midriff where your tank top had ridden up, hurriedly tugging your jeans down, until they pooled at your ankles. She shucks them over your cowboy boots and hurls them to the side.

Your heart hammers with anticipation, core throbbing at the sight of her absolutely unraveled with yearning. Ever since that night in the hospital, you've wanted more. Needed more. You were just as fucked up by your need for her. It consumed you, ate you from the inside out, until all that was left was a thirst that could not be quenched without her hands on you.

"Fuck me, Ellie," you demand hoarsely, winding your hands up her thighs and shakily unbuttoning her jeans as she looms over you. She arches back and unabashedly shreds off her shirt as you hike down her jeans, unveiling small, supple breasts and hard, tantalizing nipples.

You kiss up her pelvis, across her toned, bruised abdomen and to her sternum, licking a slow stripe over one of her nipples and swirling it on your way up, eyes trained on hers lasciviously. You nip and suckle at a spot on her neck and she cranes her head back, hiccuping a sharp cry. She pants and lulls her head as you kiss and nibble the bared column of her throat, her hands roaming up the front of your body, palming your tits through your shirt.

She lifts herself off of you momentarily to kick off her jeans over her Converse, discarding them quickly, before she's back on top of you.

She's framed by the dying daylight penetrating the gaping hole behind her, her eyes flickering over you hungrily. She glides her hands under the hem of your tank top and yanks it over your head, tousling your hair, rejected with all the other articles of scattered clothing.

She pries your legs apart forcefully, and you squeak, as she pulls you closer to her. "How do you want it?" She croons gravelly, voice rich with heady desire, eyes honed in on your face with predatory focus. As if she could take every hint of pleasure you show and have it for herself. She straddles your pelvis and slowly, faintly swipes her pussy over yours, your clit throbbing at the contact. "Like this?"

She cradles your leg in her arm and drags her pussy across yours again, this time with more force. You bite your lip to suppress a whimper at the delicious sensation. "Or do you want me to really fuck you?" She thrusts against you hard for emphasis and you choke back a stunned moan, jerking.

"Yes," you breathe carnally, hair fanning around your head, mouth agape— all subtly gone with the wind that billowed through the room and cooled your slick skin.

"Yes, what? Use your words," she demands, hand encasing your throat, rocking into you with that same jarring force, another moan escaping you.

"Fuck me," you pant, nearly drooling, the husk of her words a fuel to the kindling that was her pussy moving against yours, "Please just fuck me. I need you, Ellie."

She smirks haughtily, wicked satisfaction gleaming in her blue eyes. "That's my girl," she praises knowingly, leaning down until her mouth brushes your panties. She sinks her teeth into them and tears them straight off your body, her hand never abandoning its anchoring hold on your throat. The movement was so effortless you could feel yourself dripping, the duality of this woman stupefying you.

How she could go from awkward at your flirting, to claiming your body as if it were a land she possessed and ruled in the matter of minutes.

You whimper unintelligible nonsense, unable to form coherent words to convey your debilitating need. Wanting her feels as natural and essential as breathing. Explaining it is nowhere near as simple.

She removes herself from you just to slide her own panties off, repositioning herself between your legs, holding your leg to her chest. She offers no warning before she grinds her bare, wet pussy into yours, the skin on skin making tingles of pleasure erupt through your core.

It was nearly too much.

You emit a shuddering moan and arch your back as she returns her calloused hand to your throat and slams into you, rolling her hips, your clits rubbing and chafing. "That's it. Fuck," she hisses out, her tattooed arm stark against your thigh as she hoists it to her, using it to drive into you with fierce precision, your pussy's slapping together stickily.

"Oh my fucking god," you mewl dumbly, tits bouncing, as she angles her hips and relentlessly drives her pelvis into yours, her breaths clipped and high-pitched. You undulate your hips and grind up into her, meeting the ferocity of her thrusts, your juices coinciding and glistening on your thighs. "Ellie."

"Fuck, yeah," she pants blissfully, peering down at you. "You feel so good."

She leans over you, slapping a hand next to your head, folding your leg up to your chest, the position allowing for better movement. She grinds into you from the new angle, your clits gliding and throbbing, and you feel yourself ascending higher and higher, toward that peak you nearly met the other night, at the hospital.

She fucks you nearly senseless, your frame wracking with her thrusts. She burrows her face into the crook of your neck, hot breath ghosting your skin, tiny grunts departing her lips. She grazes her teeth over the flesh and you shudder, her hand that was planted to the floor snaking up and finding yours, interlocking your fingers.

"I'm gonna cum," you whimper into her mussed hair, writhing beneath her, choppily grinding up, your muscles tight. You use the hand that's not intertwined with hers to fist her hair and reer her head back, until your faces are level, gazes locked. Both of you are heavy-lidded and pupil-blown, her eyes brimming with that same pleasure that was mounting in you.

"Cum with me," she orders breathily, your noses compressing, and on demand your body convulses and a blinding white light shreds through your vision, an uncontrolled moan belting out of you as she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

"Fuck," she groans without restraint as your pussy's squelch, a cry leaving her as she reaches her own peak, her eyebrows furrowed, a dimple surfacing between her brow. She breathes into your open mouth, and you claim it as your own, granting her fleeting kisses through the aftermath.

Not a single thought filters through your head. Nothing beyond her drenched pussy, resting dormant upon your slick thigh, and her lips eloping with yours. You don't even know where to begin when it comes to processing the unprecedented feeling that roared throughout your body, or the swelling off your heart.

Neither of you say a word, your harsh, heavy breathing mingled and protruding the silence. Ellie peels herself off of you, her legs shaking as she thuds to the sleeping bag adjacent to you, her damp forehead pressed into your bare shoulder. She peppers a few kisses over it before falling back, expelling a deep, contented sigh.

You angle your head to face her, a dazed grin splitting your face. "What. The. Fuck. You've been holding out on me," you muse dreamily, playfully swatting at her.

She snickers huskily, scratching her head, propping it on an elbow. Her bare chest glistens and heaves with her labored breaths, as she reaches under the broken bed and slips out a shoebox. She dumps the contents out on her abdomen— a packet of finely minced weed, rolling sheets, a mini box of matches and one pre-rolled joint. "You smoke?"

"I have. Don't do it much though," you admit with a sheepish chuckle, watching her. She licks the length of the joint to insure its sealed before slipping it between her lips and lighting a match, bringing it to the tip. She waves out the tiny flame once smoke billows from the end, taking a measured, steady drawl.

She closes her eyes briefly at the sensation before passing it to you. Her lips quirk as you survey it dubiously before holding it hesitantly to your mouth, sucking in. Her smirk morphs into a resounding laugh when you sputter out a choppy haze of smoke, a profound burn blistering your lungs.

"That shits gross," you cough gutturally, passing it back, batting the swirling smoke out of the air. "You keep that stuff here?"

"No," she responds, smirking, inhaling another graceful heap of smoke. Exhaling slowly. You watch her watch the tendrils churn through the otherwise still air. "It was here when I found this place. Whoever lived here before was stashing it," she glances to the summer bucket list, "Maisie was a stone-er." She chides, flicking the ashes off and taking another hit.

She is noticeably put at ease. Her muscles are relaxed, and her smiles form innately and without dictation. As if all her worries have been laid to rest, now that she got to feel you.

It had the opposite affect on you.

The dark, possessive thoughts that have been circulating your mind like vultures preying on rotting roadkill did not flea at the taste of her.

All it did was amplify your morbid longing.

You snuggle into her embrace and rest your head against her drumming sternum, entangling your sweat-glowing legs together, fusing your bodies. She holds the joint to your lips and you take a drag, careful not to invoke another coughing fit, and she takes one after you, blowing precise, opaque O's with the smoke. She gently runs her fingertips up and down the length of your arm, clutching you to her.

"Can we do it again?" You blurt, angling your head up to face her, and she pauses her stroking. She says nothing as her hand winds down your arm, coasts over your hip, and creeps between your legs.

You suck in a breath when two fingers collect the wetness pooling at your entrance and drag your slick to your clit, rubbing delicately, the feather-light application of pressure evoking a whimper out of you. You squirm and rock into her hand, and she chuckles on a weed-laced breath, "Mm. You want me to fuck you again?"

You nod frantically as she works your pussy with her fingers. She sits up suddenly, taking you with her, until your spread in her lap. She holds the joint between her lips as she uses one hand to palm your breast and the other to expertly thumb your clit, smoke coiling from her nostrils. "Needy fucking girl," her approving groan is muffled by the joint, as she inches her fingers down your wet folds, teasing your entrance. "You want my fingers again?"

"Please," you whine, as reeking smoke tickles your earlobe and wafts into your face, the hand that wasn't easing fingers into your cunt slithering down to keep one of your legs spread, curling around your thigh, kneading and caressing, the joint between her massaging fingers.

You reach back to feather your fingers through her hair, riding her hand, breathy gasps escaping your lips. "Mhm. Good girl," she praises gravelly into your ear, curling her digits inside of you, stroking that sweet spot.

You tug helplessly on her hair and crash your head back onto her shoulder, arching desperately as she makes you cum for the second time, this time drenching her rough fingers.

She doesn't stop there. She maneuvers you out of her lap and sprawls you onto the bed roll, your legs spread, pussy gleaming and sated before her devouring eyes. She braces your thighs in her arms, takes a hit, and exhales onto your clenching pussy, the faint gust stimulating your throbbing clit. You moan and attempt to inch away, but she pins you down and eats you stupid, until her chin is dribbling with your juices, her sardonic smile highlighted by the cum glistening on her lips.

After she was done, she unburried herself from your legs and licked the juices off her lips, eyeing you sensually. She acted as if she were about to go right back down, when Firefly began scratching at the door insistently, meowing manically. Both of you redressed, hefting your tops and underwear back on.

You let the cat in and enveloped yourself in the near-translucent, cotton sheets, observing her as she tiptoes in, sniffing the air. She follows the scent to the crumpled joint on the floor, nosing it curiously. Ellie clicks her tongue in reprimand and tosses it over the side of the building before she tries to eat it. The last thing you needed was a high cat.

After discarding the joint, Ellie plops down on the hazardous edge, swinging her legs. She looks at you from over her bruised shoulder. "Come on," she urges, patting the space next to her.

You oblige, the sheet trailing you as you wander over to her. She takes your hand as you gingerly lower yourself beside her, effortfully prying your gaze from the dizzying height.

The mist had cleared with the days dissipating humidity, revealing the enchanting sweep of ocean that spread before you, dark waves emphasizing the curve of the earth. The sun gleams amber like a glass of whiskey caught in the light, painting the clouds a mass of colors, descending toward the seam of sky and sea.

You avert your attention back to Ellie. Her eyes are sealed, brown lashes fluttering with the breeze, tawny hair cascading with the salt-tinged wind. Her freckles are emphasized by the golden, showering glow, gilding her features. You sit on your hands to keep yourself from tracing them.

Firefly inches over, perching next to you, her green eyes mirroring the setting sun. You close your eyes and drop your head onto Ellie's shoulder, wrapping the sheet around her.

There's a prolonged beat.

And then she tilts her head and rests it on yours, hand gripping your thigh proprietarily. You don't even hesitate. You slide your hand over hers and stroke the bruises blossoming on her knuckles, smiling to yourself.

taglist: @elliesexual @jottedinklings @a-little-bit-of-everybody … let me know if you want to be tagged for updates

[carolmunson]

the moon had turned to gold.

(soft!eddie x badatfeelings!gf)

and we're back folks. i'm going through it so i had to revisit my kids. the badatfeelings!gf set is a series of ramblings with no rhyme or reason, flow of conciousness. not from a 'you' perspective but 'she/her' has no physical descriptors.

tw: depictions and descriptions of depression (eddie to the rescue). because i'm sad!

Her eyes have been half closed for days -- wakes up and gets out of bed, makes coffee, reads the paper, gets back in bed for an indescerable amount of time. More coffee, hand fulls of shredded cheese, water from the side table that's been there for days. She hasn't been going into work, just in the dark of her room while the hum of the window unit drones on and on and on. He knocks, opening the door to darkness despite the warm glow of golden hour outside -- her black out curtains a bigger success than she expected. She's awake but not really, eyes glazed over watching snow on the TV she moved to her bedroom.

Summer blues she called it, summertime sad. The air is stale, he can tell she hasn't moved much this morning. She hasn't moved much all month. "Hi." Quiet and soft, rounded edges in his voice, "Bad day?"

She uses whatever strength she has to lift her arm out of the covers and give him a thumbs down. He lets a huff of a laugh out of his nose, "Yeah, I see that." Despite laying in bed all day her body is tense and he knows that maybe she'll feel better about moving when she knows the sun is going down. He thought this vampire sleep schedule shit would've been sexier -- but it's not. It hurts to see her like this, so tired from just waking up, so sick of just existing. He's seen her cry more than he has in the years they've been together. But at least she's like -- crying. She never used to cry at all.

He sneaks onto the edge of the bed, his backside and hips nestling in the dip of her waist over the covers, "Do you know what would be nice?"

"Hm?" she asks, body heavy while she flops over to put an arm around where she can reach. "Taking a shower," he offers, hand resting on her hair, thumb grazing her forehead, "You always feel a little better after." "Mhm," she nods sleepily. "I can put your jammies in the drier so they're cozy when you come out," he smiles, voice still soft, still rounded edges. Her lashes flutter before she looks up at him, glassy and glazed, half here half not. Zombie girlfriend, vampire girlfriend, monster girlfriend, sad girlfriend. She's so pretty, he thinks.

"Yeah," she nods.

"Yeah to the jammies in the drier?" he asks. "Yeah," she says, her voice is quiet -- meek. 'Yeah' was her first word of the day. "That," she nods again, deep breath in through the nose and it rattles at the exhale, "Shower, too."

He helps her up and hears the crack in some of her bones, the stiffness in her joints while her face contorts at the change in position. She's been in the same sleep shirt for three days, some field day shirt from college. Green socks on her feet, the tops shoved down her ankles, one nearly falling off. No crumbs in her bed at least -- he knows she's too anxious for that. But the dishes aren't done and the bag of shredded cheese is abandon on the counter. Mugs of varying fullness off coffee are sitting in random placeholders in the small apartment. Forgetful -- foggy.

"C'mon," he coos, pulling her in at the shoulders to take her to the bathroom. She's so tired from doing nothing that she can't help but keep doing nothing. He pulls off her sleep shirt and panties, he helps with the socks, turning the shower on to a medium heat. Forhead kiss, cheek kiss, cheek kiss. Poor baby.

"Do you need help getting in?"

She shakes her head no.

"What do you want to wear for PJs?"

She shrugs. He figured she would.

He pulls back the shower curtain and she gets inside, he waits for the inevitable sigh she lets out when the water hits her. He peeks in, her naked body not important the way it usually is -- its those eyes, half closed -- less sad, less sleepy. Contemplative, alive. Half dead lover. His ghoulish girl.

"I'll leave them in here for when you're done."

He knows he has time to clean up for her -- easy to get lost in the void when you stand in the shower and that's where she is. Here and gone and here and gone again. Tongue tucked away between her teeth -- he almost misses when she's mean. He misses her so bad, but he takes what he can get, even if it's putting sweats in the drier.

When the hot water runs out she emerges, wet hair dripping down onto the new t-shirt -- still warm like the sweats on her legs. Fresh linen scent radiating off her like her coconut conditioner. She doesn't even care that the rest of the house is warm and sticky from the air outside. It's fresher now, he opened the windows and did the dishes. Cleaned out all the mugs. Opened your bedroom door to let the coolness flow to some of the house, too make things less stale. He lit two candles, sugar cookie scented -- it's all you ever bought because that's his favorite.

"Thank you," voice still meek. Still under twentywords today. Eyes a little more open. He puts down the mug he was drying and tosses the hand towel over the faucet of the sink.

"S'no problem, baby," soft round edges, soft round boy. Patched vest left behind on the kitchen table chair, soft cut off t-shirt left behind. Tattooed arms outstretched to her in the sterile light of the kitchen, the sun is down now -- the stars starting to peek out of a dark navy sky.

She lets herself get pulled into him and it feels like it's happening in slow motion -- face in his chest, he closes in on her like a wave. The pressure is welcomed -- she's alive but barely. Biceps crush on her shoulder blades, her neck cracks -- reanimator boyfriend, zombie girlfriend. Living glass doll that feels better off dead. She falls into the hold while he sways with her, chin on her wet hair.

"Blue moon, you saw me standing alone..." he sings quietly while he sways, his own eyes shutting, "C'mon, sing it with me." He feels her head move in a 'no' on his chest. "It's your favorite," he argues, "It'll feel good." Another sigh -- the inevitable. "Without a dream in my heart..." He smiles at her voice, coming out a little stronger than before, he snickers before beginning again. "Without a love of my own..."

"Blue moon," they start together, he smiles a little stronger. She's doing her best so he doesn't push it when she doesn't keep singing. He peers down while he continues, her eyes are closed against his chest but she feels alive. Just safer. The kind of safe where she'll sleep good tonight, might even eat breakfast tomorrow.

"And then suddenly, appeared before me..."

He shakes her to the beat the song normally has, bum bum bum bum. She huffs a chuckle a the shimmying, smile stretching against the warm fabric of his shirt, the inhale like laundry detergent and summer heated skin. "The only one my arms will ever hold, I heard somebody whisper, 'Please, adore me'..."

"That's me," she interrupts, he pulls her in tighter, the sway stops slow. "Yeah," he sighs out, "That's you. Dropped right outta the sky." "Yeah," she says, head tilting up. The whites of her eyes glisten despite the redness creeping in at the edges. "I ordered pizza," he says, "Cause I know you didn't eat."

Her brows furrow, mouth souring.

"I know, I'm awful," he giggles, "Gotta feed the girl in your brain that isn't so sad -- that's my girl in there."

"M'still your girl even when I'm sad," voice back to sleepy meekness, she yawns.

"Yeah, you are," he confirms sweetly, plush lips pressing against her forhead, "Always my girl."

In the cool white green light of the kitchen they stand in damp solitude -- with a heave of her chest she starts to cry. He doesn't need to know the reason, just as long as she does -- as long as he's there to hold her through it. Alive girl. Fully alive in the darkness of another deep blue summer night.

And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold.

more badatfeelings here

[the-eeveekins]

I love G-Witch's ending. While I do wish the journey had been longer, that we had gotten more time with the characters and the world, I would not change that destination. I still want it to end with Suletta saving her family at Quiet Zero.

"It's too happy, no one died!" I actually love this! Gundam has 45 years of bittersweet and occasionally downer endings. We can have one ending that is almost unambiguously a happy one. People always talk about finding non-violent solutions, about solving problems peacefully. And in a Gundam first, Suletta does that. She solves a violent situation with non-violence, and just this once, everybody lived!

"That was accomplished with bullshit space magic though!" Look, setting aside the fact that Bullshit Space Magic has been a part of Gundam since the original (and is often MORE bullshit in UC), this show is called The Witch From Mercury. If there was any Gundam series where Bullshit Space Magic saving the day and solving the problem is thematically appropriate and should not be an issue, it's this one.

"The bad guys lived and escaped jail!" I'm fine with this, especially since every good character survived too. And it's not like they didn't suffer any consequences. Miorine dissvolved the Benerit Group. Their empire is gone, along with their wealth and power. They may be free (for now), but they're definitely miserable. With Shaddiq's help, Miorine exposed the SAL's crimes, and considering the precarious position they were in previously, it's likely there was a major shake-up. The power structures in space were completely shaken up and changed, and much of it's power was transferred to Earth.

"What about Shaddiq?" Look, I definitely understand the contextual issues with Shaddiq being the only martyr. But in the show itself, Shaddiq accomplished his goals. He got to see the Benerit Group dissolved and their assets placed in the hands of Earthian companies, all without further violence. He secured the freedom of the women working for them, and importantly, they all now work for Miorine in her efforts to improve Earth and make reparations for Spacians. And as a last gift and blessing to Miorine and her new family, he took the fall for Quiet Zero while he was at it. Shaddiq may be imprisoned unlike the former BG members, but unlike them, he is a happy and satisfied man.

It's rare for the main characters in Gundam to enact massive, systemic change for the better, especially permanently. Amuro, Kamille and Judau did not change the world in any significant fashion. Their world was still mired in conflict after their reapective conflicts, to the point that Amuro dies in a later conflict and Judau gets so sick of things not changing for the better that he abandons Earth and later the solar system. Yet there is a lot of criticism that Suletta & Miorine didn’t solve all of Ad Stella's problems, that they did their part and peaced out. But their part was destroying the immediate threat of Gundams and Quiet Zero, they dismantled the Benerit Group power structure and put it in the hands of Earth and they exposed the SAL. They made huge changes to the world and they didn't stop. Miorine is still using her company to make amends for the BG's crimes and improve the lives of Earthians. Suletta has built a school on Mercury and is now building one on Earth. Even if they're not going to be fighting on the front lines, they're still fighting to make their world a better place.

That's not to say the ending is perfect. I don't think Nika should have spent 3 years in jail because of a guilty conscience and because Martin is a snitch. I don't think you should ruin the thematics of Suletta facing down and battling Quiet Zero by herself, but the part of me who loves to see giant robots fight wishes there could have been a way to involve the Demi-Barding, Pharact and Schwarzette in more action during the end. If not at QZ, then earlier in the series.

I personally believe a lot of the criticism of the ending boils down to preference, and people not preferring how G-Witch chose to end things, rather than those things being objectively bad. I think a lot of fans struggle to accept that G-Witch was trying to do something smaller, something different, and they still can't let go of wanting it to be something it never tried to be. Did it do what it wanted to do perfectly? Definitely not. It forgot what it was at points in S2 and I'd argue it actually cooked too good with it's background details, making people want more of something it never set out to do. But ultimately it was never trying to be a 50 episode war epic focused on the wider world. It was about these two girls and their families.

Suletta & Miorine's scene together in the wheat field on Earth is perhaps one of my favorite scenes in anime. Maybe in any media. I wouldn't trade that moment for anything short of their actual wedding.

[nelkcats]

Danny and Vlad didn't get along so badly anymore, seriously, well, at least they're not supposed to, that doesn't stop him from persecuting Danny from time to time with proposals about being his mentor and he would claim child support in return.

For Danielle more than anything, he loved his "cousin" but he couldn't keep up with her travel purchases, nor provide her with basic necessities and Vlad was a millionaire, he should be able to do that at least.

They were arguing, as was normal, they just didn't realize they had an audience, and that their discussions could be misinterpreted, very badly, even more so because they were in human form.

Jason was considering taking one of the guns off of him while an adult he was sure he had seen at one of Bruce's galas yelled at his neighbor to go with him, his neighbor who looked very tired and on despair, but was a good guy and offered him Cocoa from time to time, the neighbor who never asked questions about his nocturnal habits but still offered help.

His neighbor, Danny, who was his friend outside the bats eye, with whom he laughed, had deep conversations and made bad jokes about death, who had started reading Pride and Prejudice for him despite hating literature for a bad experience. The one who had cried over him for not being born in the right body while he asked him to take off his folder and breathe, the one who had stroked his back during his fever.

He was deciding what to do when Danny yelled "Well maybe I'd consider going with you if you hadn't thrown Danielle away as a mistake 6 years ago and wouldn't even deign to pay for anything to do with her, YOU'RE A MILLIONAIRE VLAD, I CAN'T EVEN PAY THIS APARTMENT, JUST GIVE UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE"

¿Six years ago? Jason did the math in his mind, Danny was still a teenager back then, no more than 14 years old, ¿was this a bribery situation? ¿Threat? "Danielle" sounded like an out-of-wedlock daughter too. Had this "Vlad" caused a pregnancy on a 14-year-old? probably abandoned him too, this was a realistic situation but it really grossed him out. ¿Wasn't "Vlad" the name of his Godfather too? Damn it, this was making him sick.

Then Jason decided that yes, Vlad definitely deserved a bullet in the face, and maybe he should talk to his neighbor about ask for help when threatened, this was Crime Alley after all and he didn't want to see him death.

Being a teenage father was probably not easy, even more so if he was the illegitimate child of a millionaire, ¿is that why he moved to Gotham? ¿Was he running from the bastard? but he hadn't seen any children ¿did he have to hand her over? He needed to talk with him after punch Vlad face for sure.

[l3viat8an]

Mornin Ro~ *Hands you coffee in a cat mug*

Okay so like ya know how Beel and Belphie have like connected feelings and stuff. Like how Beel knows when Belphie has a tummy ache, etc.

So I would imagine they also know when the other is fucking MC. And this fact usually results in MC being an Attic Club Sandwich™

Like imagine Belphie is napping on the couch and Satan is sitting on a chair nearby reading and Levi is on the other couch (I think they have 2!?!?akskdndks) on his switch when Belphie starts mumbling in his sleep. That's nothing new of course so they just ignore it for now. Then Belphie starts shifting around and groaning until he fucking tumbles off the couch and he wakes up all irritated. But then he gets up and just fucking *bolts* to the attic and Satan and Levi just exchange confused glances. (Belphie is lightning bolt for MC)

Imagine Beel in the kitchen rifling through the fridge for a snack and Asmo and Mamms are chillin' nearby having a little discussion about what club they're going to tonight. Beel is in the middle of eating a head of lettuce like it's an apple when he finds a pudding in the back of the fridge. So he finishes the lettuce quickly, opening the pudding and he takes one bite before his eyes widen and hes like 'huh?' and he abandons the pudding on the counter heading to the attic quickly. And Asmo and Mamms are just so fucking confused because why tf did Beel just abandon his food.

So whichever twin was left out just busts in the room like "I'm here bitch" and the other just chuckles like "Took ya long enough" (RIP MC 😔)

~🍒

Nsfw content MDNI

Hiii 🍒!! *hands you a donut with sprinkles* ‘n I’m keeping the mug XD

They’ve got the twin telepathy thing but X 10 at least!!!-

I laughed at Belphie rolling off the couch and just fuckin’ running off ngl jsksjsk he’s a demon on a mission!!!-

and Beel leaving food??? Asmo’s gonna worry he’s sick, when really Beel’s just absolutely whipped for MC!!-

Now my random idea / add on to this is how much fun teasing them both would be!!!

Just imagine spending the day with Beel, doing errands or whatever around the Devildom.

Soft kisses and touches whenever you can and Beel even pulls you into an alleyway to make-out or more~

All while Belphie is at home! All those damn touches and teasing is killing him!! In the best way. He can’t even just run to where you and Beel are because you’re moving around too much….so Belphie ends up sitting in his bed waiting impatiently for you two to get home!

and when you do both boys are all worked up from your sweet teasing~

Beel pushing you down onto Belphie’s lap as the younger demons hands start pulling your shirt off and immediately nipping his way down your neck, leaving some lovely little marks~

While Beel move closer tugging on the waistband of your pants until you lift your hips and pulling them off.

Belphie’s hand moves down to dip one of his fingers into your wet pussy and he lets out a dark chuckle, “Really, already this wet MC. You really are a slut.” before you can answer or Belphie can tease you anymore Beel’s pouting and grabbing Belphie’s wrist to pull it away “I want a taste. Move.”

Belphie rolls his eyes and sighs, “You’ve had them all day and you’re still going to hog them? I guess you really are the avatar of gluttony.”

Beel just nods as if it’s obvious and moves down to lick at your sex. Groaning when he tease you on his tongue~ Belphie shakes his head, but before he can say anything else Beel’s pushing his tongue into you a little harder and you hips buck up the back down and into Belphie’s, meaning your practically rutting against his cock….maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all~

[tarjapearce]

I had a cute idea of the soccer family and it’s like wife reader and Miguel after a long long day and they finally put kids in bed clean the kitchen from dinner and their both ready for bed in their sleep clothes and they decided to watch a movie but the movie its a sad movie when a kid dies or get really sick and the wife reader gets really sensitive about that cause she imaginé the movie kid as her own kids and start crying and Miguel it’s trying to comfort her (I already ask for this in another page but I think you would get this better) I think it’s a cute idea, love your writing. 🫶🫶

Omg, I saw a movie that reminds me so much to this!!! . Not precisely physically injured but yeah. Hope you like! ❤️✨

(If you're into drama, Watch it ❤️)

The quietness after another successful day in the O'Hara household meant another victory for daily activities. Benjamin was changed into his little blue and red onesie, and put to sleep. Gabriella was tucked in bed; You and Miguel were ready to enjoy a little time together before going to bed.

Miguel had been zapping through the channels, you cuddled him and he put an arm around your shoulders.

His eyes were settled on the tv, the scene of a blonde little girl looking at to what seemed to be her legal guardian, confused as to why there was a new lock in the door.

The movie title displayed on the bottom, 'What Maisie Knew'

"She's such a cutie" You mumbled as you watched the little actress making an appearance in school holding hands with a man as he walked her towards the classroom.

---

As the movie advanced you couldn't help but to cling to Miguel, he was as tense as you were. Seeing the characters fight over the custody of their only daughter and making her to choose gave your heart a doleful flip.

Eyes couldn't help but gloss at a certain scene, the little girl being awaken in the middle of the night just cause her emotionally neglecting mother thought it was a good idea.

Resentment, pain yet understanding were one of the primary things the movie had stirred within your pot of emotions but soon sadness joined.

How could a mother do such thing to her only child? Still was beyond you. You had tried to be empathic with the character, but still, was something your mind couldn't quite grasp.

Her neglect and abandonment was deliberated. Sussan didn't fight for her unless she saw Maisie being happy with others.

Fat tears rolled down your cheeks and Miguel frowned

"¿Estás bien?" (Are you ok?)

His hands pushed you closer to him on his chest as your head shook. He turned the TV off.

"How can she do that? Resent her own child to be happy. Like, she is a child! It's not Maisie's fault she's been an unstable woman."

Miguel gave a deep exhale and rested his head ontop of yours.

"You know that not many parents are meant to be."

"It only makes it worse to know that she is aware of everything that is going on. I just... ugh, I could... I could never do something like that. Marrying someone out of spite, dragging your kid into a grown up fight, and make her choose!"

You hiccuped and he wiped away your tears.

"It's just a movie, mi amor."

"I know. Still... It's so damn awful knowing that parents like these exist. I couldn't help but imagine Gabi like that. And God... I swear I'd fight with teeth and claws for her."

Miguel chuckled, a bit sadly. The sudden image of him and you fighting over Gabriella and Benjamin surely didn't sit right on his chest.

"You know we are far from perfect, right? Marriage wise."

You nodded and clung to him once more.

"But know this. We'd never get to that, ok?"

"Promise?"

"Te lo prometo. You're stuck with me forever, cariño." (I promise)

His lips kissed your forehead.

"Besides, think it as a win for Maisie. She gets to have loving parents that truly look after her wellbeing and those cabrones will think twice before having a kid again."

"At least they know they're shitty parents."

"Cierto. But don't think too much about it." (True that)

He cradled you in his arms and caressed your hair.

"That movie is banned from this household"

Miguel chuckled and nodded.

"Need a glass of water or tissues?"

"Hold me?"

"Of course."