nesting-in-ur-walls - Tumblr blog

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The outfit

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The need to feel wanted just hit me like a truck today, I hate this

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yandere!messmer x reader.

Messmer who encounters his mongrel intruder time and time again, and time and time again, they fall only to come back and challenge him. And time and time again, he finds himself fixated on you and your determination to see your journey through. The same journey put upon you by his mother. The same mother who doomed him to hell.

Messmer who figures he could kill two birds with one stone. If Marika could deny him the tranquility of life, he would deny her and her purpose the freedom that came with death. And he would do so with you by his side. And so Messmer waits for your return, his tainted love bereft of light.

Messmer who sits and contemplates your end goal. What could you possibly hope to achieve on this journey? What could you possibly hope to gain from Marika's ambitions? No matter. What you want, what you seek, the Light couldn't possibly give, but his flame would provide you with warmth.

Messmer who almost contemplates pursuing you himself rather than letting you come to him again. What an interesting turn of events. Initially, you were met with faint incredulity. Faint incredulity became annoyance, annoyance became anticipation, and anticipation became impatience for who else could fall and rise back up again to challenge him but his determined love? He loves and hates you for it.

Messmer who begins to obsessively track your whereabouts from the comfort of his hold. He has eyes and ears everywhere in this shadowed land. Nothing goes unnoticed under his watch. Messmer who feels this... exhilaration when he learns you're near. And so he prepares to strike.

Messmer who's never fully embraced the excitement of battle until now as his plan comes to fruition. Messmer whose strikes are hard-hitting, his evades frustrating, and his anger and desire clear for all to see. Except, perhaps, for you.

Messmer who defeats you yet again, but instead of dealing the finishing blow, long fingers grab your chin and—wait, he's kissing you. Messmer who tightens his grip as you try to pull away. It's firm, overwhelming, and harsh.

Messmer whose smile is small and serene compared to your confused countenance, singular eye glowing ominously in the half-lit room. Messmer whose smile remains intact even as you question and try to pull away. Messmer who simply murmurs, "My consort..." and your blood runs cold.

Messmer, he who was denied peace, finds his own, and it comes at your expense. If he could not be free of the abyss, you cannot run toward the light. All is as it should be: his mother's dream and your ambition reduced to ashes by his flame. And peace comes at last.

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I hope you guys like him! I tried really hard to make him look good, and I had originally forgotten to add his lashes lol

Y'all have a nice day!

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what would anger micah more, a (bad)bob cut, a (bad)wolf cut, or a (bad)rat tail

Choose your fighter

If I disappear after posting this you guys know why

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Wholesome playtime with Ciaran and some newly bought toys

Smol Ciaran as censorship

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🚨‼️Important update please do not ignore and listen to others )🚨‼️

Hello my friends

I am speaking to you today as we approach the year of the continuation of the fierce war that has not spared any stone or human beings.

7-10-2023 /// 8-9-2024

I am speaking to you from the heart of the suffering of the displacement camps, where I have recently completed displacement 6 times here in the middle of Deir al-Balah.

Where there is famine, where there is a water cut-off, where there is no source of potable water, and if it is available, our share is very small and is not enough for my family of 7 people.

We live in the midst of the ongoing hellish war in Gaza, trapped between walls of fear and despair.

Here also, a skin disease has spread that has no cure. The existing treatment is a painkiller that relieves it for two days, then it comes back stronger. Unfortunately, this treatment is expensive, and I cannot afford it for myself either. It costs more than $30 every three days.

I am speaking to you from the tent, whose heat is unbearable and its cold as well, as we have completed all the seasons in the tents.

Really I need your support more and your support for my family more. The war is ongoing and my family is a trust with you if anything bad happens to me. Thank you.

We urgently appeal for your moral and financial assistance to cover the necessary costs for escaping to a safe environment, where we can build a better future for our children and ensure our family's safety.

We are in desperate need of your support. Any donation, no matter how small, can help save our lives. Thank you for your attention and support during these harsh times.

GoFundMe Campaign Link ♥️ :

My account Vetted by :

@a-shade-of-blue

@90-ghost @communistchilchuck @northgazaupdates2 @el-shab-hussein @fairuzfan @vakarians-babe @nabulsi @sarazucker @fairuzfan @a-nautilus-as-pixel-art @13eyond13 @still--getting--there @baby-indie-blog @just-browsing1222-deactivated20 @sar-soor @sayruq @appsa @akajustmerry @annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka @marnota @el-shab-hussein @sayruq @tortiefrancis @flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @vivisection-gf @belleandsaintsebastian @ear-motif @animentality @kordeliiius @commissions4aid-international @brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @the-bastard-king @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural

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koshee

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(2023) i never posted it here for some reason ??????????

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Easier

Feitan x Reader // word count 4.3k

If you drink with him tonight, you’ll still be trapped. Things will not get better, and they’ll likely get worse. You know that. But it’s so hard to resist a chance to feel good.

Tags/warnings: dark content, kidnapped reader, noncon (both parties are intoxicated, it’s implied that reader is more so), drinking, coping through drinking, unsexy smut, drunk sex, outdoor sex, reference to previous threats of violence, attempted knifeplay

Feitan has a habit of bringing you things that you do not want. He does not hand them to you - instead, he deposits them on your bed or your floor and then looks at you expectantly, in much the same way that a cat might deposit a dead mouse on your doorstep. It happens often, so when you hear the rattle and click of the lock on your door, you are not surprised to see him enter with something in his hand.

“Here.” He doesn’t make eye-contact - not until he yanks the door shut behind him, forcing it to scrape against the warped wooden frame, and pulls the chain that dangles from the bare, yellowed bulb in the center of the ceiling. Then, he brandishes his offering, raising it up with an awkward jerk of his wrist. “For you.” A bottle of clear liquor, with his knuckles white around its neck, and a single glass tucked under his arm. It’s a regular one, and not a shot glass (not surprising - you’re shocked that he even owns any cups that aren’t made out of plastic), and the bottle is cheap, but neither of those little details are really the problem.

You shift your weight backwards slightly, bracing your hands against your bare mattress. “I don’t want it.”

Feitan crosses the room, somehow managing to avoid a single creak in the rotting floorboards, and sits on the ground directly beside your bed. He looks at the place on the floor beside him, and then stares at you without blinking until you give in, sliding cautiously from your bed and pulling your knees up to your chest as you sit.

You eye the dubious gift with apprehension.

“I didn’t put anything in it.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” you say, before you can really think about your answer.

He tilts his head. “Really?”

“…not just that.”

“Smart.” He nods curtly, as if he expected this response, although his gaze drops for a moment and his hand twitches anxiously at his side. “I show you.” He pours out about a shot. The cowl over his face comes down with a sharp tug, and he wrinkles his nose at the contents of the glass before downing it with a straight face.

You’ve never seen him drink before, or smelled it on his breath, so you are almost inclined to be impressed.

“What else are you worried about?”

His breath usually just smells like he doesn’t own a toothbrush. You pointed this out once, and ended up with a pair of pliers in your mouth. He didn’t actually remove any of your teeth, and the corners of his eyes were creased as his face hovered over yours, like the whole thing was good fun, you teasing him and him paying it back in kind. His breath was fresh the next time you saw him, washed out with a sickly-sweet-something that repulsed you even more than the rot it replaced.

“What else?” he prompts.

“I don’t like your presents.”

He pauses for a moment, as if he finds what you’re saying baffling. “You like this one.”

“No, I don’t.” There are plenty of reasons not to like it. For one, the fact that it is different from all the others. He usually gives you harmless things. Some of them have been truly undesirable, like the half-wilted flower with strangely shaped leaves and an even stranger smell, or the scuffed silver ring for which the previous owner, he assured you, had no further use. Others, you tried to reject only because they came from him, and took advantage of in the moments when you were too tired to care about your pride. Soap of the exact same kind that you used to stock in your home. A soft pair of socks that very nearly matched and were very nearly clean. They were all unsettling in their own way, of course. But this one is different.

Why is it different? You do not like the answer, but it is creeping up on you, getting stronger by the second. If you drink, you will stop thinking, if only for a few hours. You will stop caring about his breath, and picturing his face hovering over you, and wondering when it will stop merely hovering and do the things he wants it to do.

Why is it different? Simple. Because you want it, for once.

He tilts his head. Waiting.

“I don’t like it,” you repeat, all too aware of the way he’s sizing you up, wondering what little movement or twitch of your facial muscles might give you away. “I want it gone.” You are still picturing exactly what those eyes look like when they’re so close that they make yours go blurry and crossed. He didn’t kiss you then - he still hasn’t. But that’s only another thing to fear. It will happen, and everything else along with it. It’s only a matter of time. “Go away.”

“No.” He pushes the glass towards you, and the bottle along with it. He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t leave.

You should pour it down the sink, or throw it out the window. He’d probably let you. He never forces you to accept anything he gives you, although the look of genuine disappointment in his eyes when you refuse is so unsettling that you usually play along. “Why…” You drop your gaze along with the rest of the sentence. It’s obvious, isn’t it?

He shrugs. “Why not?”

You ask yourself the same thing, and come up with a multitude of reasons, and an answer to them all. You are already here, in this room, in this house, with no way out, and nothing to think about except the things he will do, and when. There is no good choice here. And there is an easier one. You bite your tongue, and then your lip, but it does nothing to stop you. “Okay.”

You hold the bottle parallel to the ground, and count one-two-three like someone once told you to do when measuring out a shot, but it’s full and it comes out fast and maybe just maybe you let your handle tilt a little too far in the wrong direction. It doesn’t go down easy, either. You’ve got nothing to follow it with, or to add to cut through the bitter taste. It wouldn’t be hard to stand up and get water, but you don’t feel like moving at the moment. The usual warm, pleasant sensation that you experience when you down the first drink of the night is absent, drowned out by the face staring back at you.

He smiles, and drops his gaze, and his cheeks are flushed, and you don’t know if it’s just from the liquor -

This was a mistake, of course. Of course. You knew that going in. But it’s too late to correct now, and there’s only one way left to go: down, and down, and down. You splash another helping into the glass - one-two-three-four-five - and close your eyes as you choke your way through it.

As soon as you’re done, before you can set the glass down, he takes it out of your hand, fingers brushing cautiously against the back of your hand before easily prying it loose. “I go now.”

You think, for a moment, that he means he’s going to leave, and take his gift along with him (a twinge of disappointment, or maybe something closer to panic, comes along with this, and you hate yourself for it). Instead, he matches the portions you’ve drank with his own. From his face, you would think that it was only water in his cup, although you think you see that faint look of disgust appear once again in the moment before he drinks. When he’s done, he fidgets with the bottle cap, flipping it effortlessly between his fingers. It’s a repetitive motion, one that might be soothing to watch if it wasn’t for the dark stains beneath his nails. He is focused, almost meditative, not even glancing up at you as he toys with the small plastic round, but there is a tension in his shoulders and the way he sits.

You feel it too. It will be a relief, you think, when the waiting is over.

He offers the bottle cap to you. Silently, another little gift in the same night, perfectly centered in his palm. A part of you wants it. But your hands are not elegant - not now, not ever - and you have accepted too much from him already.

Too much, and not enough. You watch him for several more minutes, and will the bottle to remain on the floor, instead of making its way into your hand.

Outside, a slight wind has picked up, the noise dulled by the metal slats fastened across your window. You turn away from Feitan, towards the sound, and slump forward, holding your face in your hands. It’s peaceful, for what feels like a long time. Peaceful enough that you can concentrate on the presence of your body, and the pace of your thoughts, and imagine the alcohol slowly creeping up through your veins and covering up all the things you don’t want to have in your head.

Feitan comes to crouch in the periphery of your vision. You did not hear him move, but that is nothing new. You would not have heard him, you’re sure, even if you had had nothing at all to drink. But now that he is here, you are imagining how you will feel once the warmth has peaked and faded away, and you are still alone with him, and nothing has changed at all. He passes you the bottle, and you drink straight from its mouth, barely registering the taste, too much, too fast. He snatches it back, and matches your swig -

You have an amusing thought that you know he wouldn’t like. It expresses itself on your face before you can snatch it back.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” You arrange your features carefully, and shut your mouth. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look at you with suspicion, like he normally would. He just shrugs, and follows your gaze to the slit of starlight that pokes out from an unobstructed section of the window. “No moon tonight.”

“I wouldn’t know.” It comes out bitter, and you are only slightly surprised to realize that you no longer care how you sound.

“You know now.” He does something you’ve never seen him do before: takes off the cowl entirely and discards it on the floor. “If I take you outside, will you be happy?”

“No.” Your tongue is starting to feel heavy in your mouth, fuzzy around the edges. “I’ll still hate you.”

“Okay.” He looks away from you, reaches again for the bottle, then seems to think better of it. “We still go.”

“Now?” You don’t think you want to stand up, but you do it anyways, before he can even tell you what to do. You’re proud to note that the movement comes easily to you; if you were asked to walk in a straight line, you think that you could. Maybe you could run, too. Maybe faster than him, in your current states.

“Now.” He stands up beside you, surefooted, and grabs your hand. His fingers do not interlock with yours - instead, he wraps them around the back of your palm, and presses his thumb hard against the other side of it. His grip is stronger than it has any right to be, but it does not hurt.

“Why?”

“Why not?” He actually grins, and it’s so jarring that it brings you back down to earth for a moment. “You won’t run away.”

“You don’t know that.” You can see his teeth. By some miracle, they are white enough, and straight enough, but you are still disgusted by them. “I’ll probably try.”

“Okay.” He tugs you towards the door by your hand. “You try.”

You hesitate for a moment, and he pauses, allowing you to pick up the bottle from the floor. It is still open, but the smell of it has become far less offensive, and you grip it as tightly as he does to your hand. Then, you are out - out of the room, first, then past the staircase that he has not yet forced you to descend, where he comes up at the end of the day or night - past that, and then you are past the front door, and the wind that you listened to for so many minutes is howling in your ear. It occurs to you that you do not even know what the house looks like from the outside, but you do not bother turning around.

“This way.” Trees surround the house on every side, and he takes you into them, guiding you through the most spacious paths between the trunks. “I show you something.”

The last time he showed you something, it was not nice - you think about this, and clutch the bottle tighter to your chest, and try not to picture the bones beneath the skin of your hand, small and coated in blood and easy to break. He has similar bones in his possession, not all of them in one piece, belonging to bodies that were once people, with names he told you he had forgotten.

What are you doing? You tip the mouth of the bottle up to your lips, but he jerks you sharply in a new direction, and you only manage to catch a bit of what sloshes out. You vaguely register, moments later, that there is a clearing in front of you, and that it might be pretty in the daytime, and that there are weed-flowers at your feet, the color of which you cannot make out. More lucidly, you observe that the collar of your shirt is wet, and that Feitan’s grip on your hand is tight enough to hurt after all.

“We sit down now.” He sits, and takes you down with him, and more of the contents of the bottle slips away as you struggle to keep it in your grasp. The grass is wet, too. His face is very close to yours. His head tilts to a bizarre angle, his face seeming to blur in front of you, the curve of his smile higher on one side than the other. He laughs - it’s a raspy, quiet sound that is completely unfamiliar to you. Unfamiliar to him, too, you think. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you,” you say, although you do not know if it is true (it probably is - you don’t think he would laugh otherwise). The amusing thought comes back, and this time, you do not filter it away from your mouth. “You shouldn’t have drank as much as I did. We’re not the same size.”

“We’re not.” He blinks unnaturally slowly - or maybe he’s consciously closing his eyes, or maybe it’s just that everything seems a little slower, even the wind yanking his hair away from his face. “Closer sitting down.”

You snort. “Barely.”

“Then lie down.”

You realize that you have been wanting to laugh for a long time, and you do it wildly and bitterly, a grinning scream that you cut short with another swig of the thing which is starting to taste more like water than anything else. “I’m not stupid.”

“No.” He sways forward and puts his hand over yours, and you - after a moment, a stupid, stupid moment - snatch it away.

“‘m not stupid, and I hate you.” Your head feels light and heavy at the same time, scared and free, and neither feeling really matters, and you don’t want to think about it.

“I know.” He looks disappointed, you think, although he might just be tired. How late is it? Late enough that before he arrived - how long ago? - you were scared of falling asleep - you have bad dreams, every night - but you feel okay now -

“Why’d you bring me here?” Your words are not coming out the way you want them to. You don’t mean this clearing - you mean here, with him, forever, or however long he wants you -

“I wanted to.” He gets what you mean, you think. “Might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.” He slips his hand into his pocket, and fidgets with something inside, and you do not think to wonder what it is.

“You should let me go.”

“No.”

“I should run away.” You laugh, because the idea of running right now is ridiculous, just like every other idea that passes through your head. All of this is awful, and stupid. Better to be stupid. “That way.” You raise your hand, and point to a place where the trees are less dense, where you think you could run without falling, if you really tried. “I’ll live in the woods. Hunt squirrels.” Oh, how nice it would be right now to talk to someone who wasn’t him. But it is good not to be alone. You think you would cry if you were alone. “You’d never find me.”

He coughs out another rusty laugh (but it’s mean this time, or it feels mean, anyways) and sticks his hand into his pocket. “Then go.” His eyes narrow, and he does not look disappointed anymore, but you’re not really thinking about how he feels to begin with. “I give you ten seconds.”

“Really?” You swing backwards where you sit, then straighten, then shake your head. Make it clear. Do you bring the bottle with you? It will slow you down, but you want it. If you do not have it (oh, god) you will have to wake up and think about all of this, and you don’t want that. It scares you. You can’t.

“Ten.”

You blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Nine.”

“Fuck.” You rise clumsily to your feet, stumble on your first step, and take off straight ahead, with what’s left of your liquor held tight to your chest. The trees are dense, your footing unstable, and suddenly you are going sideways when you mean to go straight - a branch scratches your face, and you grab it, as if to tear it straight off the tree. What number is he on? He was not talking loudly, and you cannot hear it except in your own head, where you are trying to keep track. Three, two?

You hear the crackle of dead leaves somewhere close. Closer. Then his hand is on yours, and you have fallen, and you have no idea which one of these things happened first, and your hands are empty, and the ground is wet on your back. You open your mouth. At the same moment, you feel something hard and sharp against your neck, but you don’t register that in time to stop yourself from speaking - or attempting to. You don’t know what you’re trying to say.

“You stop talking now.” The blade that appeared from nowhere (his pocket?) presses down, just shy of breaking the skin, and does not move for what feels like a very long time. But time is strange at the moment. You are not as scared as you are confused. You do not talk, and he takes it away, and it is such a relief that you do not think much about the other things. He is warm on top of you (he is lying on top of you) but not very heavy (but blurry) and his face is close and you can feel his breath on your face and it does not smell bad. Just like yours. The rest of that smell is pouring out on the ground (you heard the bottle crack when you dropped it, you think).

He kisses you before you can laugh about it, or cry about it, and his tongue is strange and slow and thick. Your hands come up, and push, but they fall down before long, and he kisses your neck. Bites. Doesn’t hurt very much at all. Knife catches at the neckline of your shirt, cuts -

Not far. His hand is not steady. Slips. Prick. You don’t think you’re bleeding but you wouldn’t know if you were. Nothing hurts. You think you hear him curse. Heavy metal leaves you and thuds in the pretty wet grass. There’s a strange expression on his face which makes you think that he might be close to laughing or crying too, and you don’t like it. Your shirt is still wet and noticing it again is a relief - you can think about that, and nothing else.

“You want to?” He tugs at the waist of your pants and pulls them down before you really answer. Your legs are apart now, and you do not want it to be him between them, but it feels good to be touched there - there - and you cannot make yourself hate it. You can’t hate anything. You can’t feel much besides him. There is a warm haze, and beneath that, there is shame and fear and loathing that you do not have to feel right now, that would make everything worse if you did feel it.

You do feel it, for a second too long, and your legs slide closer together, but not close enough to make it stop.

“You don’t want to?” His two fingers slide inside you (too easy, easier than it should be) and curl up like they’re trying to push an answer out of you, and your mouth opens and something comes out, but not words. His eyes narrow and he smiles and the darkness or something else makes it all look different than it did before. “I want to.”

Your hips move in the wrong direction, into him, and the thing you should and want to say does not come out, because he makes you feel good when you try. If he was not doing that he would be making you feel scared instead. This is better. This is the best it could ever be.

The smile drops, all at once. “Answer.”

You close your eyes so you don’t have to see it. Now, it doesn’t have to be him. Could be anyone. Could be no one at all. “Feels good,” you mumble.

“Good.”

The hand slips out of you and lands on the side of your face, slick, and you are kissed and you do not kiss back. “Good.” He says it into your mouth between kisses. His other hand is somewhere else. Down. “Good.” You try not to hear it. The wind whips up around you and you listen to that, and feel it hard against your cheek, and him hard against your stomach. Wind scrapes over your skin. He scrapes over your skin. Finds your entrance and holds himself there for too long. “You want to.” Not a question. Maybe he believes it and maybe you do too.

“Mm.” You’ll fall asleep as soon as it is over. It will be easy. Like taking a drink.

His breath shudders as he presses inside you. His whole body goes along with it, tightens against your skin, face shoved into your neck. Your eyes snap open and you fight their lids back down. When you let yourself think about it, the good feeling starts to go away. But it doesn’t hurt. It would’ve hurt, if it happened a different night, when you had to think…

He looks up and you somehow raise your head just enough to see his eyes. Wide. “Talk.”

“Feels good,” you mumble, and it must be enough, because his nails scrape your scalp and snag firmly into your hair and he is going and going but you can barely feel anything at all anymore. You lied, you guess.

It ends quickly. He says something that you can’t hear and then he is out of you and there is wet on your thigh that has nothing to do with the grass. And still, he is not done with you. His weight stays. His arms hook under your shoulders and hold tight.

One final time, you force your mouth and eyes open, because you cannot sleep like this. He’s staring at you, waiting, and you barely recognize his face at all. If you did, you would hate it.

You manage to say it. Exactly what you want to say. “Get off.”

His gaze drops to the grass. It’s quiet, for a long time.

You close your eyes. “Get off.”

“Okay.” His hand flutters against your cheek, and you feel his hot breath over your face, close enough to kiss you one final time.

He doesn’t. His weight lifts, and you can breathe.

And you can sleep.

***

There is a moment when you wake up before you feel any pain. Your head does not hurt, your stomach does not churn, your eyes do not flinch at the sunlight that pokes them through the trees.

But you would take all of those little kinds of suffering over the feeling that overrides them all. It strangles your chest and your throat and keeps you from rising or moving even an inch to look around. You hear his breathing. You hear his body shift in the grass, and know that he knows you are awake.

And yet, he doesn’t say a thing. Not yet. When he does, all the things you half-remember will flood your brain, and you will have no defense, except to hope that he has another bottle stashed away somewhere, and that he will be kind enough to give it to you.

Not yet. You feel the dampness of the shirt on your back, and taste the foulness of your own breath and the rot rising up from your throat, and smell the bitter stench of the night before. And you pretend, for as long as you can, that not yet means never again.

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Been thinking...What kind if yandere would Xiao be?

Two words: overprotective and overbearing. It's not easy getting his attention, his mind constantly seeming focused elsewhere, but once you do, you've got it forever.

This feeling, this thumping in his chest, Xiao can't recognize it as love, but knows that he only feels this way towards Liyue and you. Therefore, he believes that this feeling is a need to protect you, especially you, not just the city. But protecting someone who doesn't need nor want protection is troublesome.

It takes a while before you even notice he's watching. With the constant hustle and bustle of Liyue, eyes are everywhere, so nothing seems out of the ordinary. However, if you were to look onto roof or mountain tops, you might be able to catch him staring down. Not at the roads or buildings, but at you. And once you notice, you can't stop.

It's hard to shake him, even telling him to go away means he only leaves your line of sight. He's still somewhere watching you, protecting you even though you insist you don't need it. Hiding in the shadows and waiting for something to go wrong.

And you'd better hope and pray that nothing does. If Xiao ends up saving you from a hilichurl attack or even a petty robbery, he will feel as if he was proven right. Just like the city of Liyue, you need to be protected. And even if you thank him and try to get away, he won't ever let you.

Assume that as Xiao continues to consider you incompetent and incapable of taking care of yourself, he'll care less and less about what you want. Freedoms will be taken away slowly and how would you be able to stop him from doing so? Do you think you could take him on in a fight.

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Cw: Mild Dacryphilia, Gn Reader! Oral, Size kink, dom/sub, a bit non-withdrawable consent if you squint, user has a crush on Capitano, power play

Telling you, I won't slow down, won't slow down Girl, you gotta know right now, there's no way out Imma pull the trigger off And imma let these bullets talk

Capitano glared down at the little soldier in training standing in front of him, their eyes red from crying so hard, cheeks and nose flushed too, the makeshift tent filled with the noise of their sobs.

"Tears will do you no favor, this is the outcome of your own incompetency," he said, yet the way his pants tighten around him crotch by the sound of your pathetic noises.

Silly thing trying fight off some treasure hoarders who tried to meddle with the fatui cargo you were help shipping, only to ruin the supplies yourself, by falling over them. Your posture all wrong, can't even hold a sword properly, yet tried to be a hero just for his attention.

And you did get his attention, alright, especially from his dick who takes a special interest how perfect you look, especially when crying.

"Why not make up to me then, cadet?"

"Ho-"

His finger laid against your lips shushing you, so gentle, as he leaned down so that your forehead can touch the cold metal of his helmet, his hand cupping your face, lightly brushing away the tear stains, "Just be a good doll for me"

His hand patted your head lightly before lightly pushing you down, guiding you to your knees, leaning a bit back, his torso moving ahead, so his clothed dick rub against your face.

Looking up at him for approval, you gained a strong tap on your chin, "Hands on knees, no more waiting." So you followed, hands pressed down, lowering his zipper with your teeth, only to be greeted by the unholiest length in Tevyat, gasping out loud. His pretty uncut cock very thick, and long, veins all visible and the slight up tilt on the tip, oozing out trickles of pre cum on your parted lips.

Tired of your slow pace, he positioned hi hand on the back of your head, pushing it on his cock, making you gag at the sudden intrusion in your throat, causing you to slap his thigs as a reflex, eyes watering again, earning a sharp pull on your hair, forcing his cock deeper in your throat.

"If you can't be useful if the field might as well use your pretty body for something." God how he loved they tears rolling down your cheeks, "Don't act like you haven't been dreaming about this for month, I'm not blind if you aren't aware."

Silly thing want to crush on him? He had all the rumors about you moaning his name in your nightly 'self-care', they way you look at him like he's a god, they way you are unable to not blush around him. A warrior must be observant after all, he notice the way your body moves, how pretty you look while doing anything and everything, how much you are not suitable for the cruel battle grounds, how desperately you need someone to take care of you.

How suitable you are to stand alongside him in public, and how pretty below him in bed, all his to indulge in.

Well if you want him so bad then get ready to be the best cocksleeve in Tevyat and he happily be yours for the eternity, no take backs.

Wrote this honor of him invading my dreams last night, hoping he come or cum back.

[nesting-in-ur-walls]

pink elf blue elf true color scheme reveal (finally)

[nesting-in-ur-walls]

Nothing better than telling my angel friend about how I want to rip an angel's wings and how I also want to eat his wings

[nesting-in-ur-walls]

Delusional Yandere Elf

Quick colored sketch to show his colors

[nesting-in-ur-walls]

Title: Homesickness.

Pairing: Yandere!Silver x Reader (TWST).

Word Count: 1.6k.

Commissioned by the very lovely @felix-the-lemon-king.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Physical Intimidation, Arranged Marriages, and Manipulation.

“You’re going to miss the ball, beloved.”

You flinched into yourself as you heard his voice, accompanied by the sound of clipped heels against stone floors and the slight reverberation of both disruptions against barren walls. A foolish, naïve part of you had convinced the rest that a royal guard – no, a general would have too much pride to be found absent from his own betrothal celebrations, let alone be seen in a servant’s hall, but you should’ve known better. There were many in Briar Valley who let their pride distort their vision, countless who allowed their rank and titles to overshadow even their most basic sense of rationality. Silver was, tragically, not among them.

And Silver was, tragically, the only resident of the valley you were engaged to.

You didn’t rush to respond. Patiently, you counted the seconds until he was standing at the base of the stairwell you’d took refuge in – not unlike the way you used to hide in spare bedrooms and vacant parlors as a child, whenever your parents were entertaining guests who had too many questions about your pointed ears and the scales on the backs of your hands. And, tangentially, you couldn’t say the bolt of dread that would always strike your chest when you heard you parents calling you out of that day’s chosen hiding place was totally dissimilar to the fear that knotted in the back of your throat as Silver stepped into your line of sight, coming to stand in the doorway at the stairwell’s base. He was still dressed in his regalia, his clothing evenly divided between the pitch-black armor of the royal guards and the formal attire that would be expected, given the occasion. His sword was sheathed at his waist – a sight that, weeks ago, might’ve made you somewhat wary, but that you’d since grown desensitized to. No part of you found comfort in the fact that he seemed to be constantly within arm’s reach of a weapon, but it was hard to be scared of something he never seemed to draw.

It took him a moment to find you in the darkness, his eyes more limited by it than your own, but he seemed to soften as his gaze finally landed on you. “You’ll miss the ball,” he repeated, his tone concerned rather than irritated. Another small blessing – for a knight, your betrothed seemed remarkably slow to anger. “Is something wrong? I know Malleus took charge of the arrangements, but if something doesn’t suit your preferences, I can—”

“It’s beautiful,” you assured, because it was. Because it had been. Because for any little girl from the Briar Valley or any other fae land had been in your place, this all would’ve been nothing short of a dream come true, but you weren’t a little girl, and you weren’t from Briar Valley, and you found very few things beautiful about the idea of getting married at all, let alone to a man you had only recently met. “It’s only…” You curled your hands around the fabric of your own attire. “I’m afraid I’m just… not very good at parties, I guess. I’m sorry.”

You half-expected Silver to frown, to urge you back to the banquet hall he’d come from, but he only sighed, shaking his head in a sympathetic sort of way before taking to the stairs and seating himself beside you, leaving a measured gap between your body and his. “You don’t have to apologize. I know you’re not used to being here, just yet.” He paused, flashed a small smile in your direction. Even at the best of times, you struggled to read his expression – not because he was overly cold, but because he always seemed to radiate that same uncanny, only a touch above off-putting warmth. At least a portion of it had to be insincere. Fae or human, there wasn’t a person alive who could be so consistently affable. “It took me months to adjust, the first time I left the valley. Everything was so alien – if I hadn’t been travelling with my father, I wouldn’t have lasted more than a day.”

It was difficult, but you did your best to smile, to laugh. Although your pairing had seemed strange at first, it did make a twisted kind of sense – a fae born without magic, raised by the human nobility of a country with only negligible ties to Briar Valley, arranged to marry a human with magical prowess in spades, raised in service of a fae king, for the mutual benefit of their homelands. You wouldn’t have been surprised to find out it was a part of some elaborate joke, the type it was rumored your kin were so fond of. It was only unfortunate that you had to be the target of their humor.

“The dark bothers me more than anything,” you admitted, before you could think better of it. “Where I come from, it’s almost always sunny. Having to live someplace without light and with so little warmth—” And so many cruel faces, and so many gnashing teeth, “—I suppose I’m at a bit of a loss.”

“It’s not always like this.” It was the most eagerly you’d ever seen him speak. “You’ve come during a poor season for it, but the view from the castle’s highest tower on a clear day is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, and the valley’s coasts get much more sun. I’ve heard they tend to hold their festivals around this time of year, too.” He seemed to pause, to consider, then went on, “After the wedding, I’d be my pleasure to take you to one.”

At that, you let yourself relax. He was aloof, sure, but he was kind, too. You could be thankful for that, if nothing else. “I was planning to return home as soon as possible, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer.”

“Of course.” If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve thought you heard him moving closer to you. “Malleus suggested we continue to stay in the castle while you settle, but… it would be nice, if we had our own home.”

Your delicate smile wavered. “Silver, I know we haven’t talked about this but—”

“Unless you’d like to stay here, I mean. But, I’d still like to show you the cabin where—”

“Silver,” you tried, again, letting out an exasperated laugh. “I meant that I’m not going to stay in the valley at all after the wedding. I understand why I’ve been asked to marry you, and it’s not that I haven’t enjoyed my time here, but—” Another laugh, a pleading glance in his direction. “I don’t belong here, as you wouldn’t belong anywhere but Briar Valley. You know that, don’t you?”

Now, it was Silver’s turn to go quiet. When you found the nerve to look toward him, you found him staring blankly ahead, his lips ever so slightly quirked downward. Huh.

So that was what he looked like, after he’d gone cold.

You didn’t see him draw his sword. His hand was on his hilt, grip tight enough to bleed the color from his knuckles, and then, your back was pressed against the harsh slant of the staircase, the flat of his blade pressed to the base of your throat and Silver above you. You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. You might’ve forgotten to breathe, too, if you hadn’t been shocked enough to let out a single, airy gasp – just loud enough to be audible.

“After the wedding,” he started, speaking slowly, carefully, as if he was afraid you might not understand. “I think you should remain in the valley, with me. I’ll build us a house – a cabin not far from the castle – and you’ll be safe and warm for as long as I can take care of you. Would you like that?”

You opened your mouth, but suddenly couldn’t remember how to move your tongue. Silver angled his wrist, the slant of his blade pressing into tender flesh. “Would you like that, beloved?”

“I---” You forced yourself to swallow, to shut your eyes. “I want to go home, Silver.”

This time, you felt something razor-sharp and frigid bite into the skin just below your jawline, drawing the thinnest possible trail of blood. “And you will.” Then, after a measured pause, “And that home will be with me.”

He wasn’t cruel enough to make you say it aloud. All it took was a quick nod, a pathetically fractured whimper, and he was drawing back, returning his sword to its sheath as he pushed himself to his feet. There was no mention of swords or cabins or the blood now dripping down your neck – only long, weighted look, the implications of which you didn’t wish to examine. “Stay here.” Almost reflexively, you moved to stand, but all it took was a tilt of his head and a flash of his blade to have you falling back into place, paralyzed. “I’ll tell Malleus that you won’t be returning. When I’m finished, we’ll return to our chambers together.”

You hadn’t formerly been sharing chambers, but pointing that out felt redundant, if not entirely useless.

You watched as he started to turn away, only to hesitate and return to you. With a deliberate kind of slowness, he lowered himself onto one knee in front of you, taking your limp hand in his. “Of all the people I could’ve been betrothed to, I’ve found myself increasingly glad that I’m betrothed to you.”

His smile was warmer than it ever had been, and yet, you’d never felt so cold.

“And, eventually, I know you’ll feel the same.”