#anon you ate with this!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yeyinde · 2 months ago

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caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

#this was originally a request but tumblr ate all of my asks so :/#babysitter!reader x ghost anon this is for you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghostfics

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ssparksflyy · 10 months ago

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just thinking about first kiss w/leo and your hands are in his hair except he gets nervy and the tips of his curls accidentally catch fire and burn your hands !!

so then he carries you bridal style to the infirmary, literally crying and begging for forgiveness

and yk the talk with will as of how you acquired these odd shaped burns is awkward as hell

anon ur so right

whats funny about it is that the tips of his hair catching fire is actually one of your favorite things about him, you think its super cute and tease him about it sometimes- calling him names like 'hot head' and telling how adorable you think it is only makes them burn brighter and has him shoving his tomato red face into his hands. you werent lying when you called it adorable, it truly always made your heart flutter and brought a smile to your face.

so when it happens during your first kiss together, you obviously pull away and remove your hands from his hair cause.. well.. they just got burnt ?? but you still cant help but smile a bit.

the burns themselves werent extremely bad, they just stung a bit, and the kiss was great but that didnt stop leo from freaking out and immediately apologizing repeatedly, asking you if you were okay and grabbing your hands to get a better look at them.

you explain to him that youre okay, but this man is literally on the verge of tears, thinking you hate him and never ever want to see him again. you assure him youre ok, and just need to run over the infirmary for a quick treatment.

you try to turn away to the infirmary, but leo is so quick to literally sweep you off your feet and carry you in his arms, bridal style. he says something about making it up to you and calls himself 'your certified knight in shining armor' which only makes you smile more.

he begins scurrying over to the infirmary, pushing past campers so determined to get you there as quickly as possible, making you giggle. he puts you down at the door of the infirmary, quickly grabbing the door and holding it open for you.

you let out a light laugh and a 'thank you', then brush past him and into the infirmary. he follows right behind you, closing the door behind him. you walk up to the counter, asking one of the apollo kids for some assistance with your burns and she leads you over to sit and wait on one of the hospital beds until will can help you.

leo sits in the chair right next to you and even though youve told him a million times that youre ok, his leg cant help from bouncing and he can't stop fidgeting with his fingers. you notice his behaviors and put a hand on top of his busy ones, giving him a soft smile. he looks up and returns the smile, but is snapped out of his la-la-land trance when will walks over with his clipboard, ready to help you.

he asks you whats wrong and takes a look at your hands, but seems to have a puzzled look on his face.

"how'd you get these burns? theyre really weirdly shaped." he asks.

your face gets hot and your body tenses up, leo having the same reaction.

"uhmmm..uh- i-"

"wel-well you see what had happened was-"

"we ummm.."

"out with it already." will said, giving you a deadpan look.

you and leo glanced at each other in panic, but knew you shouldnt lie. not to will.

"we..wellwekissedandiwastouchinghishairbutthenitcaughtonfireandburntmyhadns" you mumbled quickly, looking down.

"what?" will asked, moving closer in hopes of hearing you better.

"wee.. kissed and i had my hands in his hair but then it caught on fire and burnt my hands" you said, elongating the syllables and feeling your face get hotter with each word.

will tired so hard not to laugh or smile, after all he was in a 'professional environment' ( as chrion called it ) but he really couldn't help it, he smirked and put your hands down, walking away from you and over to the cabinet where all the camp's ointments were kept.

he smothered a glob of the ointment onto your hands then bandaged them up so they could heal properly, and let you go on with your day- but not without a few teases and jokes while leo helped you fill out your paperwork.

after you finished up in the infirmary, you and leo walked out together and immediately plopped onto the bench outside.

"well that was embarrassing" leo said, stating the obvious.

"yep... well, now i know to learn from my mistake the next time i kiss you" you said, a small smirk forming onto your face.

your comment had caught leo by surprise, "what? wait... again? you-you'd wanna do that again?"

you turned to face him with a smile, "i mean why not? youre a good kisser and it's not like ive havent a crush on you for years"

leo had to be on the verge of a heart attack with each surprise he'd faced today, this one only pushing him further off the edge, "you've had a crush on me for years????"

you simply nodded your head and smiled, trying to play it cool when in reality your heart was ready to run out of your chest.

leo ran his fingers through his hair in disbelief, "wait so were you like really good at hiding it or something?? cause ive had a crush on you for years and i feel like its always been painfully obvious."

it was your turn to get nervous, suddenly at a loss for words.

"w-well, maybe you should do something about it then." you said, sounding more confident than you felt.

"well maybe i will."

he cupped your face with his hand and brought you in close for your second kiss that day, holding your hands down with his free one, and moving his lips slowly against yours. this time, the kiss was long and soft, the way your first one should've been. when the two of you finally pulled away for air, you had stupid smiles on your faces that only grew after leo asked you,

"would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?"

to which you gladly said yes to.

#i am on a ROLL #smau fic moodboard AND blurd #this may not seem like a lot to yall but apparently im in a yapper mood cause this never happens #anyway i literally loved this prompt like anon u ate with this one #this was so funness to right !!#percy jackson #pjo #percy jackson x reader #leo valdez #leo valdez x reader #leo valdez x you #by bells ♡⋆ ࣪.#all da ladies luv leo ˖⋆࿐໋

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kawareo · 8 months ago

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Non-Durge Strike would've been a far worse person than he is as Durge, fun fact

Non-Bhaalspawn Strike is a child of a drow and a cambien who was found by his adoptive mothers back in their pirate days, before they settled down. He's a magical prodigy that grows up in a loving home that actively encourages him in pursuing the study of magic. He's an extremely talented sorcerer and he knows it, and without Bhaal who would keep his ego in check by being an abusive father, Strike becomes just kind of the worst?

No Bhaal means that doing good (non-murder) things isn't taboo or a novelty anymore, so they're boring now. He has no god to serve so there is noone he would feel inferior to, which means that all his ambition now goes unchecked and he ends up wanting to be a god himself. He's a sociopath in any au, here that just means less murder and more selfishness. He's still charming and manipulative but now lacks the background of a sheltered, abused child, so boy does it get worse.

In game time: There is no memory loss and no physical trauma, meaning that Strike doesn't have to rely on his companions for survival and support for his crippling mental health; he's sane, perfectly self aware and in perfect control of himself. Because of that he just manipulates mansplains manwhores his way to be in charge of the team and never establishes a strong bond with anyone there. Him and Gale know eachother from when they were studying in Waterdeep and Strike always looked down on Gale for needing to rely on Mystra for his spells. He would very much encourage Gale to explode himself and in the end succeed.

He gets Astarion to ascend. Why? Cause he wants to see how the ritual works, nothing else. Demonic magic would be really interesting to him. He'd then break up with Astarion and laugh in his face at the idea of becoming bonded to him for life - they leave off on bitter terms. They do save Aylin but only because Strike wants to see a demigod in action; later he helps her kill Lorroakan but also steals the wand that could seal Aylin forever, just in case if he ever needs a convenient immortality on hand.

When he meets Gortash they vibe so hard with eachother that Karlach punches Strike in the face for being such an awful dick about it, but he manipulates his way out of the situation. He does like Gortash but at the same time pities him because he thinks it's pathetic to serve a god like that.

In the end, he gets the crown of Karsus for himself and manages to override it back into its true purpose, and the gang would have to fight him to try and stop him. Upon their failure, he'd become the next Karsus.

So yeah, all in all? Bhaal surprisingly helps him be a way better person lmao

#sorry anon tumblr ate your ask #but thank you for it!! made me think a lot lmao #bg3 #oc strike #answered asks #kawa rambles #tav

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shanastoryteller · 7 months ago

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Happy Halloween Shana! Would really be interested to see Sirius and Mollys conversation at the black house during Phoenixes dont take orders in Siat 😍 Otherwise gimme your fave rare pair <3

When Dean filches his brother's address from the registrar's office, he thinks it has to be a mistake. Sam couldn't afford to live here if he sold both kidneys. He couldn't afford to live here if he had a fucking kidney selling side hustle.

Breaking into this place is out of the question, so instead of sneaking in during the middle of the night, he shows up bright and early and gives the doorman his most charming grin. "I'm here for Sam Winchester."

"Is he expecting you?" he asks, bored.

Dean's smile doesn't dim. "Not exactly. I'm his brother."

That gets some life in the doorman's eyes and he checks his computer. "Dean Winchester?"

What the fuck. Apparently Sam does live here. "Got it in one."

"Right this way, sir," he says gesturing to an elevator with no buttons that opens for him. "It will take you directly to the penthouse."

The penthouse? The penthouse?

He'd going to get Sam to help him find Dad, but first things first he's going to shake Sam until some answers fall out, because what the hell.

He takes the elevator up and walks cautiously into some sort of entry room. He has to resist the urge to walk though gun first, the place all smooth lines and chrome and dark colors. It's freaking him out.

The kitchen is even more chrome and black cabinets and black tiled floors, but there's also his little brother, standing there shirtless in black silk pants and fiddling with what he thinks is an espresso machine. "Sam?"

He turns quickly, eyes widening in surprise. "Dean? What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" he scoffs. "What are you doing here?"

Sam stares. "I... live here?"

"Here?" he repeats. "Here?"

His little brother is rolling his eyes, as if he's the one being ridiculous and not perfectly reasonable.

There's the sound of someone walking and an admittedly drop dead gorgeous red head turns the corner, a black silk robe open and revealing matching lace panties and bra. She gasps, fluttering her hands over her mass of curly hair. "Oh, Samuel! You didn't tell me we had company!"

She doesn't make any effort to close her robe.

Sam rolls his eyes. "As if you didn't know he was coming. You should have told me we were having company."

"Yes, well, where's the fun in that?" she asks, grinning as she crosses the room over to Sam. She's so short that Sam has to practically bend in half to kiss her, and woah, what the hell?

Sure, she's hot, but she's a least a decade older than Sam. Probably closer to two. What the hell is going on here?

"Dean," Sam says, his hand on her waist. "This is my girlfriend, Rowena."

#sam: do not tell my brother you're a witch i don't want to deal with the freak out #rowena: you are no fun whatsover #like sure she's a little evil and she only started messing with sam because he was young and hot and she's easily distracted but whatever #next thing she knows she's stopped torturing people and is just getting ate out on the daily #amazing what that does for the mood #sam should have been a witch and they should have fucked !!#anyway when azazel tries to burn her alive on the ceiling she squishes him like a bug #prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #anon #supernatural

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mightytato · 1 month ago

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Have you ever drawn TFP Megatron before, if you have, can you show us 👅

oh gosh lol

i have actually! (few months ago) my bf asked me to draw him and his sona interacting.. but like,,,it was on my phone (plus i spedran themhehehgfeffghs), and my phone drawings arrrreee aaAASSS compared to my wacom drawings, especially if i aint really putting the work in like that

anyway here they are

also, have a megatron i drew specifically for this ask cause i couldn't stand to look at the other drawings lol

with and without shadow

ngl,,,, how many letters in megatron,,,,

#rubyanswers #rubyart #rubydoodles #maccadam #maccadams #transformers #transformers prime #tfp #megatron #tfp megatron #look at that evil grin #i hate it(lies)#anyway here you go anon lol #hope this is satisfactory #ATE #im so cringe #plz don't unsubscribe

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jewishvitya · 3 days ago

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I love cats

#I just want the original here without the AI version #thank you anon that pointed it out to me though #tumblr ate the reply when I tried to respond to that ask

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eff-exor · 2 months ago

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almost summer time tum

#is me!!#ate bread today and it made me extra squishy #(im more bloated than usual ok. i do not need stinky anons telling me YOIRE NOT EVEN SQUISHY!!)#i am squishier than i once was and and and. Well. i just had surgery a couple weeks ago and im being very unkind to myself #but would it really be an eff post without a shit tonne of self deprecation??? no #BUT ALSO HAHAHAHAJ MY HYPERMOBILE ASS FINGERS WHYYYYYY #listen ik they look goofy as shit but if you have a problem w how my bendy fingers look #we can discuss it while i am knuckle deep inside u :)#fave fuck boy summer pose. wish i had abs to really sell the whole Fuck Boy image i so clearly have going on #(been masc dom sadist top for months and idk if it’ll ever go back the other way LOL)#idk idkdkidodk if this flops i might never post again so.#where are all my pretty femmes who need a bf with a cunt?? im right HERE #my proportions are just weird i have a v small waist and v wide hips and v wide shoulders and a PHAT ass and big fucking tits.l #HELP #ill post more when i like myself again ok. this is forced and horrible

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sunniques · 1 month ago

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hiii lovely, hope you are having or had a bread weekend 🤍 i was seeing cheol’s met gala pics again and seeing that rich man aura he had got me thinking…

having an affair with seungcheol who is your dad’s best friend and business partner, getting with him wasn’t that hard, a widower who was tired of being lonely and gets to spoil a younger woman who gives him company and great sex, you weren’t complaining, older men was always your thing they know more than boys your age and cheol wasn’t the exemption, all good until cheol’s son comes back from studying aboard and your dad tried to pair you with him, even throw a whole dinner party to welcome him, seungcheol was annoyed you can see the vein on his forehead popping and his forced smile when your dad joked with him about being in-laws, in the middle of the party he managed to get you into your room while everyone was drinking and having fun downstairs while he was pounding your cunt, with your ass up and face on the mattress, dress lifted up while you tried to hold your moans and screams so you both don’t get caught “what would your dad think if he sees his innocent princess being fucked by his friend like the slut she is in her bedroom?” you knew he was furious, he never fucked you like this or even talked to you like this, he most of the time was a great lover who made sure you alway felt satisfied but now he was feeling so possessive over you “your dad is crazy if he thinks i will let my useless son near you”, you were so overwhelmed in pleasure and forgot how many times you cum and he as well in such a little time, after he is done with you he told you not to wear your panties as he puts them in his pocket, he wants to see his cum dripping down your leg so everyone can know you already have an owner

- 🎧

this has me doing laps i have nothing to add 🙂‍↕️

#no you ate with this #fuckkk #🎧 anon #mailbox #hard thoughts

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zorrasucia · 10 months ago

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can we get your take on the trapped inside the fridge trope? enemies to lovers vibes between reader and carmy? pls and congrats on 300 followers

Hello, Anon! Thank you ☺️💜

And yes definitely! I went for a version where they get trapped a week or so before opening night - I love Carmy with all my heart but he would be absolutely unfuckable that day lol

Send a request for my 300 followers celebration! 🥂

Michelin star chef Carmen Berzatto had already gone through two of the stages of grief after finding out that you two were trapped inside the walk in fridge. He had loudly declared 'this can't be happening' about twenty times, trying the handle over and over: denial. Then, he slammed the door with his fists and palms, cursing at the top of his lungs, screaming his throat raw for no one to hear: anger.

"Fucking manchild," you mumbled under your breath while he screamed through the phone, trying to get "the fridge guy" to get you two out.

You had been training at the kitchen of The Bear for the past couple of weeks, preparing for their opening, and your opinion of Carmy was less than stellar already.

"The fuck were you still doing here anyway?" he barked, like he had suddenly remembered you were there too.

You sighed.

"You asked me to stay, Chef," you emphasized. Was it mature and productive to play the blame game? No. But you were exhausted and cold and tired of Carmy's bullshit. "You asked me to re-label the produce because the tape was torn, not cut."

Carmy looked at the containers right in front of him, his gaze vacant as one tattooed finger traced the edges of torn out tape, one of the last few you had left to replace.

"Right," he exhaled. He seemed to have tired himself out. "What time is it?"

You checked your phone. "Quarter past midnight."

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck," you agreed, crossing your arms to stay warm.

Carmy looked at you, his blue eyes fixed on your face as a shiver went down your spine.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just fine. Freezing myself to death is all," you snarked.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then quickly removed his chef whites, and offered them to you.

"I'm fine," you repeated but then a second shiver went through you. "Thanks, Chef," you accepted reluctantly. The fabric was warm from his body, smelling of aftershave and sweat - manly. You wished you didn't enjoy the scent as much as you did.

He put hands in his pockets, keeping warm now that he was only wearing his t-shirt. Your eyes studied the tattoos on his arms and hands trying to guess the meaning or beauty behind them, stubbornly refusing to break the heavy silence between you.

His phone chimed.

"It's, uh, Tony, the fridge guy," Carmy said. "Says he can be here in an hour."

"Plus however long he takes to get us out," you guessed. Carmy nodded. Then, he shivered.

Fuck.

You couldn't believe you were going to suggest this.

"Want a hug?" you offered, looking down.

"Mmm?" Carmy cocked his head, genuinely confused.

"I said, do you want a hug?" you repeated, arms uncrossing. "You're freezing and I'm freezing and we've got at least an hour and a half more of this bullshit."

He stood in silence for a whole minute.

"Alright."

He moved closer to you, hands by his sides, completely still, waiting for you to make the move. There was something endearing about it, you thought as you laced your arms around his wide shoulders, solid muscle under your palms. You were practically the same height, his curls tickled your cheek.

"This okay?" you asked.

"Yes, better," he agreed reluctantly, his voice vibrating through your chest.

You felt like you were holding a statue. Maybe it was a good thing - it would be a little fucked up if the Carmy Berzatto was eager to hold you tight and touch your body. However, a part of you, the part that loved his smell and liked the look of his arms, kind of hoped he would hug you back.

"You can hold me, if you want," you whispered.

He took a step closer and wrapped his arms around your waist, his exhale caressing your neck.

You stood there, in silence, for a while, unnaturally still. You rubbed your thumb over his shoulder for a bit, it made it feel more like a real hug and less awkward.

All of a sudden, Carmy cleared his throat and moved away.

"You okay?" you asked.

He turned his back to you, hands on his hips.

"I, uh, yes, I'm fine," he replied, voice choked up.

"I'm not going to report you to HR or anything, if that's what you're worried about," you mumbled, suddenly feeling very guilty. "Or if I made you uncomfortable-"

He shook his head. "No, no. It's not your-" he stopped himself.

"My f-fault?" you finished, shivering again. The cold seemed to double down now that his body wasn't shielding you and you wanted him back where he was.

"It isn't. It's just been a while," he ended cryptically, glancing over his shoulder towards you, face flushed even with the cold, rearranging his apron to better cover his crotch. And suddenly you understood. You didn't make him uncomfortable, if anything he was too comfortable in your embrace.

"Oh."

"Yeah," he looked up at the ceiling.

"Chef, it's fine," you tried to reassure him. He huffed incredulously. "It is."

Carmy ran his hands through his hair. You followed the lines of muscle you could guess under his t-shirt - it was a distracting sight. You were flushed down to the neck, warmth invading your belly, and it was way past midnight...

"Chef?" he only gave you a tense hum in response. "Can I help?"

"With what?" he replied brusquely. He was angry, again. He was hard for you and angry - why couldn't he just pick one?

"Never fucking mind," you rolled your eyes. "I was going to offer you a quick fuck but if you're going to be insufferable about that too then I guess you can will your boner away and die mad about it," you spat.

Carmy turned towards you with dark eyes.

"You weren't," he denied roughly. "Why would you? You weren't."

"Because I think you're hot and it feels nice being desired," you shrugged.

This wasn't about being in love or some bullshit, you had known each other for two weeks and you were pretty sure he hadn't really noticed you for most of that time. He was horny, you were willing, and you were both cold as fuck.

He took two steps and suddenly he was in your space, forehead almost touching yours.

"Would you still?" he asked simply, his breath tickling your lips.

"Yeah," you exhaled.

"Even with me being insufferable about it?" he insisted.

"Well, then I guess you better make me come," you dared him.

"Okay."

Carmy grabbed you in his arms and kissed you hard, cornering you against the shelves, his body warm and eager against yours. You ran your fingers through his hair, a little greasy from the day, but still soft and addicting to pull on. He groaned into your mouth. His nimble fingers untied his apron and yours, breaking a bruising kiss to throw them on the floor. He didn't attempt to remove any other piece of clothing.

"Not sure you've got your priorities straight," you sassed when he started kissing your neck and touching your breasts over your shirt.

He angled his hips so that you could feel his cock hard against your center. You moaned.

"Don't I?" he teased right back, smiling into your skin.

"Fuck you," you said without bite, panting as he ground his hips against yours. "Shouldn't feel this good," you mumbled hazily.

"Hmm?"

He seemed lost in it, breathing hard into the skin of your neck, the tips of his fingers tracing cold lines on the small of your back, his palms squeezing your ass greedily.

"It shouldn't feel this good to dry hump in a fucking walk-in," you finished your sentence with a breathy laugh.

Behind you, the shelves were shaking with the steady rhythm of Carmy grinding against you.

His blue eyes searched for yours. "I said I'd make you come. And I will," he panted. "But it's been a fucking long while and I need you to be good for me, okay?" His hands held your hips even tighter.

"Yes, Chef," you exhaled, holding on to his shoulders, opening your legs, and letting him use you.

His movements turned desperate, messy thrusts and low grunts as he stared into your eyes and chased his pleasure. He was breathing into your open mouth, drunk on lust, pupils blown.

"Let go. It's okay, let go," you said, one hand caressing his face.

Carmy let out a sharp groan and closed his eyes, holding you tighter as he came down from his high.

"Fuck," he exhaled on the side of your face, spent. You liked that he sounded soft and needy.

"Not so angry now," you teased, fingers carding through his hair.

He laughed and kissed your cheek, your jaw, your neck... His fingers unbuttoned your trousers with ease, and his right hand went inside your underwear unceremoniously.

You hissed at the cold.

"Kind of glad you didn't get me naked, actually," you admitted with a smile.

"Seems like we both enjoyed it just fine," Carmy goaded when his index traced your folds and found you soaking wet.

You couldn't come up with another biting remark, not with his finger inside you and his lips crushing yours. His thumb caressed your clit, doing lazy circles while his index curled inside you.

"Fuck!"

"Good?" he asked.

"More," you pleaded, becoming needy and monosyllabic, arching your back when his middle finger went inside you too.

Carmy swallowed your moans, humming encouragingly as you rode his hand.

"That's it, that's it," he whispered when your pussy started squeezing his fingers.

"Fuck, like that," you whined, rolling your eyes, fluttering around his knuckles, squeezing his shoulders, feeling a wave of pleasure leave you breathless.

You held him tight as you felt the aftershocks, a little confused that he hadn't removed his hand yet but enjoying the feeling of fullness.

His thumb pressed on your clit again, sensitive after your release but still electrified. You let out a low moan.

"I can stop," Carmy offered just as his fingers arched inside you again, making you roll your eyes and shake in his embrace.

"Don't stop," you begged.

It was quicker this time. He had you figured out and ready, pliant under his touch, one leg hoisted over his hip as you unraveled for him.

"Yes, like that," he mumbled as your hips started moving with a will of their own, your pussy tight around his fingers, everything turning white and hot for a moment. He kissed you through it - messy and open mouthed, enjoying your undoing almost as much as you did.

There was a couple of minutes of beautiful silence between you, just your heavy breathing interrupting it.

He kissed the side of your face as he took his hand out of your underwear, wet to the palm. He cleaned it thoroughly with one of the dish towels he kept at the sides of his apron. You blushed at the sight.

"I can wash that for you," you offered.

"No, need," he said, tucking it inside his pocket. His blue eyes took you in completely. "Thank you, Chef."

You nodded, biting your lip.

The fridge guy arrived shortly after that. You two spent the small hours of the morning sat on the floor, not talking, not arguing. Carmy's hand shielded your face from the bright sparks of metal cutting metal.

Things would go back to normal. He would be insufferable in the morning, no doubt, screaming and demanding, losing his mind over torn out tape. But you could enjoy this, having him soft and tired, his arm around your shoulders, knowing well what his fingers felt like three knuckles deep inside you.

#hope you like this - i've seen this trope done flawlessly before so it was a little daunting #i've only got one more request to go so don't be shy y'all #also if you sent anything else anon tumblr probably ate it so double text accordingly pls lol #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto fanfiction #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy x you #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto fanfiction #zorrasuciasweet300

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lesbianmarrow · 6 months ago

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i won’t lie learning that the platinum blond guy wasn’t the one named angel made me so mad lmao. like why is angel a normal looking dude

LITERALLY WHY IS HE A NORMAL LOOKING DUDE!!!!!!!! “they called him ‘angelus’ for his angelic face” and it’s just a completely normal looking man

#obsessed with this ask. thank you so much #anon #angel #spike #btvs #ats

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blkkizzat · 2 months ago

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Hey beloved! KALIII I am back from NOLA and let me just say...the architecture was amazing. I had a beautiful time. So I been thinking....

AMERICAN Vacation JJK Men

Gojo goes there to escape. He has one free minute where no one was watching and he fucked off to a different continent. He is there specifically for Mardi Gras. He wants someone to flash him. He buys SO MANY BEADS to throw and specifically LIVES OFF OF BEIGNETS. He finds cute bimbo reader there with friends. She's practically naked, has a giant hurricane in her hand for shits and gigs, standing outside cafe du monde waiting on her friend to get back cause they're cash only (which I found out the hard way) . He approaches slowly and offers to buy her beignets, and the two don't separate the entire week he's there. He's practically her vacation boyfriend. At some point, she's practically living at his hotel. She's stopped by her own hotel (4 miles away) about twice to pick up her makeup and let her friends know she's alright. She is being fucked 7 ways to sunday and has absolutely no complaints. End of the trip, he accompanies her to the airport and buys her a new ticket for a week from then for her hometown to Tokyo, one way. He is not letting that fine a piece of ass go.

Geto is supposed to be in New Orleans gathering curses. Nola so damn haunted it's not hard to find a few powerful ones pretty quickly. He spots reader on a haunted tour. Just outside a supposedly haunted house. While there are many actually haunted houses in Nola this particular one had a special grade curse. One that tries to sink it's teeth into reader before Geto shows up and quickly dispatches it. A traumatized and newly informed reader is still processing but Suguru captilizes on it and convinces her to accompany him to dinner. She is the dinner. For hours. He convinces her to come live on his compound because curses aren't a problem there

Nanami has not taken a vacation since high school. He's due. Or rather he is forced to take one cause he works too much. He finally decides what the hell, he's only young once. Be indulges in one night of drinking. He has LOW tolerance. He wakes up at some fancy hotel room in the French quarter with reader in a skimpy outfit next to him. Which is a problem because he was originally in Las Vegas. He has no idea how he got there. He goes through the room looking for his things. He finds an industrial pack of condoms with about 5 missing. His passport, a receipt for a cheap ring and a marriage certificate. Reader wakes up with much of the same confusion on how they got there but a little more insight on what happened before that. Kento had stopped some douche from hitting on her by pretending to be her fiance. He'd said that they were there that weekend to get married. Nanami had spent the next 3 hours with her as the guy creepily stalked her from a corner. They'd been drinking so much that one of them had suggested they actually get married and they'd gone through with it. Nanami has no idea what to do next he is supposed to be back in Japan in 4 days. but reader suggests she come to Japan so they can figure it out together. Her job doesn't require her to live anywhere in particular, so it works out . Three months later, she's still there. Nanami has found he likes being a husband. His wife is good company, the sex is beyond compare and he's enjoying watching his colleagues reactions to finding out he's married.

Toji, I see him going there for a hit job and as soon as it's done looking for something else to hit if you get me. He's in Miami. There's so much to do there. He finds himself on the beach. He loves to get some sun. Unintentionally, but not unwelcome, he ends up on a nude beach. Out of the water, completely topless, comes reader a smile on her face as she runs to her set up on the beach only ten feet from Toji. She looks up at Toji, who has completely taken to the vibe of the beach. Nude, dick out for everyone to see and her jaw drops. And a fifteen minute chat up and small drive later, so do her panties in Toji's car at the first quiet place they could find. By the time Toji is ready to drops her off at her hotel with an unmarked number, Jelly Legs and a smile-he's already planning on seeing her again. Before he can even think of going she looks at him through her lashes and tells him to park, because she is so not done with him yet.

Thoughts from a blissed out - 🧠

AHHHHHH I LOVE ALL OF THESE SO MUCH OML!!!!

I love NOLA down, I also went for mardi gras! so i totally see them in each one of these situations omg im in LOVE.

Haha we also fucked up and didnt know cafe du monde was cash only thankfully someone had enough cash to cover us all cause the beignets are cheap. gojo would totally be living off of them.

geto collecting curses there is so spot on, poor truamatized reader kjfsadbjfahbfjhskb

love, love LOVE nanamis one because if you end up accidentally married to anyone—you def hit the JACKPOT with nanami.

toji nude beach with his dick out fjkahsdjkfhabsdkj im screaming!! i would have fucked him right there kjfahsdbjhfa.

ahhh welcome back sweet 🧠 nonny i missed u, im glad you had such a good time!!! any hoe stories of your own??? i know u said u were gonna try haha.

#🧠 anon #ೃ༝💌⁀➷ 𝓀𝒾𝓏𝓏𝒶𝓉мαιℓ #ೃ💌⁀➷𝓀𝒾𝓏𝓏𝒶𝓉αησηѕ #ahhh you ate this pookies!!!#gojo x reader #toji x reader #geto x reader #nanami x reader #jjk smut

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iridescentmirrorsgenshin · 9 months ago

Note

I have no other place to yap this to so I apologise in advance.

I find it interesting in Alhaitham and Kaveh’s voicelines they tend to talk about each other A LOT in a way of complaining. Such as in Alhaitham’s Good night voiceline where he says that he’d prefer that Kaveh wouldn’t be home at all because all the chaos and noise he makes in the dead of the night. Or in Kaveh’s Good Morning voiceline where he says that he hopes that you don't run into someone who ruins your day first thing in the morning.

I guess it’s what makes other people think that they despise each other’s company. Yet they’re always viewed as a pair and Alhaitham could’ve kicked Kaveh out of the house ages ago. But what’s your opinion on that?

Hiya! there's no need to apologise, this is a safe space for all haikaveh! When I tell you your ask is scratching my brain I mean ITCHING, I have so many thoughts about this part of their dynamic so thank you for enabling me <3 This turned out to be rather long, so I hope it’s helpful to you!

The contention in both Alhaitham and Kaveh’s character stories and voice lines seems to be to create intrigue about the two as individuals, and, in turn, their relationship.

Alhaitham’s ‘good night’ voice line instantly serves as a contradiction to his character. It’s interesting, and telling, that Alhaitham, who is essentially Kaveh’s landlord, and mentions this within his fourth character story, alludes to Kaveh by using ‘roommate’ rather than ‘tenant’. ‘Landlord’ evokes a position of authority over the tenant, whereas ‘roommate’ indicates an equality between two people sharing a house – since it’s Alhaitham who advocates for the term ‘roommate’, it’s telling that, as opposed to what Kaveh believes, Alhaitham wants to establish equality between them.

In terms of what Alhaitham says in this voice line, it explicitly raises a contradiction in the form of a question: if Alhaitham is truly bothered by his roommate’s antics, why doesn’t he simply evict Kaveh?

This is relevant as this question is also posed when we initially meet Kaveh within the Archon Quest, as Kaveh states he dislikes Alhaitham’s personality, to which Alhaitham responds by saying if he bothers Kaveh so much, Kaveh always has the option to move out of the house – to which Kaveh perceives as a threat, only to then dismiss this as Alhaitham ‘changing the subject’, which seems to mean that this ‘threat’ is taken as baseless. As this isn’t called back to, this seems to be the case.

There is no real threat of eviction, and regardless of their disputes, Alhaitham ultimately gives Kaveh no ultimatum to move out. In fact, as discussed here (page 27), as we are meeting Alhaitham and Kaveh for the first time, Alhaitham allowing Kaveh to live with him contradicts his established character of living a life free of inconvenience. This instantly creates intrigue around his and Kaveh’s dynamic – who is Kaveh to Alhaitham for this exception to be made to Alhaitham’s peaceful way of life?

(An additional note of interest is that Alhaitham’s solution to the noise problem seems to be more uncomfortable than calling on Kaveh and telling him to stop his work. Alhaitham says that he’d rather not wear his noise-cancelling earpieces to bed, implying that he does so when noise is a problem at night. However, there’s no mention of Kaveh being stubborn when confronting this issue, which is why he takes to wearing his ear pieces, or any mention of confrontation at all. From this voice-line, it seems that Alhaitham avoids interaction by opting for the least comfortable option, which can be a contradiction to his character. As this is a rather brief voice-line, it’s difficult to ascertain why, but I like the idea that Kaveh is productive at night, and Alhaitham prefers not to impose on Kaveh’s work process – but this is more a headcanon than evidenced interpretation.)

Returning back to the contradiction within this voice-line, at a surface glance, this does appear to be a general complaint about Kaveh, and this can be found in Alhaitham’s lines about Kaveh, and also when discussing Tighnari. Alhaitham refers to Kaveh as ‘overly sensitive’, and ‘constantly making a fuss’.

These can easily read solely as complaints, but when looking to the original CN translation, another interpretation can be found here. Alhaitham describes Kaveh as ‘caring’ or ‘tender’, which is exactly how Kaveh is described within the 3.6 special program (as per minimushiroom on twt), which can allude to how Kaveh is considerate to a fault, in that this serves as a detriment to himself.

This can be seen in Alhaitham’s other Kaveh-centred voice-line, in which he describes Kaveh buying keychains in order to provide meals for sick children, even though healthcare is free in Sumeru. Alhaitham clearly holds the view that this was a redundant action, as Kaveh, being in debt, most likely doesn’t have the money to spend on such investments that are, evidently, dubious.

As Alhaitham provides a rational view here, this contrasts with Kaveh’s act of generosity fuelled by emotion – which highlights the contention Alhaitham has with Kaveh, in that Kaveh places himself in dangerous situations for the sake of others. However, as this can be perceived as a solely derisive line, this essential context is lacking, and can be easily misconstrued. (I think the EN translation here also coincides with this narrative, as minimushiroom notes that the original CN has Alhaitham refer to Kaveh’s sensitivity in a positive way, rather than contemptuously, as the English can be interpreted as.)

Kaveh, similarly, can be seen to complain about Alhaitham in his own voice-lines. This can be seen in the 'Good Morning' voice-line you've mentioned, where Kaveh complains about having to see Alhaitham in the morning, which 'ruins' his day. Additionally, Kaveh's voice-lines discussing Alhaitham refer to Alhaitham as ‘infuriating’ and not wanting to give Alhaitham the satisfaction of thanking him, despite Alhaitham helping him out. However, there is more nuance in these voice-lines than Kaveh simply ‘disliking’ Alhaitham, as this dislike is never stated - rather that he and Alhaitham have a difficult relationship in comparison to the ‘close’ friendship of their past.

Kaveh describes their relationship being a ‘mixed bag’, of both negatives and positives, as well as establishing a thorough understanding of Alhaitham, where other people may misinterpret Alhaitham as they ‘don’t know him well enough’. Additionally, Kaveh notes that he knows that Alhaitham can present himself in a more ‘likeable’ manner, but that Alhaitham refuses to do so, which refers to Kaveh’s contention with Alhaitham discussed within his character stories. This, in turn, generates curiosity, as it appears that Kaveh holds an in-depth knowledge of Alhaitham that the player isn’t privy to.

Referring back to Alhaitham’s ‘Good Night’ voiceline, the question raised is, if Alhaitham has a problem with Kaveh, why doesn’t he just evict Kaveh? And the answer can be found by digging further into Alhaitham’s character stories. Looking to Alhaitham’s fourth character story, it states that he is aware of the dissatisfaction Kaveh may have with their living arrangement but that ‘it matters not to him’.

This means that he is aware that Kaveh may be unhappy with having to rely on someone else for a stable livelihood, something which his pride doesn’t naturally allow, but that this is also exacerbated due to their previous falling out and the current contentions Kaveh has with him.

At first, this can seem rather abrasive, which does fall in line with Alhaitham’s egoism as this doesn’t directly impact ‘the self’ (discussed further here), however, what immediately follows is Alhaitham’s belief that he and Kaveh are mirrors, in that his own perspective of the world will be enhanced - in the og CN, ‘completed’ -by Kaveh’s own world view.

The implication generated here with the explicit term ‘mirror’, is that, just as Alhaitham benefits from Kaveh, Kaveh, in turn, can benefit from Alhaitham. (As a side note, it is interesting then that the voice-lines in question can be seen to mirror each other – Kaveh mentions Alhaitham in ‘Good Morning’ whereas Alhaitham mentions Kaveh in ‘Good Night’.)

Returning back to Alhaitham’s character story, rather than merely reflecting each other philosophically speaking, I’d say that this also points to their respective progression as people, not just scholars.

To me, this is reminiscent of what Alhaitham says to Kaveh in A Parade of Providence – being ‘correct’, ultimately, doesn’t matter, as there is no ‘correct’ path in life, meaning that there is no ‘correct’ philosophy to shape and guide a person. Rather, Alhaitham asserts that, ultimately, their opposing philosophies are not the issue that exists between them.

The issue that does exist, then, can be surmised from Alhaitham’s actions during the event (discussed further here), in which he researches into Sachin to gauge his influence over Kaveh’s father journeying into the desert, with implicit hopes of providing closure for Kaveh, and potentially assuaging Kaveh’s guilt. This is a personal act with a personal motive; the underlying motive being concern, as opposed to an assertion of ‘correctness’.

In my opinion, I think Alhaitham’s actions during A Parade of Providence are a direct reference, and fulfilment, of Kaveh’s fifth character story. I’ve discussed here that the main reason for the ending of their friendship was them asserting the correctness of a philosophy over the other, and proposing one philosophy as the ‘solution’ to the other’s perceived flaws.

Here Alhaitham can be seen to use Kaveh’s past as the reason for his excessive altruism, implicitly referring to Kaveh’s guilt over being the supposed catalyst for his father’s demise. This final comment of Alhaitham’s appears to be the first time this has been mentioned between them, and it’s enough to be perceived as weaponisation – leading to Kaveh severing their friendship.

In A Parade of Providence, Alhaitham is shown to only have taken the role of commentator to research into Sachin, whose research we are told (by Kaveh), he has no explicit interest in, and it is heavily implied that the only reason he looked further into Sachin, was to prove to link between Sachin and Kaveh’s father. Alhaitham seems to want to absolve Kaveh of this past guilt in hopes that Kaveh will stop placing himself in the cycle of self-sabotage.

For me, when viewing this as a parallel, it highlights that Alhaitham’s motivation in speaking out during their days as students was out of concern for Kaveh, although while holding egoism as ultimately beneficial, and therefore perceivably ‘correct’. The ‘issue’ they’re currently debating is not expressly stated, and although it is unclear if Kaveh understands the implication (as discussed here), as ‘correctness’ has been overturned, there seems to be little left than the personal.

Relating this back to Alhaitham’s fourth character story, for me, Alhaitham referring to Kaveh as a mirror isn’t just referring to Kaveh as a scholar, but a person as a whole. As Alhaitham seeks to improve himself, personally, through Kaveh, it seems that he hopes to be able to benefit Kaveh in turn.

As for Kaveh’s complaints regarding Alhaitham, these can be contextualised within his own character stories. As Kaveh ultimately severed the friendship between him and Alhaitham, Alhaitham offering Kaveh to live with him, despite Kaveh revoking his previous understanding of Alhaitham (as discussed here, page 67), causes Kaveh to be overtly suspicious.

In Kaveh’s Old Sketchbook, it is mentioned that Kaveh believes there to be an ulterior motive for Alhaitham inviting him to share a house, as he believes that Alhaitham wouldn’t do something for someone else without an exchange.

Kaveh, then, openly distrusts Alhaitham due to this unspoken motive, and although he takes on chores to ease his sense of guilt of being a perceived burden, a contention arises here. Due to their previously ended friendship, and with how Alhaitham hurt Kaveh, and how Kaveh may believe he hurt Alhaitham (discussed here), Kaveh sees no reason for Alhaitham to want him around – he treats their relationship as an exchange, asking what Alhaitham could possibly want for him.

Although Alhaitham views Kaveh as a mirror, and therefore, respects Kaveh’s perspectives, Kaveh can potentially view their opposing philosophies as a negative rather than a positive as he had done in the past (as discussed here), as it, perceivably, was what led to the end of their friendship. In this, Kaveh views Alhaitham as disparaging him and his views. As mentioned in his character story, he has no reservations in telling Alhaitham of his debt as Alhaitham has already seen through him in the past, and yet again, upon meeting at the tavern.

Although Alhaitham perceivably views him unfavourably, and his comments and complaints appear to propagate this interpretation, Alhaitham also seems to have no issue with keeping Kaveh around, and interacting with Kaveh, regardless of the problems Kaveh expressly has with him.

To Kaveh, it could be that as Alhaitham has already seen the worst of him, and appears to have no real issue with their stilted rapport, there is no point in donning a front and using niceties. He is open with his issues with Alhaitham, and, in turn, Alhaitham is open with him.

This appears to be a dual negative and positive for Kaveh, as he describes Alhaitham’s constancy as ‘the most unshakable part of one's past is a friend that will never change’. In this sense, his unsteady rapport with Alhaitham is reliable, and therefore, has no reason to change.

Clearly, there is a large disconnect between Alhaitham’s view of Kaveh and how Kaveh perceives Alhaitham’s view of him. As previously mentioned in the discussion of A Parade of Providence, there is an unspoken ‘issue’ between them, and this can be interpreted as dire misconceptions borne from miscommunication.

As discussed, Kaveh and Alhaitham reference each other a lot in their respective voice-lines and their character stories. This alone is enough to connect them, regardless of the cruciality of their mirror motif, as they are key figures of each other’s past, present, and seemingly, future. Despite this, it’s as you say, there’s a common perception to view them as mutually disliking each other, and, to me, this is based upon their first initial interaction, and the way they refer to each other in their own character stories and voice-lines.

It’s notable that Alhaitham refers to Kaveh in his voice-lines when Kaveh is not explicitly relevant, such as in his Good Night voice-line, and, most interestingly, when Alhaitham discusses Tighnari.

This could be because Alhaitham knows of Tighnari through Kaveh, but as this connection isn’t stated, it reads as Alhaitham mentioning Kaveh for no other reason than to complain about his perceived naivety regarding relations with others. But as this is a voice-line designated to discussing Tighnari, it’s interesting, and incredibly noticeable, that Alhaitham then discusses Kaveh instead. It’s similar to what Kaveh can be seen to do, and is observed to do by others, in relation to discussing Alhaitham.

When it comes to Kaveh, however, his complaining of Alhaitham can be seen to link with his process of dealing with troubles in his work. In his Hangout, he states that he takes his work to heart because he cares about it, which is expressed in the same quest in which Kaveh and the Traveller run into Alhaitham in the House of Daena (discussed further here, page 219).

Drawing a parallel here can further contextualise Kaveh’s complaining of Alhaitham – if Kaveh truly disliked Alhaitham, there seems to be no reason for Alhaitham to remain so relevant to him, both in conversation, and in private thought. Additionally, Kaveh is described as an empathetic person, and when dealing with others, he is thusly seen to look for another perspective rather than act on his own subjective perspective.

Looking at his voice-line on Dori, for example, expresses his distaste for Dori pressuring him for Mora due to his debt, however, he also empathises with her, and states that he senses there must be a reason why Dori acts in such a way.

In contrast, this empathy can be perceived as missing in his treatment of Alhaitham, and therefore Kaveh complaining about Alhaitham can be perceived as blatant dislike – which contradicts Kaveh’s benevolence and empathy, which A Parade of Providence particularly stresses.

Kaveh’s treatment of Alhaitham can be seen as deliberately contradictory, as it can cause the player to question why Kaveh reacts in such a singular way to Alhaitham, just as why Alhaitham reacts in a singular way to Kaveh.

In reference to Alhaitham, whilst Alhaitham tends to complain about Kaveh in turn, his actions reveal him. He invites Kaveh to live with him, gives no eviction date, pays for Kaveh’s tabs willingly, (supposedly) buys wine as an apology, and goes out of his way to ensure dialogue with Kaveh – which contradicts his own character stories, in which he appears to favour solitude, and only greets those he considers his friends ‘with a nod or two’.

Moreover, Alhaitham is established as considering Kaveh a necessity to his ‘peaceful life’ he seeks to maintain (as discussed here), and can be seen to implicitly consider Kaveh one of his priorities within his Story Quest.

The idea that Alhaitham dislikes Kaveh seems to stem from Alhaitham being taken literally when voicing an opinion, or an issue, or simply joking, in reference to Kaveh – despite his character stories highlighting that Alhaitham often uses sarcasm in order to subvert expectations.

Alhaitham expressly states that he prefers to be seen as inscrutable, and unknown, by the general public, and uses subversion as a means to do so. In these character stories, Alhaitham openly encourages speculation of his own words.

Without this context, it seems easy to simplify Alhaitham to purely speaking factually when first addressing Kaveh in the Archon Quest – stating that having to explain things to Kaveh is ‘a nuisance’, and yet, it is overlooked that Alhaitham stays in the House of Daena, regardless, knowing Kaveh would find him again.

On the whole, in my opinion, Kaveh’s feelings towards Alhaitham cannot be simplified to ‘dislike’ as this is dually an inherent misunderstanding of his character, and of his and Alhaitham’s relationship, just as Alhaitham’s feelings towards Kaveh cannot be simplified to ‘dislike’ for this same reason.

In the beginning, Alhaitham and Kaveh are not supposed to be perceived as friendly, as Kaveh denies the association of ‘friends’, and Paimon describes them to the Traveller as ‘problematic’.

The reason for this is due to their character arcs being intertwined – the core issue is posed in Kaveh’s fifth character story, in that the question is raised if a compromise can be reached, if both sides of the mirror, can be balanced. At the beginning, they are entirely at odds, but even footing must be found.

I’ve noticed a shift in online discourse after Cyno’s second story quest, as the progression in Alhaitham and Kaveh’s relationship is noticeable – deliberately, due to the flashback scene within their house (which I’ve discussed in detail here, page 122). To me, it’s more common to form the assumption that Alhaitham and Kaveh dislike each other in the Archon Quest, but with recent developments, and, hopefully, future ones, this perception is being overturned in online communities. Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking, but I’m still hopeful!

#haikaveh #kavetham #alhaitham #kaveh #genshin impact #thank you so much for your ask anon! it really ate away at my brain #haikaveh's writing is just so !?!?!? theres so many layers to peel back so a surface read of their relationship can be misconstrued as toxi #but ultimately i think these voice lines and details of their character stories are for people to question WHY they are Like That with #each other and it's one of the things i love about them that nothing is upfront or simple it really suits their themes so well #alhaitham constantly questions the world around him and flips language on its head and kaveh challenges the world with his ideals but works #with rigid principles of design and construction and he can't tell sarcasm from genuine praise which also adds to why he takes alhaitham's #words so personally... but this is improving now?? i am saying thank you cyno's second story quest <333 #also the narrative that haikaveh can't stand each other seems to be more of a western thing from what i've seen online #and i think this is possibly due to the EN translation where the CN is less derisive or abrasive?#thank you to those who translate so the nuance is pointed out! <3

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