#i hate you with the fury of a thousand suns | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keravnous · 1 month ago

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CORINTHIANS 6:19 ; papa v perpetua/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

being perpetua's favourite pet - the playlist

Perpetua hates having the spotlight taken away from him. When Copia does exactly that for the umpteenth time, Perpetua decides to use you to gain back the congregation's undivided attention and stroke his ego while he's at it.

word count: 9,3k

warnings: fem!reader, dubcon, public (undernegotiated); vampire!perpetua/creature!perpetua; (satanic) altar sex; catholic and satanic themes, imagery and language; Black Mass; descriptions of blood and gore, horror themes (death and undead); Perpetua is a pervert change my mind, free use (kinda), spit kink, power play, oral (male receiving), blowjobs, pet names, name calling, face slapping, cumplay, bimbofication, degradation, hair pulling, praise kink, mentions of breeding kink and pregnancy, he wears the mask and make-up, god-complex, dry humping his louboutin boots, copious mentions of pubic hair due to bush reveal; expansive use of stilized capitals and italics, sibling-rivalry as a plot device, he's way more icky in this than he is during rituals lmao

soo, i attended the ritual in berlin and it was great and all BUT we also saw his bush and i just really really had to get this out of my mind; ty ann for letting me yap about perpetua day and night, you're a good one <33

"Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own." corinthians 6:19

"Show them what worship truly means, darling", Perpetua's voice is velvety and soft, as you look up at him, hands folded devoutly in your lap. The polished marbled at the altar bed digs into your knees harshly and you know, that blemishes will form on your soft skin where it is being crushed between your own bone and the cold church's floor. At his feet his purple cassock pools, your white coif discarded upon it, while your vision zeroes in on the ribbons on the fly of his dark pants; currently fighting for their life to keep the fabric tied together - the outline of his rock-hard dick stretching the black denim out.

Your mouth runs dry as his gaze meets yours - his unmatching eyes, one green one white, staring down at you - demanding your undivided attention, while fire and fury burn and churn away in his look.

Around you, a thousand candles are burning, illuminating the altar room and the mural of Satan - the Evil One sitting on a pile of non-believers, his hands pointing up and down in the familiar sign of Synchronicity - that adorns the huge walls of the church behind the upside-down crucifix. From the corner of your eye, you can see the congregation watching you intently, incredulously, and you force yourself to look away.

Earlier, you and your fellow Sisters and Friars of Sin had flocked to the ministry's church for tonight's black mass, the sun setting behind the neighbouring pine forest. The dark-blue sky was soon filled with a tantalizing red tint, like the sun was set ablaze and you knew that He was with you, your mind already feeling lighter and a little foggy when you crossed the threshold of the church. The Evil One's spirit had filled you completely once Frater Imperator stood on the pulpit - that still bore his red colours despite everything else now being tinged in deep purples around him, to honour the election of a new Papa - delivering an inspiring homily.

And the new Frater Imperator - Copia, promoted but demoted nonetheless - had been raving on and on about belief, the subsequent fulfilment from belief throughout his sermon; but most of all, he had put emphasis on worship. Worshipping the Unholy One. Sacrificing yourself to him. Body and soul.

Perpetua had been slumping on his throne at the side of the altar, looking more and more bored with each passing minute, watching the red-tinted light that fell through the colourful glass panes next to him, reflecting off the metal of his claws. As he looked back up, after what felt like an eternity of suffering through his brother's senseless and pointless ramblings - he had to discover that the congregation clung to the Frater's lips. Transfixed by his words every single pair of eyes followed every single flick of his hand; Perpetua could watch them collectively holding their breaths, and see their eyes light up when he concluded a hopeless anecdote with an unforeseeable twist that surely - if one were to listen - consisted of some deeper insight of belief, but Perpetua simply couldn't be bothered.

It made his blood boil to see the Ghouls, - his, his fucking Ghouls - clinging to each and every word of the former Cardinal and Emeritus said, their tails wagging, too enamoured by his dark preachings to even consider feasting on flesh and pleasure of the Siblings of Sin sitting on the other side of the chapel.

He had let his eyes wander over to them, more out of boredom than anything else and had huffed in annoyance when he too, saw them leaning forward, hands clasped in their laps, eyes wide with adoration and revelations.

And he hated it. It infuriated him. These people - the flock - were his now. His to teach. His to nurture. His to tend to. His his his.

He should be the one possessing their hearts and minds and spirits, to make them bend at a flick of his wrist. Copia had been demoted to desk duty. So, he might as well just fuck off for good.

Perpetua's gaze travelled through the rows and rows of members of the Clergy - Sisters, Friars, Ghouls, Monastics - and took a deep breath; inhaled their mingled scents, and that was when it hit him. The sweetest, most intoxicating scent at the abbey. His eyes flickering to its source, he spotted a familiar face.

There you sat, perched between two Sisters that you had met way back at the monastery. Cheeks rosy, flushed full of life - life that pulsed through your veins so excitedly that he could hear it's rush and taste it on his tongue.

He loved how you smelled. And he loved to have a taste of you, and your blood right after.

That's why he kept you around. Made you the one to clean up his personal chambers, watching you from the shadows and inhale lungsful of your delicious, tantalizing smell. Watching how your habit clings to your curves, how sweat shines on your skin on hot summer nights. Steal away some of your worn underwear when you were sleeping - watching how your blissfully asleep body inhaled air steadily, human human human - listen to the slow rush of your blood; fisting his cock into your panties in his boudoir later, your scent engulfing him in the wee hours of the morning before he crawls back to his crypt.

That's the sole reason still keeping him from ramming his teeth into your neck and drinking, tasting you until you were no more, all life drained from your pretty, little body that would snap like a twig in his hands: It would be incomparable to the way your sickly-sweet stench filled every room you were in. And he loved it. Loved how it made his mouth water and his dick harden.

Perpetua knew he could just have you. He was very well aware that this was his right. He could have just torn your habit apart and bent over the nearest surface, have his way with you. Pleasure always mattered the most at the abbey. And his pleasure now mattered more than anything else.

His tongue, lifelessly pale, had just darted out from his mouth as he dragged it across his lips hungrily when Copia had said, voice full and agitated, like Satan himself had filled his body out: "And thus, Brothers and Sisters, thus thou shalt worship!"

You should. You really should. He could feel his cold heart stuttering, coming back to something like life with a few heavy thuds as he looked down upon you. You should really worship him.

Perpetua had been on his feet quicker than he could have even thought about it - Mitra discarded on the throne-, the heels of his shoes clicking against the marble as he strutted to the front of the altar. Copia, on the pulpit with his hands in the air, froze, turned his head around slowly.

"Such - insightful words, no?", Perpetua had been all smiles but his voice sounded stern, lips crinkling up ghostly, and from where you sat you had been able to see his long canines gleaming in the dim candle light. A chill crawled up your spine, made you shiver in your habit. "Let's show the congregation how worship is done, hm?", his head tilted in your direction and you considered it to be just a coincidence, but then his gaze fell heavily upon your form, "Child, come to me."

This is how you have found yourself kneeling in front of the chapel's altar - the upside down cross above looming and lurking, as Perpetua runs his cold cold thumbs over your cheeks, iron talons nibbing and pricking at your skin as he drags his fingers through your hair and over your skull. They do not draw blood, yet, but the promise of pain blooms in his movements and it makes you squirm, gasp. You think of the crescent moons they might leave on your body, your thighs and your waist, your arms, and your neck - and heat floods your belly at the thought, like it did so so many times before when you laid awake in your bed late at night, one hand diving between your legs the other draped over your lips tightly, keeping your mouth shut.

You still remember the day you had met him for the first time vividly. It had been in the early hours of the night, when Cirrus had knocked on your door and informed you, that the newly elected Papa had chosen you as one of his chamber maids and now wished to see you. Your heart had been beating just as forcefully as it does now, the same buzz spreading through your limbs as you felt your skin tingle with anticipation.

Following the Ghoulette, she had led you to a wing within the abbey that you had never been to before, and which had been dimly lit by what must have been at least few hundred candles. But that hadn't been what made your breath hitch, the hairs on your body standing up.

What was, had been the man standing in the middle of the room. His room, judging by the neatly made and seemingly untouched bed, desk, chaise longue and a breathtaking collection of books and tomes and sheets of music scattered all over the floor and furniture.

The man's dark hair curled around his sharp, elegant face, framed it like a picture. Perfect statuesque features that could cut through stone, a posture as straight and powerful as a fighter's, with limbs as long and delicate as a dancer’s as he had swayed toward you. His hand had reached out, slender, and soft fingers ice cold, as you laid your trembling hand into his.

And the sight of him was mesmerizing; terrifying in its own, unknown, and foreign way.

The man was beautiful. Uncannily beautiful. So beautiful even, that terror had risen in your chest and your heart started hammering against your ribcage, the pressure of your blood accelerating and leaving your head a spinning mess. Shivers ran down your arms as your fight-or-flight kicked in, but you had been physically trapped by him, by his gaze as well as his larger-than-life presence, couldn't fight your eyes wandering over his spotless and smooth skin, the curly light chocolate-coloured hair, the defined lips. He had smirked, and your free hand had grabbed a fistful of your habit.

You wanted to run. You wanted to linger, take him in. You didn't know why, but the sight of him left you feeling lightheaded quickly, a quiet voice in the back of your head whispering that You do know why and that It's all there. The evidence to his beauty, the Why was so close to you like you could touch it; grab it from thin air, right on the tip of your tongue, you know it you know it you know it --

"Good evening, my dear", his voice sounded as sweet and deep as honey, with a slight rasp to it, his mismatch eyes deep and comforting like a stroll through the cool forest on a late summer's day, "Apologies, my love, I do not think we have been properly introduced yet. My name is Perpetua." He bowed a little, like a noble's son from long-gone times at a king's dance, and the gesture had sent your head into a spin. He was radiant.

You should have been the one that bowed before him - for he was the most striking creature you have ever laid your unworthy eyes upon. However, his truly uncanny beauty also had anxiety pooling in your stomach; a shiver running down your spine, the muscles in your legs tensing under his intense gaze - which he had kept locked to yours, as he placed a soft and cool kiss on the back of your hand. His lips tingled on your skin.

The man - Perpetua - looked like a prince. And somehow, he had felt oddly familiar to you, with his classical face looking like he just crawled out of one of the finest paintings of one of the world's most refined museums. But he felt foreign just the same, like he wasn't from these plains, something entirely otherworldly. Something dangerous.

He had said something then, but the sound of your own blood had been rushing and pumping through your veins at such an alarming speed, that it had drowned out all sound.

Your memory bleeds together with reality, as you can see his lips moving now, too - the prominent cupids bow bowing and bending, as he says: "Worship me."

Voice a husk as his gaze keeps itself chained to yours and you swallow.

His presence is looming and electrifying, and he looks rightfully ethereal from where you are kneeling, looking up at him. He still carries his head high and mighty on his shoulders, chin tilted upwards just a little even though he does not wear his Mitra any longer, looks down on you through the thick fans of his lashes.

And you want to. You really do. You have thought about this a hundred times cleaning his personal quarters in the dim candle light late at night, when he wasn't around - arranging his books, his clothes, the notes scattered around the floors and furniture with melodies and poems scribbled across them. More than once have you brought one of his silken shirts up to your nose - before folding it neatly and carefully putting it away - inhaling the thickly scent of incense and patchouli.

The same smell wafts around you now, too, and your hands are getting clammy with excitement. But there is one thing holding you back.

Approximately a month after he had arrived at the ministry, the rumours started to spread. Some Sisters and Friars reported that they never spotted him at the meals in the Great Hall. Other said they never saw him eat, at all. You paid that no mind - until one night, when the realization had hit you like a freight train: Of all the things you cleaned or carried in and out of his quarters, dishes had never once been one of them.

Soon after, others told stories of his eerily long and sharp canines - their voices hushed behind closed doors - and others said that they rarely ever saw him roaming the halls or the grounds during daytime. Some said, that they heard screams echoing through the ministry, late at night when everyone was usually fast asleep and the hallways laid quietly. That was, when the rumours started to spread through the ministry like a wildfire.

A creature. A vampire. Death Incarnate.

In a short while, you will come to his chambers to clean, late at night. The doors to his private chapel will be opened, and you will - because curiosity never truly did kill the cat, now did it? - take a peek inside.

And then you will see it.

See him.

Dressed only in dark slacks, blood will run down his torso like rainfall. For a second you will naively believe him to be seriously injured, gasping in shock and running towards him. He will smile at you - genuinely entertained by your unashamed display of care for your Papa and your human stupidity because You just cannot be that foolish - and you will see the clogs of blood and flesh sticking grotesquely between his teeth. The beautiful prince, long consumed by death.

This is when you will stumble upon your own feet, slipping on the wet red copper on the floor, knees and palms scraping on the chapel's marble floor; a true nerve-wrecking cry of terror ripping from your throat as you fall to the ground. The marble will be wet with blood and so will be the palms of your hands, and your knees will sting badly as your own skin rrrips.

He will just stand there, between the carnage - half-eaten body parts around him, like a wild animal tore them apart with a ravenous hunger - blood dripping from the ceiling and sprinkled across the stone walls like a hundred cans of tomato soup had exploded in the room; his naked chest wet and shining with coppery red, and so will his hair and his face. Red red red replacing the usual black and the white.

Then, he will dash forward. You will run run run, out into the cold night, cold snow creaking beneath your feet like thunderous leaves as you run and run until your lungs burn and you feel all sense of orientation slipping from your mind between the seemingly endlessly tall pines of the forest. Behind you, the snow will creak under his measured footsteps.

But for now you just look at him, at his pristine and beautiful frame. Toned muscles beneath the silk and denim of his clothes, his posture straight and elegant and cocky. You can already see a prominent trail of dark hair leading below the waistband of his tight tight pants, his dick bulging the fabric, thickening right above the dark fabric and you lick your lips.

"What are you waiting for?", and he sounds impatient now, anger lacing through his voice that rasps and rumbles and you nearly jolt.

For great is the Son and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all who wander this wretched Earth.

You are younger. A teenager. The study room at the monastery is chilly, despite the air outside being humid on a hot summer's day. Birds chirp and a bee has lost its way into the study; a ray of warm sunlight falls into the room through the stained-glass windows. They show Lilith, killing Adam. Your Mother Superior leans forward on her desk, her upside-down cross clattering loudly against the polished wood, and paints a vivid picture with her words: Satan's sons, descending onto Earth, born from a strong woman's womb in blood and pain and agony, three of them unsuccessful, one of them weak and one of them -

Eternal.

He will bring the end times. By his side a woman, from whose womb will crawl damnation, and rebirth.

Behold, he is coming with Fire, and every eye will see him, even those who renounced him, and all tribes of Earth will wail on account of him.

Who are you to refuse him?

Despite feeling the burning, heavy gazes of a few hundred people on your quivering body, your hands dart out - like you are on autopilot, like your body is not fully yours anymore; and your fingers - cold sweat and shakes - move up from your lap, unbuckling his belt that clinks loudly as it falls to the sides; before your hands fly to the leathery ribbon of his pants.

That is, when he smacks them away. Shakes his head and tuts at you. "Use your mouth", palms of his hands rubbing the sides of your skull gently.

You swallow, shame burning high and hotly on your cheeks as you lean in, teeth latching to the ribbon. The leather itself feels stiff but the surface is surprisingly smooth between your teeth; however, it takes you a short while until you figure out how to pull the ribbon loose and out of the eyelets one by one. The fabric tastes stale and of leather, and gets drenched in your saliva quickly. The act is humiliating and you notice, not without terror rising in your chest, a sharp electric pang in your belly, that tingles and blooms and shoots right between your thighs.

"There you go", Perpetua hums, his thumb gently stroking your temple, "Good girl, hm?"

Be good be good be good.

Your body sings with the praise crawling down your spine warmly, but you do not have much time to relish in it, as the sight of him knocks all air out of your lungs. The fabric falls apart easily, like it is exhausted from clinging together and relieved that you resolved it of its unfeasible task. You come face to face with a thick bush of trimmed pubic hair. No underwear.

The dark hair curls a little above and around the thick base of his hard cock, that does not immediately spring free. Instead, Perpetua reaches for it, grabs it and fully pulls it out.

Obscenely, it bounces against his adonis belt (where small beauty marks are scattered across the marble skin) rock-hard already and the tip flushed in an angry red. His dick is nearly as pale as the rest of him, with a prominent vein on its bottom that nearly shines through the snow-white skin. Your mouth waters at the sight.

His cock is long and girthy, cut - the head is thick and looks deliciously heavy. You have had your fair share of dick, as sex and especially female orgasms are considered one of the highest forms of pleasure, one of the highest forms of prayer to be offered to the Unholy One, but you have never ever seen a cock that has spit pooling on your tongue like his does. You need to feel him, but you also know that it is not your place to press ahead so brazenly and thus, for now, your hands rest uselessly on his thighs, fingers gliding rather impatiently over the fabric and the strong muscle beneath.

Perpetua looks down at you, eyes gleaming darkly, lips curling up in a smug smile. Takes his cock by its base, gives it one, two firm strokes that have you reeling, stretching your neck a little, eyes glued to the flushed head. That is when he guides it down and --

And ruuubs the tip of his dick over your lips. Your mouth falls apart a like you are possessed - tongue darting out, jaw going slack, ready to welcome him in. But he just tsks at you, pulls away and slaps his cock against your cheek instead. The cold, hard flesh connects playfully with your warm skin - tip a little wet with your saliva - and you gasp, eyes growing wide.

Your stomach flutters and tingles, while your heart misses a beat.

"So eager to take it, darling", he sounds genuinely amused and you whine, batting your lashes at him because - Yes, yes you are - but he just rubs his cock over your cheek, watches intently as a few drops of precum quell from it, run over your cheekbone.

A bench in the nave creaks. If you were to look over, you could see Dew leaning forward, smoke curling from his nose, claws digging into the wood until his knuckles turn white and the bench splinters; and Swiss, grabbing his wrist firmly, holding him back - while Mountain sits behind them, back unusually straight and stiff like an ancient tree, looming over the Ghouls that can very well smell your arousal, your cunt growing wet with the humiliation.

And Perpetua can smell it. Can smell your arousal as much as theirs, wafting around him like a thick cloud. It fills his nostrils up, stronger than the delicious scent of your blood.

It is taking all of his strength not to bite you, to ram his teeth into your carotid artery and make your neck spurt with blood, drink you up; it is an actual mental effort keeping himself focussed on that pretty, pretty mouth of yours. So instead of ending your pathetic little life right then and there - because, who do you think you matter to? This is the only good thing you will ever do, the only righteous act you will ever achieve to commit -, he shoves his cock back into your field of vision.

You do not hesitate one bit, tilting your head a little and tongue darting immediately, to glide along the vein on the bottom of his dick - traces it up to the tip - and you can hear him hiss, before you lick a fat stripe back down, over the unnaturally cold and hard skin.

His pubic hair tingles your cheek as you put wet kisses on the thick base of his dick, right above where his slender and elegant fingers grip himself, looking up at him. Perpetua's gaze meets yours, the pupils of his unmatching eyes blown and dark, eyes gleaming with lust.

You want all of him. All the sweet sounds that might escape his lips, all the tastes his cold body has to offer. Your hand sneaks up to meet his, and he lets go off his cock, fists your hair instead.

His dick is terrifyingly cold to the touch - but hard and heavy and it twitches a little, and thus, it has your mouth watering anyways. You can barely wrap your hand around it fully and your cunt throbs and clenches around nothing, as you think about how full you would feel with him inside of you. Arousal ping-pongs through your abdomen and you lean in again, tongue licking another fat wet stripe from the base of his dick up up up to his head, where it flicks around the head, runs through the cleft on top - before you put your mouth onto him, gently kissing and sucking on the side of his cock; letting your mouth wander freely over the thick shaft, taking your time. Obscene sounds of your lips smacking wetly against his dick fill the heavily scented air of the church, and you close your eyes, listening to the deep, rumbling hums that slip past his lips.

Technically, you are just trying to get him nice and wet, but he just tastes so so good - the soft velvety skin tastes of musk and salt - divine, and you simply cannot stop; your spit slicking his cock up as you kitten-lick all over it, placing open-mouthed kisses onto the cool, hard flesh.

Perpetua's hand gently cradles your neck, the metal talons solid against your skin. His breathing grows heavier as your lips make their way down his cock, tongue licking over the thick base and you cannot resist, a little cock-drunk already; tugging his tight pants down just a little more, his balls spring free and your mouth immediately clings to them. They are firm and swollen already, and taste just as musky as your tongue runs over them - blending with his pubic hair's tangy scent, that smells just the faintest bit of soap.

Gently placing kisses on his balls, your tongue darts out, wraps around the bottom of the right one and then you close your lips around it fully, sucking it into your mouth while your hand keeps pumping his cock. His heavy breathing - more a force of habit, a faint memory of how his body used to react - stops for a looong moment, before a low drawn-out hum escapes his throat.

You open your eyes at the sound, looking up at him, already a little dazed yourself. His lips are slightly parted, brows a little furrowed behind the mask. And you realize:

He's turned on. Papa Perpetua, his Unholy Eminence, is turned on.

And Satanas, does that spur you on. Running your tongue along his sack, you eventually let it slip out of your mouth and take the other between your lips, and that's when he groans. The sound shakes your body to the core, goosebumps spreading over your arms and your back, your loins practically fucking igniting with lust as you feel pussy growing even wetter. His dick twitches in your hand - a ripple that erupts at its base as you can see his cock swell a little, the shaft shivering under a heavy contortion - pulses and then throbs. Letting go off his balls with a wet pop, you lean back on the heels of your shoes to watch a small bead forming on the thick, flushed head.

Thick, shiny droplets of precum quell and drip from the tiny hole like holy water, and you just need need need to taste that, too. Your tongue immediately darts out - body nothing more than a tool to your most primal urges - licks them off. He tastes of revelation.

It is the way you look up at him while you do it, relentless in keeping eye contact with him that nearly makes him blow a load - all hooded eyes gleaming with arousal, cheeks flushed. A temptress. Seduction in the flesh. The Original Sin.

His personal sacrilege.

And fuck, you are good at being his demise.

"You're made for this, hm?", Perpetua's voice is deep with lust, laced with contempt and arrogance, hands and claws still cradling your head, "Made to serve your God."

"Uh-huh", you make, humming against the tip of his cock, tongue gliding around it. You would gladly serve him however he wishes. On your knees, on your back, on all fours, in his lap. You would serve him with thick streaks of a paddle welting up on your ass in an angry angry red, as much as you would serve him with his cum running out of your used cunt. Arousal rummages through your body like a wildfire, a dark pit in your chest that clenches and tugs and you moan against the tip of his dick.

Behind you, the candle light flickers over the mural in the altar room, its shadows creating a rather lively illusion of the Evil One. For a split second, it seems like the painted eyes of Satan follow your cojoined movements - like He is watching you.

The both of you are oblivious to it, too enamoured and lost in the way you go to town on his cock - peppering the thick head of his cock with soft kisses - but faint gasps, and a few uttered prayers from the nave reach your ears nonetheless, even though you cannot find rhyme nor reason in them. All that exists to you is Perpetua, the way his hands grab at your hair, thenar of his thumbs rubbing against your skull and how his eyes stare deep deep into your soul. His groan echoes in your head still, and you need more more more - closing your lips around the tip fully, sucking it into your mouth.

You nearly forget to breathe, that's how good he already feels in your mouth. You can feel your brain going mushy in real time, feel it turning all soupy with arousal and the headrush you are experiencing from barely breathing and the way your thundering heart pumps your blood through your body. Swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, you quickly grow desperate, eager, and let him slip further into your mouth.

Perpetua moans as your lips closes around his dick, "That's it, darling" and he is so so heavy and huge on your tongue that you are really having trouble taking all of him in. Thus, your hand tugs at the thick base of his cock - jerking it up and down to the slooow rhythm of your head bobbing on his dick that you pick up.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the unholy Son of the dark Father, full of grace and truth.

A complacent smile tugs at his lips as one of his hands - the one at the back of your head, gently resting above the crook of your neck - caresses your skin gently while you let him sink deeper into your mouth. "Can't get enough of me, hm? Cheap whore", his voice raspy, sounding like he is trying to suppress another moan. Tugs at your hair lightly as he spits out the insult, your stomach growing hot and your loins clench.

Seeing the lust moving over your face - your eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling back a little - he grins, flashes his razor-sharp teeth at you, tuts. "You're properly rotten, aren't you?", he croons, all affectionate and bewitched, but his eyes gleam down at you mischievously.

The candles' flames quiver and flicker, painting ghostly shadows on the mural - their golden hue dancing over Perpetua's form. You can hear the night sky rumbling faintly with thunder, and then lightning cracks through the darkness, illuminates the world outside in a flash. Usually, you would flinch - just like the congregation does - but an otherworldly calm fills your body, down to your bones, that drowns out anyone and anything but the way your cunt presses wetly against your panties, his cock feels inside your mouth.

Humming around his dick you bat your lashes at him, wanting to show him just how much you strayed away from the lies of the Lord and embraced the Evil One's teaching. But most importantly: You wish to please your Papa. Give him what he is asking for. What he deserves.

And it makes you so so wet, the heavy weight of him on your tongue, how his dick throbs as you let it sink deeper into your mouth. You can feel fresh wetness pooling between your legs, rubbing your thighs together to get any sort of friction; your tongue pressing flatly against the bottom of his cock while hollowing your cheeks.

Your eyes prove to be bigger than your mouth, as his dick slips in further, your mouth connecting with your thumb, and you sputter around him. Your throat protests the sudden intrusion, as the tip of his dick knocks against your palate, and you choke, gargling against his cock.

"Sh, sh, sh", Perpetua pats your cheek patronizingly, regards you with a pitiful look, "Careful, doll. Take your time, hm?" He does not want you to. He needs it hard and fast, needs you to open up for him. He has waited long enough.

But he also cannot deny how good it feels, to let you take the lead just a little; how good it feels to watch you scrambling for ways to make him feel good.

It's rather addictive. He could do this all day - just take his cock out and watch you having your way with it, pleasuring yourself and trying to get him off, to be good for him.

And you are trying so hard right now. Taking him out of your mouth, sucking in a few deep breaths while he cradles your cheek; and then your mouth is back on him - with more vigour, more ambition - your hand giving his cock one, two forceful pumps, before your head sinks down on it, swallowing more than the half of him.

Your mouth is sacred.

Perpetua marvels in your beauty, the curve and stretch of your lips as you close your mouth around him fully - looking up at him through lust-hooded eyes, gleaming with arousal, a soft rose tint to your cheeks. He wants to keep you, for all eternity if he must. Strike a bargain with his Creator if he has to. Just because-

"You are made for this, doll", he groans, Made for me, as your tongue rubs along the bottom of his dick.

He feels so good in your mouth, the cold skin growing warmer by the second and you can feel his dick pulse and twitch, as you reach for his balls once more with your other hand, stroking and fondling his sack. A moan, deep and coarse - powerful and earth-shatteringly beautiful like a prayer - slips from his mouth, and his eyelids flutter, while his head tips down a little, brown hair cascading down the sides of his painted face. The silver of his mask catches the candle-light and you know that you bask in the sight of Satan's most unholy, most precious creation.

And Perpetua feels so alive.

He can feel (for the first time in a long time) how the heavily scented air of the church enters and fills his lungs - that inflate and deflate uselessly - feels lust creeping up and down his spine hotly. Fuck, he has missed this.

He hasn't felt this good, this lively, since he opened his eyes on the cool and steely autopsy table in the mortuary. Has not felt this free since he plucked the embalming tubes from his nose and arms and felt the chemical liquid rushing out if his eternal corpse. Has not felt this good since he realized how strong, how powerful, His Unholy Majesty made him as he dug his teeth so deeply into his first victims throat, that he broke the bones in its neck.

Satan in Hell, he feels like he is going to burst. He cannot believe that your mouth feels so heavenly, and he cannot help but wonder if your cunt is just as warm and wet.

The thought has him reeling on the edge, dick twitching on your tongue as you bob your head back and forth like you are fucking crazed for him.

You are perfect. A gift from the Lord, tainted by his Master. And Perpetua will reward you for it.

He is going to make you the God-bearer. Pump you full of his cum, until you feel like you are going to burst and then he is going to shove his dick back into you, so not a single drop of his goes to waste.

Perpetua cannot help himself - and later he will ponder whether he had a divine vision then and there - but to think of it. Really think of it.

His brain, long without vivid electric impulse, stutters back alive as it cooks up a delicious imagery. He can practically feel your warm flesh beneath his fingertips and against his body. And he cannot - for the love of Satan - stop thinking about it, the thought swallowing him whole.

How you would lay on his bed - his unused, cold bed - legs tightly wrapped around his waist. Moaning sweetly with the way his cock plunges into you deeply, pubic hair brushing over your folds and clit with every single thrust. It'd be the third time in a row he's fucking you, and your pussy still clutches around him greedily. His own cum and your squirt clinging to his curly bush and your mingled juices glisten on your wet folds that squelch with every thrust. You'd be so so full with his cum, that you mewl as he practically bends you in half, drills into you. Feeling like you are about to burst, you can feel his cum pooling around the thick base of his cock.

Perpetua is going to fuck the Antichrist into you. He will make you round and plump and he will do it over and over again. He will make you the Mother of the Devil Church, a Saint to behold, a guiding light for those lost to false promises. His cock hits your cervix over and over again, until you are babbling nonsense, his name on your tongue as you beg and plead and he leans in - eternal stamina, eternal lust - peppers your cheeks with kisses. "Take it all, darling, be good and take what I offer you", he croons, and when he lays his fingers onto your cunt you will milk his cock with an orgasm stronger than the ones that ripped through your body earlier, and he will spill and spill and spill thick, seemingly unending ropes and ropes of hot cum into your thight, fucked-out hole.

The thought nearly has Perpetua toppling over. Fuck, you are so damned hot, and he wants to ruin you. He has waited long enough; limited himself with a false ideal of decorum. You are his. The whole ministry is. He might as well start taking what rightfully belongs to him.

The candles scattered across the altar room flicker once more and then erupt in a flash of a flame, almost like a spontaneous combustion; outside, thunder rumbles once more while Perpetua tips his head back and groans - hands cradling your head, pushing his hips forward.

The thick tip of his dick hits the back of your throat, way back, and the congregation can see your throat bulging where the thick head slips past your palate; while you sputter and gag around it. Your nose is buried in his pubic hair, curling softly against your cheeks and bridge of your nose; inhaling hastily you catch lungsful of his scent - mouth salivating with both: his smell and the massive weight pushing into your throat. Eyes welting up with tears at the sudden intrusion and the nausea that bubbles in your stomach, you look up at him, hands clawing helplessly at his thighs, the thick material of his pants. Panic settles in your limbs at the sudden asphyxiation, feet kicking out a little.

Although he hears you gargling around his cock, watches your frame writhe, he does not budge; instead he holds your head close to his crotch, mismatched eyes rolling back at your sweet sweet, desperate sounds and the way your throat clenches around him.

Lightning cracks like a whip.

And then he moves. Sets a quick pace as he ruts into your throat, uses your mouth like a fucking fleshlight. His balls slap against your chin wetly, as your saliva runs down your lips, pooling at the thick base of his dick.

Your jaw hurts and so does your throat, growing sore with the he recklessly fucks into your mouth, bruising the back of your throat with the thick head of his cock that he drills down down down your mouth.

"That's it", he groans, mumbling to himself like a madman, "Take it, fucking take it, you slut -- There you go, fucking suck - my - cock". Each word one sharp thrust, that push tears from your eyes.

Your dirty fucking mouth feels so so good. He wishes he could relish it more; take his time, savour how your mouth and tongue feel - but you nearly feel too good, and he really really needs to cum. He could do this all day, have your lips wrapped around him all the damn time.

"You fuckin' bitch", he slurs, tips his head back, one of his hands coming lose from your head and runs it through his own instead, suddenly feeling as hot as if he'd be facing all Seven Hells at once.

The grip on your head is still lethal, strong like a vice, and you try your best to just relax your throat, to keep inhaling deeply through your nose; but, to no avail - your jaw already hurts from his assault on your mouth and your throat feels so so sore. Tomorrow, your voice will be a dry croak.

Desperate for any sort of leverage, any control your hands wander upwards, clinging to his silken shirt; one hand splayed out on his abdomen, the other reaching higher, nearly reaching his chest. You cling and tear at the fabric, groaning and gargling around his dick as he uses your throat, making you choke on his fat cock. Spit runs down your chin freely, your nose is still buried in his pubes, and you can feel his muscles ripple beneath your touch.

The lack of air and the way his dick repeatedly hits the back of your throat has even more tears welling up in your eyes that quicly topple over, running down your cheeks as you look up at him. Satan's Child using you for his pleasure, basking in the glow of a thousand flames burning oh so brightly, like twinkling stars as your tears contort and blur your vision. You can see and feel his muscles moving, as he fucks into your mouth.

You are truly blessed.

And Perpetua wants all of you, still. Wants so taste your blood, feel you clench around his dick, your hands running down his body.

But he will look for other ways to eat - devour - you, and will find himself between your spread legs, his tongue buried deep deep between your folds and inside your hole, his canines scraping dangerously over the soft, wet, and delicate skin.

His hips will rut into the bed as he humps his hard cock onto the mattress, hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping your spread open for him.

It will be hard for you to breathe, as he laps at your cunt like a starving starving man; and it will be hard for him to think, jaw hurting and chin drenched in your juices and his own saliva, grinding down onto the wet spot that is forming in his pants. He will come like this, after you do, shoot his load into his tight jeans, lapping at your squirting cunt.

Still, you want to offer it all to him. Throw your head back and give yourself to him, arteries prominent beneath your sweaty skin - all the while he is balls deep inside of your seeping-hot cunt that wets his pubic hairs, juices running down his sack and splattered across his abdomen; his face buried in your neck, lips latching onto your throat. And you would let him break your skin, let him drink from you. Give him everything you have. Let him have your life.

He must see it in your eyes - the promise, the submission, and the suggestion all the same - because his cock twitches in your throat and he moans freely, all mangled and raw and loud and his hips stutter, as he sacks forward a little. You know he is close. You just do. Like you have done this a hundred times before, like you know him better than he knows himself.

Fighting the gag reflex you push your tongue against his dick, rubbing it along the bottom of it and that is when he throbs in the most delicious way.

You close your eyes, ready to swallow each and every last drop of him, taste his cum on your tongue; moaning around his cock deep in your throat but--

But he pulls out, a sharp gasp slipping from his lips as he pumps his cock once, twice and then moans - a raw, coarse sound that echoes from the walls, and then hot streaks of cum hit your face. You can feel it hitting your cheeks, your forehead all warm and sticky, specks of it landing on your lips and in your opened mouth. Some of it gets in your eyes, but you just blink it away, gaze trained on his face that first contorts with pleasure beautifully, before his jaw goes a little slack, a blissful smile settling onto his lips, head tilted back a little. Your hands wander over his firm, toned abdomen, caressing the eternally frozen body beneath the soft fabric, while he shoots hot rope after rope of cum onto your face.

Eventually, he is spent, and he groans, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at you - like he is assessing his work - before his hands leave your head. Your scalp stings and your neck hurts, but he does not care much for your wincing, as he takes his cock back in his hand.

You watch his slender fingers, adorned with his metal claws that shimmer in the candle light, stuffing himself back into his pants; the dark fabric around the fly stained with your saliva, while you rub your thighs together.

You want him. You need him.

Arousal crushes over your body in hot, suffocating waves and you feel like you are running a two-hundred degrees fever. Whining and still feeling a little loopy and out of it from the lack of oxygen, you look up at him, hands pressing onto his thighs needily, grabbing at the fabric. Your cheeks are wet with tears and his cum.

He tilts his head at you, blinks - visibly irritated. "What?"

"Papa, p-please", you sob, voice small, his cum in thick streaks on your face, clumping your lashes, "I -- I, I need - just, f-fuck me please."

And he huffs at that, the coil in his stomach tightening again. Already. "You don't know what you're asking for, silly", voice coarse - because you certainly don't. He would ravish you, skin and bones, leave nothing but a puddle of blood and cum.

So instead, because his education reminds of that much - nothing but a faint voice in the back of his skull, reaching for him through the thick haze of arousal and post-orgasmic bliss - he shoves his foot between your thighs, presses the tip of it riiight onto where he suspects your clit.

"That's all you'll get", his hand strokes your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, "Be good and I'll might give you more."

Sometime. When he has tamed the beast inside himself.

You gasp, hips stuttering forward as your body writhes at the sudden, harsh contact; and then you start to grind down onto his suede boot, shame burning high on your cheeks.

You can feel all of their eyes resting heavily upon you - defiled with your tears and his juices. It is an honour to serve a Papa in such a way, and you are very well aware of it. Some of your fellow Siblings will most likely not be able to suppress their jealousy, make you feel their envy with harsh words and harsher hands. A few others will most likely be joyous for you, steam your tunics more carefully now, tend to your hair and nails as his newly-found, favourite concubine shares her stories with them. The Ghouls will, from now on, most likely keep themselves away from you.

There, there - you are marked now. You are his. You should be joyful. It is a gift from the Hells: His Majesty has chosen you to pleasure the new Papa.

You.

Something churns away in your stomach, blends with the shame at being so publicly displayed in both, your lust and your servitude: pride.

It tingles in your stomach, blends with your arousal, shoots up up up to your brain and releases a firework of euphoria, sweet moans slipping from your lips. Your head sacks forward a little, his grip on your hair stinging, and you groan with both - pain and pleasure.

Fresh wetness pools between your folds, and you can feel your panties clinging wetly to your cunt, staining the leather of his shoes. And you are so fucking turned on. Lust runs rampage on your nerve-endings, sending your head into a spin and reduces all bodily desires to just wanting to come. Gasping, you speed up, your hands running up your body and grabbing your tits through your habit as lust rummages through your body, leaving your skin prickling and hot; suffocating like a heavy, feverish blanket.

And Perpetua tips your head back by tugging at your hair, making you moan. You meet his gaze, that wanders over your sweaty, flushed face, and then his thumb runs through the sticky streaks of cum on your cheek - gathers it on the pad of the metal claw before brushing over your lips.

And you part them, still plush and wet from sucking his cock, carefully taking the talon in your mouth. It rests heavily on your tongue, cold and hard, and then the salty, musky taste of his cum hits your palate. You moan around his finger, tongue carefully lapping his juices off the metal.

The taste and the humiliation gets you going, all thought of all these Clergy members watching washed from your mind as your eyelids flutter. Perpetua pulls his thumb from your mouth gently, only to run it through his cum once more, feeding you more of his spend.

You hum around his thumb, as it enters your mouth once more, tasting his cum, licking and sucking it off the cool metal eagerly, swallowing it has your eyes rolling back.

He tastes like Heaven and Hell. You wish you could do more than just taste him.

You wish he would touch you. Really touch you - take his time, too. Run his hands down your body, fingers digging into your curves, lips latching onto you where your pulse thunders beneath the thin and soft skin. You wonder, what his hands would feel like - his touch firm and cold - and you squeeze your tit, eyelids fluttering as your mind conjures up the delicious image of you; sitting on his lap in the confined space of a confessional, knees digging into the hard wooden bench. Him rrripping your habit apart, groping your tits hungrily, thumb flicking over your nipples.

Just as yours do now and they are hard like glass beneath the soft, dark cotton of your tunic.

"Look at you", he muses, hand caressing your cheek, his thumb still in your mouth, feeling you suckle around it, "Aren't you just such a good little slut?"

Putting pressure on your tongue he pushes your mouth open, a dirty grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Such a dirty, little thing - y'just really love to have something to swallow, don't you?", he whispers, watches you whine and nod. Then, he swirls his tongue through his mouth, along his teeth and razor-sharp canines - gathers some spit and then leans down - lets his saliva trickle from his own mouth into yours slooowly, a thick rope dropping down onto your tongue. His spit is cold and tastes coppery, and your stomach does a flip at the gesture, while the taste sends your brain into a tail-spin.

The thought of him hunting people through the ministry's ground, just moments before the black mass, haunts your mind. The way they seek a way through the darkening pine forest, the icy air piercing their faces and lungs as they run and run and run from him - maybe they are unsuspecting tourists thinking they rented an Airbnb in the nearby monastic granges or maybe the ministry just plainly kidnaps people now - as he struts after them. Measured steps, as he is not in a hurry - they won't be able to outrun him forever, and he is quicker, stronger, deadlier anyways - a tall looming figure always behind them, rising high between the dark tree trunks.

But you only know the half of it, unable to imagine what follows. For then the creature screeches, hurls itself forward, because it is just growing tired of the hunt and their desperate, futile attempts at escaping their certain demise - inhumane, supernatural speed as it starts to run, brown hair fluttering and it giggles; elegant frame connecting forcefully with a victim's as it tackles the human into the cold snow and buries its canines, its whole denture in the livestock’s face. Bones crush, blood spurts like a fountain and the creature slurps as it feasts.

You wonder how Perpetua's lips would taste, feel on yours. If he were a lover you would just lean in freely, let him feel just how much he makes your stomach flutter and heart ache - but he is not from this world, something more, utterly divine and you just aren't worthy.

Instead, you swallow obediently, keeping your gaze chained to his. And that is when he tilts the tip of his boot juuust right, moves it against your desperate humping --

A sweet sweet moan, high-pitched and a tad strangled, slips from your throat as you cunt clenches around nothing and then squirts; your juices drenching your panties and soaking the suede of his shoes as you finally, finally come. Your head flies back as your body tenses up, shakes rattling you and the dark sky outside the colourful windows singes in a deep, deep red, just as thunder rumbles, makes the ground shake - like the Earth has been plunged into the Seven Hells, fire erupting around the globe. Perpetua watches you, the red light engulfing him, a smile tugging at his lips.

The red subsides as quickly as it exploded across the night sky, and he knows that Father is pleased. Leaning down to your gasping, quivering form, he cradles your face in his hands, claws wrapping around your skull. "You did well, darling", he whispers, faint groans and heavy breathing coming from the nave but he doesn't care much - it is their time now, he will continue to indulge in yours. He doesn't know, doesn't check where his brother is - if he regards him with open disdain or if a Sibling of Sin is on his cock already - and for the first time in a long time he realizes that he just does not care.

Placing a soft kiss on your sweaty forehead, he inhales your scent, listens to your laborious breathing and your thundering heartbeat; in the nave, a ghoul hurls itself over the bench and at a Friar.

"You're mine now", he whispers, and your eyes flicker open at that, pupils still dark and blown with lust, your body writhing from your orgasm. Oh, he is so so far from being done with you.

And he knows that you know it, too.

#papa perpetua #papa perpetua v #papa perpetua x reader #papa perpetua smut #papa v ghost #perpetua ghost #the band ghost smut #my writing #smut #papa v perpetua #papa v x reader #papa v smut #the band ghost #ghost band fanfic #ghost band fic

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waiting-drives-you-crazy · 2 months ago

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i really do think it's fucking hilarious when im scrolling through the supernatural tag on tiktok and am greeted with the most wincest-esque edit only to find that the creator scorns the ship with the fury of a thousand suns. they're in the comment section talking about they hate wincesties and the freak community, but then their reposts are sam and dean honest to god almost kissing. I know what you are you freakazoid; I'm onto you, I promise.

#wincest #samdean #IM ONTO YOU #I CANT PROVE IT BUT I AM #one day #you all shall see #i shall unearth you from underneath the covers of shame #BE FREE CHILD BE FREE

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evilminji · 3 months ago

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Ngl, I'm kinda really big on "Accidentally Fixing Things While I Was Off, Minding My Business/Indulging My Hyper Fixation"

With a side of "huh, why do I hear jaws music?" *Og!Protagonist Approach-ith*

Cause like? Who WOULDN'T want to play around with QI? Talismans? Get REAL deep into the esoteric Cultivation Lore??! What do you MEAN "boring", native to this universe!? This shit is MAGIC! We're literally playing with MAGIC here! I can write squiggles on a peice of paper and BEND REALITY! Concentrate REAL hard and have the universe around me just... shrug and OBEY!!!

That's SO COOL!

Sweet backflips and flying swords! Mythic animals! Forget being a wizard, this is WAY better! *cackles in glee*

Imagine if a SI-OC aims for a Peak that was never even brought up in Cannon! The Talismans and Artifacts (don't get them started. Yes, it's both two seperate fields. But somehow ALSO a spectrum? And can be both at once, depending on the age of the object? No one else is quite sure...) Peak. She finds her people.

First you study the general, then you specialize.

Everyone there can info-dump for HOURS on their niche field of study! Lots of cross Peak cooperation! Half of them are never ON Peak because they can't MOVE their objects of interest! Gotta study them at location! Which, yes, includes hidden realms! AND THE CREATION OF THEM.

Their last Peak lord? Fuckin DIED to Tianlang-jun's sealing. Their CURRENT Shizun? Hates the Old Palace Master with the fury of ten thousand suns. Bastard just... just DUMPED a project like "seal a Heavenly Fucking Demon Emperor" on everybody LAST MINUTE. And WIPED OUT an ENTIRE GENERATION of Masters.

If ANY of them work with ANYONE from Hau Haun? They are DEAD to him.

DEAD.

So like.... fuck those guys. It's the formal stance of her Peak. Fuck those guys forever. *spits*

Oc agrees. Cause wtf. That sounds like it was unreasonable and deeply fucked up. And that kid of demon? SUPER dangerous! Good thing there aren't any more of them! She says... having never read the book. Either one. Granted, things KINDA sound familiar? In that her brother used to talk about a series from overseas he was slowly moogle translating to read.

But like? It's the Multiverse. Not impossible odds. Maybe her soul just clung to a Cultivation Universe that VAGUELY sounded familiar, over the countless that DID NOT. Not like she knows how Reincarnation works...

Anyway~ Back to her projects!

She's industrious AF. Exceeds her Talisman goals. Constantly. Which means she gets to keep or sell the extra (it's motivation to work hard). She likes to give some to people who look like they need um. Like that miserable kid on Qing Jing. She sees him every time she stops by to hit up their, frankly, Gucci Library. VERY fancy.

Here, kid, have some warming and protection talismans. Perimeter alert ones. Kinda weird you go through so many, but meh, I don't know your life. Want one of my practice Qiankun pouches? It's ugly af. But since our peak makes them, I gotta practice.

The kid gives her snacks. They're pretty good, not gonna lie.

He IS... kinda creepy though. Very "you should skip school tomorrow" quite kid with too intense eye contact. You... uh... you GOOD, kiddo? Wanna talk? Should... should she, like, do something about this, or.....

No, no! He insists. With the flattest, fakest smile she's ever seen outside of a Serial Killer. He's Fine™! No need to worry about HIM!

......okay, but, see, when you SAY shit like that....

Creepy™ "probably gonna murder everyone on Qing Jing" kid aside? She has a GOAL! Wants to make a MEDICAL Hidden Realm! Yeah, that's right!! See, you can dictate the "rules" of reality (somewhat) inside the Realm you create, right? SO! It occurred to her! She should make a Realm?

That DOES NOT ALLOW QI DEVIATIONS!

Something that forces the Qi inside one's body to smooth and heal! Calm and rich! Like Ling Xi caves but for healing instead of breakthroughs! It could be a lifesaving realm, where one goes to ride out a Qi Deviation or face their heart demons! In an environment that will not ALLOW them to fatally spiral!

Of course, she needs to find a whole bunch of rare and soothing legendary flowers to plant. Trees, too. A couple rare beasts, known for their intensely soothing auras. Just... REALLY stack the odds. THEN off course, she'll have to lay the ground work of the realm itself. Find a good place to PUT it!

Maybe Qian Cao Peak? Or could she connect it to to the Ling Xi to take advantage of the natural Qi and protection the mountain itself gives? She would need permission either way... she should draft a consultation request...

All this? As the immortal conference gets closer and closer. Fate LOOMS.

Only to slide wildly off the rails, as she get approved by THE SECT LEADER to make her "Anti-Qi-Deviation Realm" in the Ling Xi Caves as her final project. Her Master Work as an Inner Disciple, as it were, Proof of studies and skill. All HE saw was "anti-Qi-deviation" and thought "this could totally help Xiao-Jiu". Immediately gave the go ahead.

(And as for Lui Qinggi? This is NOT a new idea of hers. She'd long gotten Mu Qingfang on board. What luck, for EVERONE involved, he was in the caves that day. Once again looking for a good place to anchor the realm, for a maximum effect to ease of access ratio.)

She anchors the Realm. Starts planting like mad. Transferring her legendary Soothing Plants and Soothing Trees. Constructing a few buildings in accordance to the feng shui MASTER she hunted down and consulted. Requests Shen-shibo himself come and be in charge of paintings and other decorations, as he IS the master of the scholars peak.

(And most at risk of a Lords or a Qi Deviation. So would be a splendid test case.)

(Is what she does not say...)

(But they are both aware of anyway.)

And? Shen Jiu? Has... never felt so calm and safe in his LIFE. Unnatural! Doesn't like it. Disgusting. What coddling nonsense! He's never going... going... to go... *stands at the entrance and glares, like the realm personally offended him* *carefully inches back inside like an abused cat*

He stops paying attention to his peak almost immediately. Yes, he does his job. But... his brain is no longer wrapped up in it. Obsessive over it. Constantly comparing and jealous and spiteful. Don't get him wrong! He's still a petty, spiteful, bitch of a man. But...

True, restful sleep? Changes a man. The complete lack of constant minor Qi Deviations, like mini-seizures, in the night. Throughout the day. Constantly wearing him down, tearing him down. Exhausting him and hurting. That... gentleness. Calm. Escape from pain, which he has lived with for so, so long.

What was he doing? Comparing himself to brats?

Being jealous of and competitive of tiny little IDIOTS. They're morons! He's a Peak Lord. He's WON.

He starts ignoring Bingge. Noticing things he'd overlooked before, in his exhaustion. Like the fact that his daughter is, apparently, very susceptible to rumor mongering and not AWARE she is just and ONLY his daughter. (Ying-er, sweetie, Baba loves you... but sometimes you make him very tired...) (also it will be a cold day in hell, when he allows to to marry that little cretin. Chose better.)

Oc? Getting SLOSHED with Mu-shibo! WOOOOO~☆ we DID IT!!! The Realm was a SUCCESS! We're GENIUSES! We can't wait to see how this develops!!! *celebrating noises*

Immortal Conference, happens. SI-OC? Just graduated. Missed it. Meh... it should be fine. Still... here, kiddos. Her backlog of Talismans and pouches. Never know when that might be useful! Oh, hey, Creepy I mean, that Kid from Qing Jing who thankfully hasn't killed anybody yet! Still got the Weirdly Intense Eye Contact, I see! You all packed?

....that's... a little light.

Here, Talismans and Pouches, just like the kids from her Peak. Stay safe, okay? There's food and water in there. Medicine too. Some emergency blankets. Flares and stuff. Don't hesitate to use um. They are made to be used. Everybody be good!

And remember! This conference isn't worth your life!

[♡Luo Binghe Will Remember This♡]

W...why do I hear jaws music? Hello? Helloooo?

Cause like? Shen Jiu? Doesn't throw him in. He's too busy saving students he Actually Cares About. You know... like a RESPONSIBLE Peak Lord. But does that STOP fate? Ha! No. Down Binghe goes! With a bunch of pouches he begged of Talisman Peak disciples who were dropping out. Since... they didn't need them... *puppy dog eyes* c-could he steal borrow them?

He ends up in the Abyss with a small warehouse of supplies. Which is GREAT! Will get him through this hellscape!

Assuming he can protect it.

Every meal. Every night of sleep where he DOESNT have to twitch at every sound, thanks to the talisman arrays. Every drop of clean water. Scrap of medicine. It's a reminder of the One(1) Sister who was nice to him at no cost. Didn't want to fuck him, use him, in some way. Have him a part, like some sort of emotional crutch. Was just... kind. For the sake of kindness.

Saw him, not the mask he wore, and recognized he'd be strong. (Why else would she look so wary?) And he wants and wants and Wants AND WANTS.

Aren't I strong, now, Shixiong? Aren't you so very proud of me? Look how powerful Luo Binghe has become! I came back for you. Brought back the things you gave me. A little stained, but that's okay. We can make new ones. Can finally move on. No more Cang Qiong. Isn't it great? Tell me it's GREAT, Shixiong.

Please stop running. Or I'll have to burn the mountain down.

@mayfay @legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @hdgnj @spidori @leftnotright

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obaewankenobis · 2 years ago

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born to die (pt 2) ; finnick odair

pairing: finnick odair/reader (afab but pronouns not/rarely used, no use of y/n)

part one: found here

word count: 5.3k

summary: you and finnick both struggle with your feelings as the capitol's expectations aims to tear you apart.

warnings: typical hunger games warnings (violence, death, sex trafficking, etc). oral (f receiving), mentions of throwing up, sliiiight alcohol abuse, semi-public sex but not really, angst, but fluffy towards the end. the smut is very minimal in this one sorry guys </3 18+ only, minors dni!

How hard could it be, going back to hating someone? Apparently, it wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch like you’d originally thought. And apparently, it was even harder when you realized you never truly hated the person in the first place.

But that wouldn’t stop you from trying. No, you seemed to take every flutter of your heart and every catch of your breath as a challenge, furious your body was betraying you whenever you thought of him for too long.

It had been a week since you’d even seen a glimpse of Finnick, a week of remembering how gentle his lips felt against your neck, how perfectly they molded with your own. A week of being tortured by dreams of the firm grasp on your hips, of his fingers digging into your thighs and traveling up at a tantalizing pace. You’d dream of his mouth on the shell of your ear, his breath hot and warming your insides as your name escaped his lips in a beautiful melody reserved only for you.

And each morning you woke with a frustrated groan, your fingers splaying across the empty sheets beside you, reaching for him and feeling nothing. And each morning you would ignore the hurt rising in your throat upon the discovery of his absence, and redirect it into burning anger, until now, a week later, you were blazing with the fury of a thousand suns.

It was fine, I didn’t have time to sit in bed and worry about the likes of Finnick Odair. You tried (in vain) to convince yourself of this, having heard from somewhere you couldn’t remember that if you repeated something enough times with enough force, your brain would soon accept it as reality. Like reverse psychology, or whatever…

So far, that strategy wasn’t working, and you were growing desperate for release. You were so eager to get him off your mind you tried to act like it wasn’t the worst thing in the world when your services were requested by the son of some Capitol elite, because then you’d have someone else to channel your loathing into instead of Finnick, who didn’t quite deserve the anger he was currently being bombarded with in your mind.

It was some stupid Capitol party to celebrate 50 years of President Snow’s leadership. God, if you could choose something to celebrate, that would be below the very last thing on your list.

Immediately your skin began to crawl as you realized you were still the talk of the Capitol, having won your games so recently, and that you’d be put in another outfit so revealing, so you could be gawked at like a museum display.

Fuck this. If you had to be paraded around as a sex symbol for the Capitol, there was no way in hell you were doing it sober this time, escort or not.

You allowed your stylists to do what they pleased, yanking your hair and slicking it back so tightly you thought you’d be bald upon taking it out, sipping, or rather chugging, a bottle of expensive champagne you’d ordered just before they’d arrived.

Your face painted a pretty picture, the picture the Capitol wanted, coated with thick brushes of makeup to erase the tear stains permanently etched into your cheeks, lips brushed with a deep red color to cover up the dryness cracking them. Made completely out of pearls with heavier ropes placed strategically around your chest and hips, this dress was just as risque, if not more, than the one you’d worn last time.

While of course you hated how little the dress covered because it was gross and blatantly sexual, you hated even more how certain parts of your body were on display. The parts that made it obvious you had been reaping the benefits of the Capitol: your glossy hair, your radiant skin, the healthy amount of muscle and fat; they were all reminders that you were being pampered up here, enjoying Capitol delicacies, while the majority of Panem was on the brink of starvation.

Despite being from one of the wealthier Districts, you had noticed how the tributes from the other Districts were. How sallow their skin was, how their eyes appeared sunken into their skulls, how their bones were so brittle it took little effort to snap—

You downed another glass of champagne.

You hated it, you felt disgusting, but there was nothing you could say as a member of your prep team dotted tiny pearls in your hair to complete the outfit. It was all a facade, all something to squash your true feelings down and present you as somewhat of a robot, incapable of real human emotion.

That was the point, you realized. They didn’t view you as a person, they viewed you as a toy to be played with. At least the champagne seemed to be doing its job, you thought with a happy sigh as a numbing buzz overtook you, lowering your inhibitions. If only you could feel like this all the time, so relaxed and unguarded.

Your inability to sleep had only gotten worse in Finnick’s absence; he’d been there so soon after it’d all gone downhill that your mind had immediately gotten used to the feeling of having him beside you, comforting you. You’d take back every kiss, every bite, every moan you’d shared to have him back, dancing his fingers along your skin in soothing patterns.

“It’s time to go,” a girl from the prep team said quietly, yanking you out of your thoughts— what was her name? You were too tipsy to try and remember, so all you did was nod and follow her out the door. Some part of you, the emotional part that wouldn’t listen to the rest, wondered briefly if Finnick would be there as well.

The party was so much more fun this time. You were blushing at the flirtations thrown your way, giggling at every poorly made joke, and even trying to impersonate the distinct Capitol accent with your “date”. He was handsome, sure, but in a weird, i’m-from-the-capitol-so-i-have-pompoms-on-my-suit-and-wear-gold-lipstick kind of way, and you were certain had you stopped several glasses ago, you wouldn’t be finding his jokes half as funny.

But the alternative was remembering at the end of the night, you’d be forced to go home and pretend it was Finnick’s hands roaming your body or pressing his lips against your own. You stumbled your way over to the table serving various kinds of alcohol, from fruity cocktails to straight liquor, and poured a generous amount into your already half-full cup. You were so focused on not spilling anything that you didn’t notice someone coming up behind you until two strong hands wrapped around your wrists, gently but firmly prying the bottle from your hand and setting your glass down on the table.

“Easy there, sweetheart. Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink tonight? I mean, I could see you stumbling around from across the room.”

Oh, fuck this, you would know that voice anywhere, though it had morphed into the seductive purr he put on whenever he was playing the role of the Capitol Darling. You whirled around and out of the cage of his arms, the backs of your thighs hitting the table behind you and letting out a yelp as your heels disagreed with the swiftness of your movements; You would’ve been on the ground had Finnick not steadied you with a hand curled around your waist. But you wouldn’t thank him for that. You wouldn’t admit how his innocent touch shot sparks through your body, and you certainly wouldn’t admit how gorgeous he looked.

Because fuck him for being dressed so much more modestly than you, and fuck him for looking so good in what his stylists had put him in — loose trousers and a simple white knit top with a deep vee stopping above his navel. The style of the shirt was something you would see around District 4, and his hair looked as if he’d just come from the ocean, with a salt kissed ruffle that messed with his waves and gave him a perfect disheveled look that would make you swoon, if you still cared about what he looked like.

Which you didn’t, because he’d made it perfectly clear the moment he’d left you last week that he didn’t care either.

He looked at you expectantly, raising an eyebrow and you realized you’d been caught staring, which only served to make you more furious. “You don’t need to babysit me,” you shrugged his hand off, “Just… leave me alone, Finnick.”

“I’m just looking out for you,” the amusement in his tone at your anger only made your blood boil.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you began, trying and failing to keep your voice from rising into a shrill whine, “I don’t want to see you! I want you to leave me alone and—”

“Can we talk?” He blurted out, his voice so timid it stopped you in your tracks. “You sound upset, and you’ve avoided me all week, after we...”

“Avoided you?” Your laugh was dry and humorless. “Are you serious? You left me, Finnick! I was doing you a favor!”

“By not talking to me? We finally— I finally think that maybe, maybe I wasn’t so crazy, that maybe you liked m—” His eyes widened and he realized he’d said too much, too loud, because people were starting to get irritated by the two of you blocking the liquor table. “Can you just come with me?” You stared back at him blankly, which only caused him to break out in a genuine grin. “Come on, don’t make me beg. Although if last time was any indication, I’m sure you’d like to see me on my—”

With a flustered shriek to cut him off, you grabbed his hand and tugged him into the most private space you could find, a small alcove in one of the many winding hallways of the mansion.

“Do you regret it?” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth once he’s sure the two of you are alone. All playfulness has drained from his features, like the facade he’d been putting up can disappear now that he’s away from the prying eyes of the Capitol. You stared at him in disbelief, like what he’s said is crazy. He doesn’t give you the chance to respond before he continues. “Because I don’t. You needed me, and I…” He swallowed harshly, like what he was about to say next didn’t sit right in his throat, “I don’t want you to think that what we did changes anything.”

Despite knowing he meant well, those were precisely the words you didn’t want to hear. How could he not see how confusing it was? To say he didn’t regret it, but to also say it didn’t change anything, all in one sentence.

“No, of course I don’t, that’s not…” I’ve dreamed of you far too often since I was fourteen, seemed like an inappropriate response, but you found yourself something entirely different. “Then why did you leave?”

You wanted to cringe at how small and pathetic you sounded asking such a question. Your gaze dropped to the floor, but it was too late, you couldn’t reach in the air and snatch the words back.

“You said you didn’t want it to mean anything. I was trying to make it easier for you.” He said that at the same time strong fingers grasped your chin, tender but with purpose, forcing you to meet his gaze. Just by looking at him straight on, you were frightened by the vulnerability you felt, like you’d been stripped raw of any protection you’d wrapped yourself in; no secrets could be kept now. And it didn’t help that you were so close you could count the individual eyelashes framing his eyes; the proximity made you quite flustered and incapable of forming coherent thoughts.

You were yet again consumed by neverending thoughts of Finnick Odair, thoughts that had been berating you all week in the back of your mind now coming to the forefront in full force.

How could you respond to that? It was you who’d asked for nothing more than a distraction, you who had made it clear sleeping together didn’t have to mean anything. But it wasn’t because you didn’t like him, oh no it was quite the opposite: you probably liked him a little too much to do anything casual with him. If you were to have Finnick more than once, you wanted all of him, not whatever bits and pieces he dangled in front of you. Because you didn’t know much, but you knew a few things.

One: You wanted to kiss him. Badly.

Two: If you acted on that impulse, there was the chance you’d never get to tell him how you truly felt, and you’d be stuck in a painful purgatory of having parts of him but not all.

Finnick seemed to be warring his own internal battle as his eyes shot from your lips back up, and back down, and back up, until—

“Can we talk later?” You asked so suddenly, much to your own surprise as well as his. “I just… there’s not a lot of time here, and it’s not very private, and there are so many things I’d rather be doing…”

His gaze darkened at that, taking another step forward until your chest was flush against his, your back hitting the stone wall behind you. He dipped his head down to reply in a low voice that sent shivers up and down your spine, “Yeah? Care to tell me what you think is a better use of our time, sweetheart?”

“I’d rather show you.” This is a bad idea, the rational part of you screamed, and it was probably right. It was probably an awful, terrible, horrible, idea, but the moment his lips met yours, nothing else seemed to matter.

The way he kissed you needed to be studied, you thought. The way his nose nudged against yours and he quickly angled his head slightly more to the right until he fit just right against your profile. The way his hands immediately went to your waist, fingers finding their way under the many strings of pearls that dressed you, all so he could touch as much of you as possible. You were suddenly jealous of anyone who’d had the pleasure of being in your position before you, because how on Earth could the way you feel be shared by anyone?

That thought only spurred on a newfound desire to make you different than everyone else, to make him feel the way you did, that no one else could even come close to the way he felt when he was with you.

His tongue glided along the seam of your lips, searching for permission as the two of you continued to trade kiss after bruising kiss. Each one shoved you further down a rabbit hole until you were certain there was no coming back from this, even if it went no further than kissing.

You broke away for a moment, not having the courage to look up, and moved your lips down to his neck, noticing with fleeting disappointment how the marks you’d made last week had faded from his skin.

His hands, which had remained innocently on your waist, were beginning to creep down to the (very short) hemline of your dress, fingers teasing their way past the heavy ropes of pearls that fell against your upper thigh. Your breath began to quicken at the reminder of what his fingers had done to you last time they were so close, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice the subtle clench of your thighs as his fingers continued their exploration.

Very unceremoniously he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, and you immediately tried — in vain — to tug him back up to a standing position, your eyes darting wildly from one end of the long corridor to the other.

“Finnick, we can’t, there are people…”

“Do you trust me?” He asked suddenly. His pupils had been completely blown out, staring at you with such hunger you nodded your head immediately; whether you actually did or it was just your lust-addled brain you weren’t sure. “Then we’ll be fine. Just stay quiet for me, okay?”

“Okay—” you broke your promise as soon as his fingers tugged at the thin material of your panties, letting out a gasp when his mouth came in contact with what had been left uncovered.

The sensation of his hot breath on you left as quickly as it came, when Finnick quickly leaned back to fix you with a warning glance. “Shhh,” he reminded you before he returned to your core, throwing a leg over his shoulder and forcing you to brace yourself against the wall behind you to keep you upright. One hand shot to dig itself in the depths of his hair as he continued his ministrations with his tongue, the other clamping around your mouth and muffling the soft moans emitted from your lips.

Finnick seemed to be enjoying your struggle of keeping silent, each sound that passed too quietly from your lips only encouraging him to plunge his tongue further at a faster pace, his nose nudging your clit and only increasing your pleasure.

It felt good because he knew what he was doing, sure, but it felt even better knowing it was his tongue licking you, his hands wandering around your legs, his body pressing you against the wall.

It made all the horrible fantasies that had haunted you this past week seem like nothing in comparison to the real thing, which was all you truly wanted. You just wanted him. Everywhere, all the time.

And not just in the position you two were in now, as euphoric as his tongue felt, flicking and sucking at your core. You wanted the other things too. You wanted to wake up in his arms, watching the sunlight spill in from the window and illuminate his tan skin and bronzy hair. You wanted to fall asleep curled into his side, knowing that while you were asleep, he would protect you.

Still worried someone would walk in on the two of you at any given moment, you tried not to allow yourself to look down at Finnick too much (or perhaps you were scared if you acknowledged it was Finnick pleasuring you, putting a face to all the emotions he was bringing to you, you would truly be a goner).

“You were driving me fucking crazy in this dress,” Your back automatically arched in search of his mouth as he removed it to speak, tugging at the strands of pearls doing a poor job of covering the curves of your body. “Fucking insane.”

“Finnick,” you breathed, almost crying out when he resumed his indulgence of you and added pressure to your clit with his thumb, the pressure coiled inside you rising to new heights. “You’re so good, so good—”

And just when everything was building, just when you were about to cry out to the sky, not caring if anyone saw, he stopped and quickly stood up.

“Hey—” you quickly realized this wasn’t a teasing pause, evident by the sound of your name echoing against the walls of the hallway.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his shirt, he fixed your underwear and shoved your dress back down all in one swift motion, just as your “date” turned the corner and walked — or rather stumbled — towards you. Oh, fuck.

With a wince, you took several steps away from Finnick, just in time for your lovely Capitol date to finally make his way to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close to him.

He was drunk, drunker than you had ever been (you were sure of that by how strongly he reeked of liquor), barely being able to stand even with leaning his full weight on you. “There you are, beautiful,” he slurred, his hand creeping from your shoulder downward. “Let’s get out of here.”

At least he (you didn’t remember his name) was so out of it he didn’t even seem to notice Finnick breathing heavily beside you, or the bulge in his pants that was poorly hidden by the dark color.

How could you go from feeling so euphoric to so repulsed, all in less than a minute? With a regretful glance in Finnick’s direction, you noticed how he stared right through you as if you weren’t even there. His jaw was clenched and his posture was rigid, but those were things only people who knew what he looked like relaxed would pick up on. To anyone passing by he looked unbothered, indifferent, as you were led away from him.

It was in the brief moment when his eye finally caught your own that the two of you hadn’t gotten to talking, and you had no idea where you stood with him. Would it be appropriate to just knock on his door the next day, or schedule a meeting through his Avox? Or was your interruption the universe’s way of telling you to stop pursuing it and leave him alone?

All those thoughts eddied from your mind the moment you stepped in the car that would escort you and your Capitol date home, when he decided then would be the best time to throw up, narrowly avoiding your pretty pearl shoes. With a little yelp of disgust, you jumped back, avoiding being caught as he continued to empty copious amounts of liquor that once resided in his stomach.

Fuck my life, you thought with a groan as the smell invaded your senses, thankful that most of it had been done outside the car. With a wary glance his way you saw him leaning back against the window, clearly trying to recover from how much he’d drank throughout the night.

It wasn’t as bad as you thought it was going to be, only because he passed out before the two of you went any further than a sloppy kiss that made your stomach curl.

However wrong it seemed, you tried to imagine it was Finnick instead, but everything just felt off. This man’s hands were cold and rough against your skin, nothing like the steady, soft hands you were trying to imagine; his lips were wet and uncoordinated, unlike the delicate whispers of affection Finnick would bestow upon you in the form of warm, confident press of his lips against yours.

Yet again you felt slimy and used and disgusted, unwilling to even try to process what had just happened. So you did what any normal person would do in this situation: drink. While some part of your brain knew this was an unhealthy coping mechanism, the part of you that wanted to forget the night, forget your circumstances, won over, and soon you were tipsy enough and making your way up to the rooftop.

You let the ice of the wind hit you square in the face, hoping that if you withstood it enough, it would jar you out of the nightmare you were in. Time seemed to stretch and you were certain you’d been there all night, but in reality, judging by the lack of alcohol induced dizziness, it was probably an hour.

“Knew I’d find you here.” You knew who it was immediately, goosebumps rising on the back of your neck at the sound of his voice. “I thought I told you there was a forcefield already.”

The eeriest sense of deja vu overtook you, enough to rip you from your thoughts and turn around, trying to balance yourself by staring at the unmoving figure in front of you.

“Hello to you too, Finnick,” you greeted in a flat tone, the mere sight of him draining whatever alcohol in your system remained.

Your chest began to feel tight as you took in his appearance, your face flushing when he looked you up and down. He’d changed from his party attire into pajamas, and there was a tiredness to his eyes that made you blurt out, why are you still awake, at the same time he blurted out, have you been drinking?

“A little,” you admitted, and waited for him to answer yours.

There was a moment when the only sound was the faint blaring of car horns in the distance and the soft rumble of tires against pavement, city sounds that faded into nothing as the wind whistled in your ears. His gaze immediately shot to the floor, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at invisible pebbles by his feet. You suddenly felt embarrassed, because he’d probably had a much worse night than you had, and of course he couldn’t sleep because of that—

“I was waiting for you.” Oh. That was not what you were expecting, and clearly, it showed in your face because he rushed to continue, thinking he’d said something wrong, “I just… we never got to finishing our conversation earlier, and didn’t know if you were safe, and I know how hard it can be to fall asleep after…”

You walked over to him until you were inches apart, tilting your head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch his eye, which had returned to the floor.

“Can you look at me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as your hand reached out, wanting to press against the planes of his chest and feel him, but refraining. Your hands simply hovered in the air, a mark of uncertainty, until Finnick made his decision. In a quick motion he’d reached out, wrapping his hand around yours and tugging it until you made contact with his chest, relishing in the security it brought you. The way you could feel his heartbeat, a steady beat of absolute certainty, that reminded you he was here, and he was real. His hand remained over yours, too, like he too sought comfort in the physicality of your hand.

“Last week…” he begins, and all you want to do is cut him off with a kiss, tell him you don’t care if he left, that he’s here now and that’s all that matters. But you don’t; you let him continue, and pretty quickly you’re grateful for that decision. “I lied. After you said it didn’t mean anything, I said okay,” he paused, like what he was about to say next was lodged in his throat, “But it’s not okay, not really. I… I want it to mean something.”

“Finnick, you know I—” You began softly, so softly, but he pressed on.

“No, please just… let me say this, okay?” He tightened his grip on your hand like he was worried you’d heard enough and would leave him. All you could do was nod silently, urging him to continue. “You mean more to me than I let on— so much more. I can’t pretend like this past week hasn’t killed me. I just… I needed you to know that—”

“Finnick,” you tried, but he couldn’t stop talking, like he wasn’t getting his point across.

“And I know it’s complicated—”

“Finnick,” you said again, a little louder and more earnest, but still, he continued.

“—and I don’t want you to think you’re obligated to feel the same—”

His lips, warm and soft and right, met yours as you cut him off with a kiss. It took less than a fraction of a second before he reciprocated, surging forward and wrapping his arms around your waist to tug you closer. Your hands found their place interlocked behind his neck, the soft hairs at the nape of his neck reminding you that it was him.

You kissed him with such fervor you thought your lips would fall right off, desperately trying to convey every unspoken word in your mind; Every point of tension between the two of you melted completely until you pulled back, breathless.

“I’ve been a liar, too,” was the first thing that came out of your mouth, so quietly he was sure he’d misheard you. “It meant so much to me, Finnick, I… I just didn’t know what to do with all of it, I guess.”

His lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were glassy as he gazed down at you; every time his chest heaved it brushed yours. “I want you,” he breathed out, and while at first you thought it might be something purely carnal, he quickly corrected himself, “I always… I’ve always… tried to ignore it, but now I can’t…” he trailed off, struggling to find the right words, the right way to express himself without fucking up. “I can’t ignore it. I want to fix this, fix us, I want…”

You’d rarely seen him like this; struggling to say the right thing. Normally the words flowed through the air smoothly like a summer breeze, his point sliding across so easily, like honey. So to see him stumbling over his words, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, you tried to urge him to continue.

“I think about you,” he confessed abruptly. “All the time, it drives me crazy. I want to be with you, all the time.”

And you wanted that, too. You wanted to do stupid, mundane tasks with him. You wanted to do things like dry the dishes as he washed them, like argue over whose turn it was to take out the trash, like wake up and brush your teeth side by side, grinning at each other in the mirror.

So you said it as simply as you could. “Me too.”

The grin you broke out into was so wide your cheeks would soon start hurting, but you didn’t care. The elation in your chest was blooming, expanding until the warmth of it reached all the way to your fingertips, your toes, the top of your head. Every part of you felt giddy, like a schoolgirl who’d just had her first kiss on the playground.

This time, it was he who kissed you, capturing your lips with his own with such intensity you gasped. Kissing him now felt like something entirely different, like your entire world had been gray, and his lips on yours opened you up to a vibrant array of colors that nearly blinded you.

Your hands found their way back to behind his neck, his hands finding purchase on your hips and drawing you closer, wanting to feel every inch after being deprived of all of you for so long. It wasn’t just your body you were giving him this time, but your heart as well.

Before you knew it, he’d hoisted you up and you immediately wrapped your legs around his torso, craving the surface of his body just as he was with you. The kisses continued, though never going any further as he walked back to his room — thankfully he was on the top floor, making the journey quite quick. Your back hit the mattress as he continued his kisses, moving his way down and giving special attention to the spots he knew you loved on your neck, your shoulder, behind your ear.

“I don’t— I don’t want to do anything tonight,” he finally pulled back. “I just want to be with you.”

You nodded almost instantly, happy to just be with him, the kissing slowing down as the two of you grew more tired. He must’ve thought you were asleep when he called your name softly and received no response. You were in a haze of in between, too tired to respond but aware enough to know what he was doing as his fingers ghosted over your back and began to draw again.

Finally, before sleep came crashing down on him, his fingers said what his mouth could not: I love you.

And when you blinked your eyes open the next morning you were face to face with a sleeping Finnick — he’d stayed this time.

Your lips brushed his cheek ever so lightly as you whispered it back.

a/n: thank you guys so much for waiting!! i wrote this instead of studying for my finals cause i'm silly like that. anyways i reallyyyy struggled w this one and wasn't sure where i wanted this story to go. i thought it was an okay conclusion but lmk if you guys want more! feel free to send in any requests you might have, i write for mostttt of the hunger games characters (especially finnick <3)!

tag: @justtrying2getby , @tqmqkii , @s-j320 , @imaegonstargaryenswife0 , @s-trawberryv-eins , @ruxjules

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #finnick odair smut #finnick odair angst #the hunger games #the hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games smut #thg series #finnick odair fluff

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seecarrun · 1 year ago

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(Part 2 of this)

“Wait, back?!”

Eddie’s head shoots up, his eyes wide. “Then!” he cries. “You liked me back then, is what I was saying!”

“You liar!” Richie laughs, clearly delighted. “You fucking liked me too!”

“I never said that!” Eddie tries to deny, but it sounds weak to even himself.

The thing is, and god, it’s embarrassing to admit, but Eddie had always had a bit of a thing when it came to Richie.

He didnt think it was exactly romantic, and definitely not anything sexual, when he was a kid; little-him would have been positively scandalized at the mere thought of it. But he was drawn to Richie, wanted his approval, his respect, needed Richie to include him in his inside jokes and think he was just as funny as Eddie found him.

Hell, maybe that was Eddie’s version of love. Not that he would know.

“I hate you,” he tells Richie, whose grin stretches even wider across his face. It’s basically an admission and they both know it. “You’re one to talk, anyway.” He gestures to the carving. “I wasn’t the one carving our initials into make-out spots.”

“Yeah, but you were cute. Liking you made sense,” Richie replies. “You remember me as a kid? You were into that gangly, bug-eyed, buck-toothed little dork? Embarrassing.”

“You were so cute!” Eddie cries, throwing away the act, offended on young-Eddie’s behalf to have his taste questioned. “Plus, you were cool.”

Richie bit back a snort. “I was not cool.”

“Shut up, you were!” Eddie looks him over, pouting just a little. “You’re still cool.”

“Cooler than you, Mr. Risk Analysis, but that isn’t saying much.” Eddie throws his arms up, ready to lay into him with the fury of a thousand suns, when Richie speaks again, quieter, “You’re still cute, ya know.”

Eddie flushes, glances at Richie briefly to catch him flushing as well, and bends down to pick up a stick from the side of the road. He gestures to the carving, shyly. “Wanna give this a bit of a facelift?” he asks. “We could grab a beer, after.”

Richie, looking like Christmas has come early, grabs a stick and pops back up, beaming and blushing adorably. “It’s a date.”

#reddie #car’s fanfiction #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it chapter 2 #it 2019 #and they lived happily ever after! 🥳

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wcdonaldo · 10 months ago

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hate on girls with braids and glasses and face the fury of a thousand suns when i strike you down

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emositecc · 1 year ago

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God I fucking hate Victoria the crybaby so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every page she's in, every scene, every fanart, every comic, she's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass personality on her stupid green face. Absolutely no part of her ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. Her stupid fucking dress? Who the hell wears a dress like that. Her dumb fucking lizard tail? Her shitty, annoying bastard attitude ? The three thousand percent dumbass shitass fucking haircut that no woman has EVER FUCKING SHITTY HAIR DESING HAD IN THE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate her. I hate her so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a comic or a fanart of her, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Boo hoo, I'm Bitchtoria the fuckshit whiny ass woman, woe is me. PITY ME 😢😢😢😢". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like shrek but if shrek was written by vivziepop. Your dumb fucking hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking dress and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top shitty ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene she's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a walmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know she's just a shitty fucking sad woman in a stupid fucking fan comic, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate her. I hate hier on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the bitch wife is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate her so much. I hate her so, so fucking much. I want to light her ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat her to death with her own stupid fucking punchable face. I want to punch her to death. I want to bash her brains out. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that her existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional woman

you've gone on sending me these kinds of messages in my ask box everytime i've updated my comic, even mentioning r*pe in your latest ones. At first I thought this is a bit, but now i honestly dont know. I think you need help and for your own good and mine, I'm going to be blocking you.

This probably wont stop you from reading my comic in other platforms but if you still do, please refrain from messaging me or whatnot because I will just block you again.

okay, thank you.

^ and that's not even ALL of it.

there's like 50+ more

get help.

#no kidding this person has sent me probably over a hundred asks by now in my inbox since ive started the comic #I try to ignore but it seems that theyre just getting worse in every update #if you hate a character this much ?? i dont know what to tell you #victoria isnt even canon #shes fanmade and yet you hate her THIS MUCH #man #idk #goodluck ig #victoria

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threepandas · 1 year ago

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Sun Burnt: Yandere Reborn

[Next->]

Lot of stereotypes came with having certain Flame types I mused. As bullets rammed into my back, ricocheting around me like bouncy balls of death. My feet eating up the earth as fast as I could. It was all kinds of unfair.

Like? If you were a Sun? You were expected to be gregarious. Cheerful. Some happy go lucky healer type. To hell with your ambitions, I got a paper cut! And a storm? Well OBVIOUSLY watch out! We got a HOT HEAD over here! Look out for the HOT HEAD! A TEMPERAMENTAL ASSHOLE coming through!

I mean? Maybe they're pissed cause you keep POKING at them, huh? Wouldn't anybody?

I dodge down an alley. Jumping trash cans. Throwing them down behind me. Hearing curses and howls of outrage. Man, they are persistent. And! And like? Being a LIGHTNING?! God, being a LIGHTNING can SUCK sometimes! Sure, I get to be a Tank. And yeah. Human tazer. Pretty neat. But the ASSHOLES!

It's all "ooooh~! You're nothing but a DUMB MEAT SHEILD! Come be my DUMB MEAT SHEILD and lick my BOOTS, meat sheild! That's all you're good for! Because you're so DUMB! Impulsive! We wanna use you to solve our stupid ass turf disputes and lead you ooooon~!" Like? Fuckin REALLY?!

Is it MY fault your brains move so slow? That you're so SQUISHY? I'm not fucking IMPULSIVE! I think things through! I just do it FASTER then you jack asses! Granted... never said I do it BETTER. I may, in fact, be a dumbass. Probably am. All signs point to "maybe"...

......ARE THEY SERIOUSLY STILL CHASING ME!?

It was MY haul!!!

Steal your own SHIT!!!

And yeah, was it WISE to flip the table, punch the Don, and jump out a window with the fugly ass statue they planned to stiff me on? No. No it was not. But I REFUSE to not get paid! Try to steal from ME will you?! I'ma toss this fucker into the SEA!!! Swim for it BITCHES!

I skid onto the main road of Mafia Island. Knocking over somebody's fancy ass mistress. Probably gonna pay for THAT too. Fuck it! Yolo! I am pouring on the Lightning flames at this point. COATED. The metaphorical bull in this, the mafia land China shop. Pulling shooting. Amused and playing bets. Flames rising up to brush against me.

I am a fuckin circus act on display and I HATE it.

But by all that is holy! Those bastards ARE NOT getting their stupid statue back!

To the SEA with it! I shall cast it to the briny BLUE!

FUCK THOSE GUYS!

The crowd is parting like the red fucking sea. Except... except?! Oh shit! Pretty guy on a suit! Move pretty guy! MOVE!! Aaaaah!

I barely... BARELY!! Manage to stop myself from running into Pretty? Hiiitman? Hitman. Got a gun. Very calm. Yep, hitman. Barely! Dodge! By forward flipping OVER the guy and Superhero sticking the landing. Dropping the statue but... meh. Don't care. I still plan to...

Are. You. FUCKING SERIOUS!?

Drugs!?

That FUGLY STATUE WAS HOLLOW! No WONDER they were so desperate to get it! They were BREAKING Vongola's BAN!!! Ooooooh! I'm TELLING! You FUCKERS USED ME!!! Jail! Ten thousand years JAIL! Kill um, Mr. Hitman! They're dirty, non-thief paying, DRUG MAKERS!

Am I pointing accusingly? Yes. Hanging over the hitmans shoulder like the tattling tattle that I am? Absolutely. Jail for them! Get um! Boooooo! My flames still coat every part of me. Which is why I can FEEL when the hitman decides... "fuck it. Why not?"

I can TELL? Because it's like feeling the mountain you're standing on suddenly deciding to move. Like a giant, blinking their eyes open and beginning to stand. Rising up and up and UP. So great it feels impossible. The Sun flames infront of me? Go beyond the concept of "powerful".

It's like standing in front of a star up close.

So bright and burning fury, it consumes all other light.

I can't even FEEL the other Flames around us anymore. Almost can't HEAR what's going on. He... he has a low, purring voice. Like espresso. Smooth. The smell of gunpowder and decadent things... CLINGS to him like a lover. The suit under my carelessly grabbing hands... f... feels EXPENSIVE.

Bad. T... this is BAD. D..Don't panic. Just. Just let go! Yeah? Let go, be polite, and apologize. Y... you'll be okay. Oh god. What did I DO?! L... LET GO. Move! W.. why can't I MOVE?!

I feel more then hear the shots. The slight recoil. Utterly effortless, he ends their lives. An amused lilt to whatever he's saying. His head tilts so he can view me from the corner of his eye. A mean smirk on his beautiful face. I amuse him. My FEAR amuses him.

His Flames reach out like a crushing fist... I... I can not move...

The world seems to STOP.

As two notes of the same song find each other. Flitting and high to some great and terrible low. The two farthest ends of a Set, still empty, with no sky to hold it in balance. Yet? Resonance none the less.

"Oh~?"

The flat disinterest of those abyssal eyes changes. Like a damning light flickering on in the dark. Leading something terrifying straight towards me. No longer just background noise. I was interesting. I... I didn't WANT to be interesting! No, no, NO!

He turned towards me.

And my stomach plummets straight through the earth. Oh god. Please God, no.

Before me stand a terrifying legend. Living infamy itself. THE World's Greatest Hitman, it's greatest killer, Reborn. Who's eyes were locked on my face with a terrible interest. Who's Flames, vast and hungry, tugged and prowled at the edge of my own. His mean little smirk had turned into something that could pass for charming... if I didn't know who he was.

If I wasn't probably going to die.

He casually tucked his gun away. Pulled his other hand from his pocket. And then... oh god. Then two burning weights clamped down on my shoulders. No where to run. No chance of escape. He leaned forward, towering over me.

"You know, I didn't catch your name, bella. Who do you work for again? We have so much to LEARN about each other, don't you think? All the time in the world. Now... give me your phone."

I whimpered. His hands were almost burning with Sun flames. They washed over me in a greedy search for ties that bind and cracks in my defenses. Pushing and pushing. Trying to get IN. Covetous.

"After all~ It's not like you could possibly escape me."

#threepandas #yandere #Sun Burnt au #yandere khr #yandere reborn #yandere x reader #katekyo hitman reborn #yandere oc #stalker yandere #like you WOULD NOT BELIEVE #but not yet #lightning flames reader #reader insert

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geeminz · 1 year ago

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ᯓ A CHANGE OF HEART // giselle x oc ; smau

03 | the exit

↳ in which: mihye has been secretly dating giselle, her best friend’s older sister, for four months. what happens when their relationship turns toxic, and their secrets become public?

word count: 2.1k

taglist: @thefckghost @emphobics @jisooftme @xszn @gtfoiydlyj @wonysugar @bluhuir @baewonlove

a.n. GUYS i am so so so SORRY for the insanely long wait! also i'm so sorry for not being able to go with the double update, i was busy getting my graduation affairs in order T^T to those who are still up for reading this, i hope this update can make up for my absence!

at the strike of the sun’s blinding rays, mihye’s eyes fluttered open and awake. her first instinct was to stretch her arms out and search the bed for the warmth owned by the person who was supposed to be sleeping beside her — which, to her dismay, was alarmingly absent. upon realization that she was all alone in her bed, mihye jolts awake, and panic settles in her body.

giselle’s not here.

she must’ve gotten up early to make coffee — she always does.

…and she must’ve seen shotaro.

mihye blinks, and the thoughts sink in to her — as well as the acknowledgement of just how much trouble she’d be in later.

i am so fucked, mihye thinks to herself. in a flash, she harshly wipes the thick covers off of her body, and her cold feet slip right into her slippers. mihye sprints out of the room, opening the door to the sight of a giselle behind the bar counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee — just as mihye expected.

and across her was shotaro, who seemed to be enjoying his own cup as well.

“good morning, mihye.” giselle says, not even bothering to look at her girlfriend — who was still in a daze at the scene unraveling in front of her.

“had a good sleep?” giselle continues, this time sparing mihye an empty glance – one with so little emotion; one that made mihye nervous due to how inconspicuous giselle’s true thoughts were.

there is a man in my living room. mihye starts to shake. giselle hates it when i have someone over, much more when i have my male friends come over.

she must be fuming right now.

“you okay?” giselle asks once more, this time, a hint of worry laced the older’s words. the question snaps mihye back to reality, and she nods her head lightly to answer giselle.

the younger approaches the two, and she makes eye contact with shotaro, who seemed to be just as clueless — if not more — as mihye. with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes switch from giselle to mihye, and to mihye and giselle again, just alternating his perplexed stare between the couple.

‘what the fuck?’ the boy mouths, and mihye shakes her head, eyes widened, to answer him.

“want coffee?” giselle offers, and mihye nods. hesitantly, of course. giselle takes this as her cue to get to work and make mihye (who stood like a little deer in headlights) a fresh and warm cup of coffee.as the younger girl observed giselle, she sensed a darkness around giselle, and a feeling that something was definitely brewing, and it wasn’t mihye’s coffee.

silence flooded the entire room, and neither shotaro nor mihye wanted to disturb the eerie peace looming over the three of them. luckily (or maybe not), giselle was there to break the ice.

“so, shotaro. how long have you known about me and my girlfriend?” giselle says casually, but each word coming out of her lips feels like a thousand sharpened knives, all pointed towards mihye’s feet. mihye’s eyes stay peeled, her senses all going alert. it hasn’t even been 10 minutes since she woke up and she already has to deal with both giselle’s smoothly masked fury and shotaro’s… well. shotaro’s self.

“like a month ago? i don’t really remember. why do you ask?” shotaro replies honestly, trying to understand the situation as it unfolds in front of him. he sees the rapid blinking of his friends eyes, and just like that mihye’s anxiety infects him like a disease.

shotaro’s never seen how mihye and giselle interacted before, and to him, this all feels like the disturbing calm before the storm.

“mihye and i… we’ve been dating for 4 months. but we haven’t told people yet. it’s our secret.” giselle says, before turning around and giving the boy an empty yet cold stare. shivers run down shotaro’s spine. the oldest spares him a small, almost non-existent smile, before handing the cup of coffee to her girlfriend who was frozen in her place.

“drink, baby. i know you’re tired from all the drinking you did last night.” giselle gently says, and mihye takes her words like a command. once the warm coffee hits her tongue, mihye almost lurches from how bitter it was.

giselle stares at her intently — as if confused at mihye’s reaction. mihye stares back at her.

giselle knows i like my coffee sweet.

so why…?

then it clicks. and mihye feels pieces of her heart chipping away inside her.

we’re definitely fighting.

mihye drinks the coffee anyway, despite the flavor of the coffee making her nauseous. she wants to vomit — but she’s scared of giselle right now.

this is giselle punishing her.

upon seeing mihye continue to drink the coffee, giselle turns her attention back to her girlfriend’s friend. shotaro scrambles for a response to giselle’s statement.

“i know you guys aren’t public yet… so, yeah. if you’re scared that i told anyone, i didn’t, so don’t worry.”

giselle just nods and her eyebrows lift. “well, thank you for understanding, shotaro. i’m glad mihye has you as her friend.”

the three went mum after giselle’s statement. the word ‘friend’ rolls off of giselle’s tongue like subtle poison — with each second the three spent in total silence, the potency of the poison grows and with it, mihye’s pain and worry.

as soon as giselle turns her back on the two of them, mihye quickly sends shotaro a signal with her eyes. when the boy gives her a bewildered look, mihye mouths:

‘leave. right now.’

and shotaro nods.

“oh um, wow! w-would you look at that! my roommate’s texting me now,” shotaro makes up a total lie as he hurriedly places the cup of coffee on the counter, and rushes to grab his other things on the living room of mihye’s apartment. “... uhh she says i have to go help her with… um, her computer. i have to go now.”

giselle gives him a nod, while mihye tracks her every move with only her sight.

“thanks for the coffee, giselle, and uh… yeah. take care mihye. text me for… whatever.” shotaro says as he reaches the door. he shoots mihye one last concerned glance, before exiting mihye’s apartment — leaving the couple together.

an uncomfortable silence falls upon the two for a few seconds. in mihye’s hands was still the cup of bitter coffee that giselle handed her, and giselle leans on the kitchen counter with her arms crossed.

as always, it was giselle who blows up the peace.

“you told him?!” giselle yells — arms now uncrossed, and mihye could only sigh. she puts the cup down on the counter.

it’s starting.

“i didn’t. he found out — “

“you are unbelievable, mihye.” giselle shakes her head at the younger girl, who seems defeated. uncomfortable in her position, and unable to shake off the anger seeping within her, giselle harshly walks away from the kitchen and someplace else. somewhere not near mihye.

“how could you be so goddamn careless?!”

“i really didn’t tell him! it was taro who put two and two together, okay?! i swear i didn’t give him any ideas about us! please believe me, giselle.” mihye begs and attempts to approach giselle. giselle moves away.

“and you even had him sleep over here last night. you know how i feel about other people staying here! especially men!”

mihye shuts her eyes in frustration. “shotaro’s not like that, giselle. and for the record, this is my apartment.”

“and you’re my girlfriend! you shouldn’t be having people sleep over every single time i’m not here!”

“you saw taro sleeping over one time, giselle. one time! why are you making it seem like i had a whole ass house party here last night?! if anything, i was waiting for you to come home! it just so happened that taro needed a place to crash!” mihye tried to explain, but based on giselle’s head shaking and her refusal to make direct eye contact with her girlfriend – just staring off into the distance with total disappointment in her eyes.

“you were waiting for me?! then what the hell are those bottles?” giselle points an accusing finger at the empty bottles of soju on the corner. mihye follows the direction in which giselle was pointing at, and feels her heart break.

“shotaro brought those to console me, okay?! he knew i was miserable here because you! were! ignoring me! you weren’t picking up my calls, and you weren’t answering my texts!” the words come out from mihye’s lips like jabs thrown towards giselle.

mihye hopes giselle would just back down after this revelation, but to the younger’s dismay, it elicits a totally different reaction. giselle’s once stoic, almost unmoving facial expressions had contorted into unbridled fury in a snap.

“you told him that we were fighting?! mihye, what the fuck is wrong with you!”

at this point, mihye sinks down on herself and begins crying. upon the sight, giselle feels her heart soften, and she halts her fit of anger for a moment of silence. giselle lets mihye cry, but she doesn’t let herself console her girlfriend. giselle breathes, and closes her eyes as she listens to the sound of mihye’s sobs.

once mihye gathers herself – not fully yet, but just enough to be angry again, she throws an accusatory look towards giselle. “well how about you giselle? where were you last night? what were you doing? were you drinking all night long with your number one best friend karina?” mihye spits out, and giselle gives her a confused look.

“what? why are you even bringing that up now?”

this time, mihye gets back up on her feet. “am i not allowed to question your whereabouts? i’m your girlfriend, right? so i have the right to ask where you are and what the fuck you were doing at a club so late at night! and with karina, too!”

“what the hell is your problem with karina?” giselle shouts back at her, this time getting all up in her face about it. mihye looks up at her with nothing but tears and anger in her eyes.

“you’ve always been giving me shit for hanging out with karina when she’s been by my side since we were in high school! she’s my best friend, mihye! she was there for me when no one was!”

“then maybe you should have just fucking dated her, giselle!” mihye yells, and giselle backs off, a disbelieving look plastered on her face.

“w-what…?” giselle stammers, but mihye’s not done yet.

“you’re always with her when you’re not with me, you’re always going to her whenever we fight! do you even know how that makes me feel?! you’re always so vague about your… activities with karina, and i never question you about it! so don’t you dare tell me that i give you shit about her because i keep calling you and texting you, but you never pick up when you’re with her! do you have any fucking idea how that makes me feel?! i feel like i’m always blindly trusting you — always! but what do you do with me, huh? you always get suspicious of me when i’m with my friends, you get mad at me when i have people sleep over in my own house – hell, you even pick fights with me when i’m hanging out with your own fucking sister! and i’m the bad guy? does that sound fair to you, giselle?!” mihye chuckles angrily after delivering her furious piece.

giselle just stares at her incredulously, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows crunching.

“what, giselle?! you can’t say anything? i trip over myself trying to explain things to you when you’re mad at me but when i’m the one asking you questions, you can’t even say shit to me?!” mihye lets out her anger once more.

unsurprisingly, giselle can’t take the heat (or refuses to). so she turns away from her teary-eyed girlfriend, grabs the keys to her car, and goes for the door.

mihye laughs, but nothing in her current situation is worth laughing for. “and now you’re running away?!”

giselle leaves without uttering another word.

the sound of the slamming door is deafening, and just like that, mihye is alone in the solace of her empty apartment once more. she collapses once more, her mind still stuck on the fight that occurred earlier. she replayed the words that giselle yelled at her, and the ones she had let go as well. she crawls around the carpeted floor of her house, and heads towards the living room. mihye drags herself towards the seats of her couch and continues sobbing there. by a force of habit, she reaches out for the plushie that giselle gifted to her — a fluffy seal plushie, which she clutches as tears spilled from eyes.

shotaro left, and so did giselle.

now no one else is left to listen to the sound of her anguish, but herself.

go to: masterlist | next

#⸻ a change of heart.#⸻ sash:aus #aespa giselle #aespa giselle x reader #aespa smau #aespa angst #aespa x reader #giselle angst #giselle imagines #kpop idol x reader #giselle x reader

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peace-hunter · 8 months ago

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this is a weird thing to be upset over but i hate with the fury of a thousand suns that elon skunk's shitty robots are called optimus. i don't care if it's a "real" word how dare you associate him with your stupid ass crappy garbage. take his name out of your fucking mouth rn pinche pendejo de mierda

#i talk a lot <3 #sorry i just saw that pos cross my dash and it reignited my hatred all over again :/

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quixotic-paladin · 2 months ago

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What's your beef with the US postal service? And how is it your villain origin story???

Well you see Perry The Platypus, when I was just a child back in a small midwestern town, there was a writing contest my whole kindergarten class participated in. We all came up with and illustrated cute little short stories. Mine was about a leopard that escaped from the zoo. With an instant bestseller in the pudgy hands of a determined 8 year old with crayons, I easily dominated the competition (about 25 students) and my story was nominated for a national contest. My book, as well as my hopes and dreams, were soon package and mailed out to Reading Rainbow, with a chance of being featured on one of their programs. But! My book never arrived at it's intended destination because the grossly incompetent US Postal Service LOST IT. My hopes and dreams were SHATTERED. Do you understand me Perry The Platypus? SHATTERED! I could have been on Reading Rainbow! My book about a large, speckled, predatory member of the genus Panthera forcibly self-emancipating from a zoological park, could have changed the world! Think of where I might be right now had SOMEONE not LOST IT! I've been a wreck and a failure ever since. People look at me and say, "That's the girl the US Postal Service hates! She could have had it all, but the gods of the written word grew envious of her effortless talent and smote her down through an independent agency of the executive branch of the federal government!" The TRAUMA, Perry The Platypus, THE TRAUMA! Can you even imagine? Haven't you ever loved something so dearly only to have it snatched helplessly from your hands????? Or paws... little webbed thingies??? I digress. SO NOW! BEHOLD! THE DESTROY-THE-US-POSTAL-SERVICE-INATOR!!!!! With it's power I will destroy the US Postal Service WITH THE FURY OF A THOUSAND SUNS!!!!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

#asks #anon #my emotionally scarring backstory #us postal service

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elvispresleysdearestfangirl · 18 days ago

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I Hate Ginger Alden with a PASSION: An Emotional Monologue

Let me be so real for a second: I don’t just dislike Ginger Alden. No. That would be too mild, too soft, too respectful of a feeling that barely scrapes the surface. I HATE Ginger Alden with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns collapsing in on themselves. It’s visceral. It’s nuclear. It’s the type of hatred that transcends time and space and basic human decency. I don't just feel it — I breathe it.

Like, let’s just get straight to the core of it: the audacity this woman had to insert herself into the most sacred, most iconic, most heart-wrenchingly human moments of Elvis Presley’s final years. And she didn’t just enter quietly, respectfully, like someone who understood the legacy and gravity of that man’s existence — no. She waltzed in like she was the main character, like she had a divine right to that spotlight, and honestly? That alone makes my blood boil.

We’re talking about Elvis Aaron Presley here. The King. A literal cultural revolution wrapped in rhinestones and heartbreak. And Ginger? She came in acting like she was the queen of Graceland, as if she belonged in the same sentence as Priscilla, as if she had earned the place that history gave her — and girl… no. Sit down. Be so for real.

The way she wrote that book — Elvis and Ginger — like she was some misunderstood, saintly woman trapped in a tragic love story? Give me a break. It wasn’t giving “grieving lover.” It was giving PR stunt. It was giving let me center myself in a legacy I barely understood. She painted herself as the victim, the hero, the love of his life — all at once. That’s not a memoir. That’s a fanfiction with a delusional main character.

And don’t even get me started on how she’s constantly tried to reframe her narrative. One minute she’s all “Elvis was so in love with me,” and the next she’s tiptoeing around any real responsibility or insight into his struggles. Like girl, pick a lane. Were you the love of his life or just in the right place at the wrong time with a front-row seat to a legend’s downfall? Because let’s be honest — he deserved better. He deserved peace. He deserved authenticity. He deserved someone who saw him, not just the icon, not just the spectacle, but the hurting, exhausted, isolated man who was losing himself under the weight of everything.

But Ginger? No. Ginger chose vibes and clout and legacy clinging. It’s the way she’s made his death somehow about her, like she’s the one who lost the most, when in reality? The world lost Elvis. And you can’t convince me she didn’t exploit that moment for every ounce of public sympathy and attention she could squeeze out of it.

And what really sends me over the edge is the way some people act like she was his final love. Like she was some tragic Juliet to his Romeo. As if we’re supposed to just accept that narrative because she was there in the last chapter. Proximity doesn’t equal passion. Just because she was in the room doesn’t mean she was in his heart. You were in the house, girl — but not in the story.

Let me be crystal clear: this is not just petty jealousy. This is about respect — respect for Elvis, for his journey, for the people who genuinely loved and knew him before the walls came crumbling down. Ginger was a cameo in a story she tried to rewrite as if she were the lead.

So yes. I hate Ginger Alden. With a passion that runs deep like Southern gospel and Memphis blues. With a fury that builds like a drumbeat in a rock ballad. With a righteous fire that flares up every time someone tries to rewrite history to fit their own ego.

And I will never forgive her for turning something sacred into something so self-serving. Ever.

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anghraine · 4 months ago

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I was tagged by @brynnmclean in the WIP Wednesday meme! Thank you very much—I'm too sleepy to tag, but anyone who feels moved to do it should consider themselves tagged. In any case, this inspired me to finish the femslash Spirk AU version of "The Naked Time" (aka Jessica Kirk vs other people's internalized homophobia) that I wrote on my birthday:

“It’s our only chance!” S’paak’s dark eyes looked clearer, though her face was still drawn and anguished. “It’s never been done!” she said wildly. “Don’t tell me that again, science officer,” Kirk snapped, on the point of slapping her again. It would mostly just hurt her own hand, but if she could shake S’paak out of this—yet she knew it wasn’t just that. Distantly, she realized that the tension boiling in her wasn’t just panic and urgency, but anger, a sudden pained, shocking fury that wouldn’t help anything. She grabbed S’paak’s arm instead. “It's a theory. It's possible. We may go up into the biggest ball of fire since the last sun in these parts exploded, but we've got to take that one in ten thousand chance!” An entirely unreasonable sense of betrayal—no, not quite—abandonment, loneliness, always that, ran through the rage, somehow extinguishing it. The lurch of feeling left her all the dizzier, hot and sweating, even as Uhura called from the bridge and Kirk managed to say something to her. I found Commander S’paak! S’paak straightened further, tears drying on her cheeks as she dredged up her PADD and started to tap … something into it. Some science thing, maybe. The anti-matter reaction. But it didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as it had the moment before, and Kirk realized: the disease had gotten to her, too. Of course it had. The captain, last of all. Of course, of course.

“I’ve got it. The disease,” she told S’paak, laughing through the blood on her mouth. Not crying. She never cried. “Love. You're better off without it, and I'm better off without mine.”

S’paak gave her a sharp, unreadable glance even as her fingers kept working. Kirk thought of Ruth again, Jan. She could just stick to men; it was always easier, without the secrecy, without having to be so careful, making sure another woman was trustworthy, much less interested in women, much less interested in her. And even if they were, she didn’t always like the way women willing to try could be, in her experience. So often unserious, unromantic. She liked men about as much and could have just stuck to them, made that choice, been fine. But the idea repelled her, felt more dishonest than the secrecy.

She was babbling, she realized, unsure quite what she’d said as S’paak worked. Too much.

Kirk leaned her head against the wall of the chamber. She could hardly feel it through the coiled weight of her hair and turned her face to the side, the wall cold against her burning face. The Enterprise. Her ship, her career. She loved it. But sometimes she nearly hated it, too.

“This vessel,” she said, her voice higher than usual, still choked in laughter. “I give, she takes. She won't permit me my life. I've got to live hers.”

“Jess,” said S’paak quietly.

Her name, Kirk thought. Hers. S’paak and McCoy were the only ones here who did use it: Bones almost always, S’paak now and then, when she considered it worth her while. S’paak did sound concerned, urgent, but at least not pained or ashamed, and it cooled her mind a very little bit. Jess—Kirk opened her eyes. S’paak stood not far away, calm again, far calmer than Kirk imagined she herself could ever be, below the surface.

“I have a beautiful yeoman,” Kirk said conversationally. “Have you noticed, Commander?” Her head was spinning again. “No, no, you wouldn’t. But Sulu could notice her, Leslie, not us. Not me. The captain. I’m not … I can’t …”

The briefing room was a blur around them, her first officer’s face somehow more so. Her friend. Maybe. Did it count, when—

“Jess, there is an intermix formula,” S’paak told her.

“Now I know why it’s called she,” said Kirk, laughing again.

“It's never been tested. It's a theoretical relationship between time and antimatter,” S’paak said.

This was important. Kirk knew that, in some remote corner of her mind. The ship, the crew. S’paak. She tried to pull her thoughts into some kind of order, anything other than this awful human chaos burning through her brain. S’paak, she thought, must be embarrassed. More than usual.

It didn’t help. She felt like her mind was darting around in crazed lines, each different from the rest, endlessly. Fractals of thought.

“A flesh woman, to touch, to hold,” she said dreamily. “A beach to walk on. Nobody watching. No one would have to see, to know. For a few days at least. No braid on my shoulder—”

S’paak shook her just as Scotty hurried out of the turbolift.

Not in front of him.

He was her third in command, reliable, more than reliable. But such a distant third, not like S’paak, always near, faithful, incisive. Kirk couldn’t do this in front of him, anyone else, though she was hunched over the table, hands splayed as she stared at them.

Even through her blurry, burning misery, she could see that Scotty looked shocked and concerned.

“Captain,” he was saying. He never questioned her. Never had.

“Scotty,” said Kirk, trying to catch her breath even as she clenched her teeth together. “Help.”

S’paak, as ever, interceded, her voice cooling some of the fever still raging in Kirk’s mind. “Stand by to intermix. I'll call the formulae in from the bridge.”

Then there was Uhura, too, just as steady, her voice crackling over the comms. “Entering upper stratosphere, captain. Skin temperature now twenty one hundred seventy degrees.”

Kirk managed to look at S’paak and Scotty, both troubled in their own ways, her body still bent over the table, hands clenching and unclenching. Troubled! That was the least of their problems. She just had to think. Like one of her students, back at the Academy. They’d called her course the think-or-sink class. Gary told her that, years after the fact. But nothing was more like think or sink than this. She bit the inside of her cheek and her thoughts settled further, the madness receding just out of touch.

“I’ve got to hang on,” she thought or muttered, blinking. Remember. That was the thing, remembering. Who she was, what mattered. Somehow, she managed to gasp out, “Tell them ... clear the corridors, the turbolift. Hurry.”

They rushed off, leaving her alone in the briefing room. Nobody to brief, of course. Just her, alone, nails digging into her palms, the way she always was in the end. Except—not quite, was she? Not now.

Kirk straightened up, gazing around at the walls of the briefing room, the ceiling, letting the rumble of the ship resonate through her awareness of her entire body. She closed her eyes.

“Never lose you,” she whispered. “Never.”

No time. Her crew needed her. Her ship. The Enterprise, always willing to take what she had to give. That was something, anyway.

With an effort she couldn’t conceivably have put into words, Kirk straightened up and staggered towards the turbolift, smoothing her uniform as she went. Once inside, she forced herself to say,

“Bridge.”

Another victim of the disease had scrawled SINNER REPENT in bright crimson letters on the wall. Sometimes she truly couldn’t make this life up. Kirk wiped the blood off her mouth and stared bleakly ahead as deck after deck rushed by. She was still unsteady and distantly miserable when the doors opened, but that didn’t matter. She was the captain. She could always be miserable later.

She stepped out onto the bridge, taking in the familiarity of the panels and the efficient bridge crew, entirely back to themselves. And McCoy was there, too, equipment in hand, grabbing her by the arm and tearing off her sleeve to stab her with one of his damn needles. Worth it in this case. She felt more sane, if not appreciably better. No danger of humiliating herself in front of anyone but S’paak, who she knew would never breathe a word. And it wasn’t like S’paak wasn’t already—

While the entire bridge crew watched her, waiting for the orders that would determine life or death, Kirk carefully made her way to the captain’s seat, sweat still clinging to her face and body. With effort, she hit the comm connection to engineering.

“Engine room,” Kirk snapped out. “We're set. Hyperbolic course.”

The current navigator said, “Direction, ma’am?”

“Direction, direction,” she muttered, then raised her voice. “It doesn’t matter. The way we came.”

All that mattered was getting out.

“Course laid in, ma’am,” said Sulu, wholly himself once more. The disease hadn’t affected him the same way, she recalled. Just swinging a rapier around, carefree, longing for nothing worse than a chance at dashing heroics. Most of the crew hadn’t been like her or S’paak, either.

Guess we’re special, she thought, and tried to repress the whole thing from her thoughts. She really needed to stop harping on it, even in silence. The ship needed her attention, and anyway, it wasn’t fair to S’paak herself, who would never have said anything under her own power, nor betrayed it in her conduct. Kirk might as well hold poor Riley accountable for nearly getting them all killed.

Then Janice Rand shifted slightly beside her chair, her face nervous, upset. Kirk’s hand twitched towards her then pulled back, refusing to let her eyes linger on anything below her collarbone, instead flicking her glance up at her pleasant expression below the piles of pale blonde hair, lighter and brighter than her own. It didn’t appreciably help.

No beach to walk on. She choked down the words.

“Ma’am?” said Rand. “Can I get you anything else?”

The comm crackled again, and S’paak’s voice broke through.

“Bridge, we’re ready.”

Kirk kept her hands, still curled into fists, on the arms of her chair.

“Engage,” she ordered.

She didn’t know all the details of the reaction happening in engineering, nor did she need to. In another instant, the lights of the ship died. Stars spun out on the viewscreen, and something screamed in her ears, her head, pain radiating throughout her body. Her head jerked backwards in the darkness, but her mind stayed coherent, rational. That was something, she thought, even as she felt her throat tightening, the heat on her skin intensifying, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Pain could be endured, but not madness.

Then the pain receded and Kirk straightened up, the ship steadying, retreating with increasingly impossible speed as the lights flickered back on. The red alert blinked and beeped. Rand was clutching the arm of Kirk’s chair even as S’paak came hurrying out of the turbolift, alone.

S’paak strode to the other side of Kirk’s chair with her usual decisive grace, Kirk turning towards her without will or deliberation. S’paak’s face was composed, one hand dropping to the back of the chair and the other to the arm, leaning towards her with a trace of urgency in the lean slope of her body. Exactly the S’paak she had always been, almost.

“Are you all right, Jess?” S’paak asked, searching her face as if nobody else on the bridge existed.

“Are you?” Kirk said quietly.

It was a strange, heady moment. Kirk almost felt like everyone else really had vanished, like it was just the two of them amidst a sea of stars. Dimly, she thought that between her ripped sleeve and sweat-streaked face, she must look like hell. S’paak just looked like herself, maybe worried in a S’paak sort of way, not exactly Vulcan and not exactly human. She didn’t seem injured, but if her memories were as clear as Kirk’s, she remembered. Even now, the memory must be far worse for her than for Kirk, worse than for anyone else here. And they might have never seen each other again.

Everything else that Jessica Kirk had thought and felt dissolved, drowned by the sheer force of affection and concern for S’paak, her best friend, her right hand, no one nobler, more faithful, more brilliant. She knew S’paak wouldn’t have liked being sent away, however necessarily, no matter what private conflict battled behind the outwards mask. That was S’paak’s business.

S’paak relaxed into reassuring calm, nodding her head, and Kirk smiled at her. Nothing had to change. She forced herself to remember the existence of Bones, Rand, Sulu, everyone all around them, the Enterprise, whatever the hell was happening outside it.

Something actually had changed, it turned out: the experimental formula had sent them all blasting backwards in time until Kirk gave the border to slow the engines, shifting them out of—time? The stars returned, clear and sharp, the alarms shifted back to green, everything looked and felt normal except Kirk’s own muscles, still coiled tight with tension.

She glanced sharply at S’paak, who was surveying a no-doubt-vast quantity of data at the science station.

“Commander S’paak,” she said. “The time warp—what did it do to us?”

S’paak wheeled around to face her, affect still smooth, but her face alive with interest nonetheless.

“We've regressed in time seventy-one hours,” she reported. “It is now three days ago, Captain. We have three days to live over again.”

Kirk inhaled, her pulse finally slowing.

“Not those last three days,” she said.

S’paak politely ignored that and said, “This does open some intriguing prospects, captain. Since the formula worked, we can go back in time, to any planet, any era.”

Anywhere. Any when. Possibilities, still shapeless, flickered through Kirk’s mind. Not a beach, but something else, perhaps better. Other places, peoples, ways of life, discoveries. Maybe even a place or time where, for a little while, they’d all be safe.

Jess smiled up at S’paak again, fingers uncurling.

“We may risk it someday, Commander S’paak,” she said.

#anghraine babbles #long post #meme prattle #fic talk #fic talk: the lesbian spock agenda #jessica kirk #s'paak #other characters but this isn't really about them #otp: the premise #c: who do i have to be #c: i object to intellect without discipline #genderbending #star peace #cw homophobia

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