#kit the bandit | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

misserabella · 1 year ago

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Bestie I NEED angst enemies to lovers reader gets hurt on patrol. These always make me froth at the mouth 🙏

cw; +18 content minors dni!, wounds, blood, cursing, weapons, fighting, arguing, kissing, making out (n up 😋), teasing, dirty talking, dom! ellie x sub! reader, praising, hair pulling, praise kink, oral sex (r receiving), cum eating, fingering (r receiving)…

“ellie, shut the fuck up!” you muttered through gritted teeth, groaning as you placed a hand on your gushing side, blood pouring from the cut and making you feel dizzy.

“fuck. fuck. fuck. i told you to stay close! but as fucking always you do whatever the fuck you want!” she was a mess, frantic eyes and shaky hands looking for bandages on her backpack. “keep pressure on it!” you were loosing a lot of blood.

they had come out of nowhere. those fucking bandits… they’d tried to steal from you, and once you’d stood your ground they had put a blade through your stomach. by the time ellie had gotten to you, you were standing on both your wobbly feet with a dagger stuck into your skin. the feeling of the metal moving and cutting as you moved made you feel lightheaded. but you knew you shouldn’t take it out or you’d probably die. she had shot the two men in a mere instant, getting to you as you groaned in pain.

now that she had pulled you to a safe place, she could see the extent of the damage. it was no good.

“quit moving!” she grunted and you almost punched her.

“you try stay still with a blade on your stomach and then we’ll fucking talk you dumb fuck!” yeah, it hurt. and you knew ellie was just trying to not let you die, as much as she hated you, she wouldn’t like to be the one held accountable for your death (and she knew she wouldn’t hear the end of it from maria…).

“take a deep breath.” she instructed, her hand wrapping around the dagger, and your eyes shoe open.

“don’t. don’t pull it ou-!!!!” your breath got punched out of your lungs when she extracted it, the messy sound of spluttering blood making your vision go blurry.

you moaned in pain, sweat dripping down your shin. you’d never experienced such amount of pain before.

ellie was quick to push bandages on it to stop the hemorrhage. your hands gripped hers as you looked into her eyes, scared. the floor was now pooling in crimson. were you gonna die?

she pulled your gaze away from the blood.

“hey. look at me. you’re gonna be okay, alright? i promise. you’re gonna be okay.” you nodded. “but to stop the blood i need to sew you up.” your breathing was ragged. your life depended on someone that hated you. someone that always got on your nerves and made you crazy. you were on the hands of ellie williams. an fuck if that didn’t scare you. but you’d seen the way she had shot those men, how she was looking at you, how she promised that you’d be alright. and you wanted to believe in her. you pressed on the wound as she got out alcohol, thread and needle from her first aid kit. “ready?” you nodded, although you were looking awfully pale, hair sticking to your forehead in a cold sweat. “i’ll try to be as fast as i can.” she promised before moving your hands away and exposing the wound. it was deep, but it didn’t seem to have reached any important organs or caused irreparable damage. “this is gonna hurt.” she said, and your ears rung when the alcohol made contact with your skin. you screamed, nails digging on the hardwood floor at the sudden need to push her away. your lip broke due to how hard you were biting it, and your vision was getting more and more blurry.

you were gonna pass out.

“i’m sorry, fuck, i’m sorry.” she muttered, threading the needle to start sewing you up. “y/n?” she inquired when she saw just how lost you looked, your hazy eyes and slowing breathing. “y/n!” before you knew it your head was thudding against the floor as your consciousness left your body. “fuck. shit. hold on, please.” she fought with the shake on her hands as she punctured your skin. “i’ll fix this. i promise. just hold on…”

“woah. you look absolutely dead.” you groaned, rolling your eyes at the barging in of the nicest person walking on this rotten earth. notice the sarcasm.

“nice to see you too, ellie.” she smirked, coming to the side of your bed and leaving food that joel had cooked for you.

“it’s always nice to see me. have you seen me?” she inquired, eyebrows arched and you scoffed.

“grab an extra chair for your pride ellie, ‘cause holy fuck…” she chuckled, grabbing a chair of the infirmary in which maria had had you resting for a couple days now to have your infection under control.

and you tried not to look at her. tried. but not hard enough. she was right. she was a nice sight. her hair was on a low bun, freckled face flushed due to the cold, which she fought with the help of a grey sweater and black jeans.

ellie had always been pretty. really pretty. it was the first thing you’d noticed about her before she came and ruined everything by opening her mouth.

“joel made you some food. wouldn’t recommend you eat it. man can’t cook to save his own life.”

“thanks.” you muttered, readjusting yourself on the bed.

“how are you doing?” she inquired, curious (worried).

“you mean apart of dying of boredom?” you chuckled. “i’m doing amazing.” you sighed, voice full of sarcasm. and your body jolted when you felt one of her hands softly land on your thigh.

“you seem stressed.” your eyes were on her hand, softly rubbing circles on your skin to calm you down.

“i am.“ you gulped, “this is horrible. maria doesn’t let me move from the bed. i need to move, ellie. it’s killing me. i feel… useless.”

she stared at you, until her lips parted in a soft mutter. “i could help…” she leaned in just the slightest, her hand trailing upwards on your thigh, and you shivered.

after a few minutes in silence, you slowly nodded, and her tongue wetted her lips.

she got up from her seat, and climbed into the bed. you felt a bolt of electricity running up your spine when her breath hit your face.

“you sure about this?” she inquired, eyes on yours.

“just shut the fuck up and kiss me, ellie.” your whole body shook when her lips met yours.

oh shit.

she pulled away to take a look at your face, making sure it was alright. that this was alright.

you looked into her eyes, into her beautiful green emerald eyes. and before you knew it you were cupping her face to bring her back to you.

this felt amazing. too good to be true.

you hummed against her mouth, her hands on your hips, making sure not to put her weight on you and your wound.

you opened your mouth for her tongue, gasping.

“shit. been wanting to do that for years.” she muttered and you whined.

“ellie…” your hips bucked against her, and she cooed.

“shhh, i got you. i got you baby.” you felt her hands push down your pajama pants, one of her hands cupping your cunt, which was quickly pooling with slick. you always ended up soaked while around her, secretly touching yourself to the though of her late at night when no one would catch you. “all pent up, hm? you just need a little relief it’s all…” you nodded, and moaned when you felt her lips trailing down your neck, to your chest, your stomach, your panties…

“fuck!” you sighed in a choked out moan when she left a wet kiss to your clit, peeking at the wet patch that was forming on your underwear. her tongue flattened, tasting you though that thin layer of clothing. she hummed, and your hands tugged on her hair.

she started to eat you out through your panties, teasing you, making you squirm and beg.

“ellie, please…”

“what is it, princess? use your words for me, come on.” she caressed your inner thighs, making you squirm and your hips buck against her face.

“please stop teasing me. need you. need your mouth.” you pleaded, and she kissed your knee, your thigh, your mound… before tugging from your panties.

“atta girl. speaking up for me so well…” you moaned, feeling her middle and index finger spreading you open for her, slick strings sticking to your lips. your eyes rolled to the back of your head when you finally felt it, her tongue licking a fat strip up to your clit, slurping at your juices. and then her middle finger, pushing inside your tight walls. you let out this beautiful moan that made her groan against you. “taste so good… best pussy i’ve ever had.” you felt your face and neck burn. ‘cause holy fuck, she knew how and what to say to make you shake. she started thrusting in and out, making you whimper and your back arch. “come on baby, relax for me.” you were so tight… you tried and breathe deeply, relax for her. “that’s it… open up for me. good girl.”

“just like that. oh shit, ellie. don’t stop please…” she smirked.

“yeah? you like that?” she added another finger, curling them and making you gasp. she grunted at the harsh tug of her hair. “you keep doing that i’ll fuck you stupid.” she warned, and you shivered, a broken moan rasping your throat. “but i bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you nodded, listening to the wet squelches your pussy made for her. you were so wet… “of course you would.” you cried out when her lips sucked on your clit. she could tell you were close by the way your thighs were shaking at the sides of her head, how your walls were clenching around her fingers. “you close?” she inquired, and you nodded, tears pricking your eyes. “fuuck. can’t wait to drink you up. cum for me. cum on my mouth, princess.” her fingers sped up, got harsher, and you couldn’t help but follow her orders, coming all over her face, soaking her chin and cheeks and lips. she slurped it all up, humming and grunting, eating you like a starved woman tasting food for the first time in months.

she helped you ride it, sucking on your clit and curling her fingers against your g spot until you were nothing more than a panting spent mess.

you tugged from her hair when the overstimulation became too much, and she looked at you, from her spot between your legs, not knowing that that view would become your favorite from now on.

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henk-heijmans · 10 months ago

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An ever-adaptable raccoon pokes her bandit-masked face out of a 1970s Ford Pinto on a deserted farm in Saskatchewan, Canada. In the back seat, her five playful kits trill with excitement, 2019 - by Jason Bantle, Canadian

#Jason Bantle #Canada #Saskatchewan #Ford Pinto #raccoon #farm #bandit-masked

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blorbowhereartthoublorbo · 3 months ago

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💖 best friendsssss 💖

am realizing that this is the first proper drawing i’ve drawn of mortimer and kit together. and i gotta say… it feels pretty good 😊

#okay technically this is a rough draft but STILL i’m PROUD of it :D #kit scribbles #kit the bandit #mortimer mouse #WAAAGGHHGHHHH THEY MAKE ME SO EMOTIONAL LOOK AT EM 🥹#they are……. so so important to each other <333

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vintage-simmer · 2 years ago

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˗ˏˋInfant conversion #3 ˎˊ˗

All without ads <3

SBP Turban- [ mediafire ] SBP Henry- [ mediafire ] Briar Bonnet - [ mediafire ] SBP Kit B - [ mediafire ] Bandit Bonnet- [ mediafire ] Bear Bonnet- [ mediafire ] Sun Briar Bonnet- [ mediafire ] Toddler version: [ Henry ], [ Briar ], [ Kit B ], [ Bandit ], [ Bear ], [ Sun Briar ] Child version: [ Kit B ] original meshes from ts3 by: @sketchbookpixels , @thenaturecollective

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ryder-writes · 9 months ago

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Healing Your Wounds- fantasy!kiribaku x gn!reader

A/n: This is my first ever fanfic on here! It's kinda short, and it's not my best, but I still like it :]

Warnings: poly relationship, cursing, reader has a stab wound, Bakugo kinda ooc

WC: 500

"God dammit Y/n don't close your eyes!" Bakugo demanded. "Keep them open for me okay?!" Tears started to cloud his vision. "FUCK stay with me please." His arms were wrapped around them, holding them bridal style. He ran into the house. "KIRISHIMA GRAB THE KIT!" He yelled. Kirishima immediately ran into the room with the first aid kit. He gasped and ran toward them as Bakugo put them down.

"What happened?!" He asked as he started tending to their wound.

"Bandits." Bakugo spat. "Those stupid fucks went after them instead of me." He started to nervously pace around the room. "I think they wanted to use them as bai-" Bakugo was interrupted by Y/n screaming out in pain.

"Shhhhh, it's okay hun I know it hurts. It'll be over soon I promise." Kirishima tried to comfort them as he stitched up the stab wound. Bakugo stopped pacing and sat down next to them. He grabbed their head and pushed it into his chest.

"Shhhhhhh." He soothed. He tried to drown out the sound of Y/n's muffled cries with his words. For their sake and his own. "I know. I know." A stray tear fell down his cheek. "Eijiro is gonna make you feel better, okay?" As their cries were muffled by Bakugo's chest, Kirishima had finished stitching them up.

"You did so well hun." He praised as he got up and kissed their head. He left to go get some potions and put the kit up. Bakugo took this as a sign to let go and started to gently move Y/n away from him. They responded by scooting closer to him (they couldn't move their arms due to the pain). He sighed and started rubbing their hair.

"I promise I'll protect you next time." They nuzzled their face into his chest as a 'Thank you'. Kirishima then re-entered the room and sat next to Bakugo. He started to rub their back with his right hand.

"I brought you a potion to help with the pain, okay?" He said as he held out the potion with his other hand. "Can you sit up for me?" Y/n nodded as they slowly sat up, Kirishima still supporting their back. "Good, now I'm gonna pour this into your mouth, okay?" Y/n nodded as consent. "Okay." They tipped their head backwards, and Kirishima started to slowly pour the potion into their mouth. He started to pour a little faster as Bakugo held their chin in place. "Almost done;" He comforted before the potion bottle was empty. "All done. Great job Love." He smiled as he closed the potion bottle. "It should start working in a little bit."

"Until then, you need to rest." Bakugo used his thumb to wipe their lips. "You lost a lot of blood. You aren't allowed to move or go out for a day." He decided. Y/n opened their mouth to protest but he cut them off. "No. I don't care what you think. You're staying here to REST. End. Of. Story."

#kiribaku x reader #kiribaku x y/n #kiribaku fluff #bakugo x reader #kirishima x reader #fantasy au #mha x y/n

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rotworld · 2 months ago

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2: Spare Parts

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

it seems like you end up stuck next to the same unsettling doll maker every year you attend the sheralothian festival of the arts. if you didn't know any better—if you didn't know him so well—you might assume it was just coincidence.

original work. suggestive but not explicit; contains extremely ambiguous consent, implied/briefly mentioned gore, dollification, fantasy plague.

It’s no easy feat to reach Laurel Grove from the capital. The road is rough and pitted, hateful to wagon wheels. It twists through the mountains and descends into the treacherous fog of the Mistwalk Valley. Bandits, emboldened by newly thawed trade negotiations and a glut of incautious, overencumbered merchants, stalk the spaces between the trees. From caravan to campsite, a flock of apprentices have zealously guarded your crates of precious cargo. You’re tired, all of you, eager for beds, blankets and a proper meal, but also restless with anticipation. At the Sheralothian Festival of the Arts, you’ll make more money for your workshop in a few days than you will for the rest of the year, attracting new patrons and securing new contracts.

The first of your apprentices to spot the sparkle of magic hollers in unabashed delight. The tapestry is a seamless weave of physical and metaphysical components, a shimmery material that blooms with sweet-smelling flowers in the daylight and sparkles luminescent beneath the moon. These adornments wrap around the trunks of trees and dangle from the canopy in thin ribbons, forming a path that guides you across bridges formed of mossy, gargantuan tree trunks and through leaf-canopy shaded streets. Laurel Grove, the Evergreen City, gradually unfolds all around you, not carved into the forest but melding with it.

One of your apprentices rushes off to secure a room at Fiora Falls, an inn tucked behind a waterfall. Another finds boarding for the horses. The rest follow you to the meadow fairgrounds where a ring of tents, stalls and tables has sprung up in a wide circle. You are late arrivals, having traveled further than most. Your fellow artists and craftsmen are happy to see you, exchanging embraces and well-wishes. A space has been saved for you not far from the meadow’s entrance. The apprentices get the crates open, setting up shelves, tables and a canopy. The display on your left belongs to Veta, a woodcarver from the south. She has amber eyes and thickly muscled arms littered with old scars. She waves when she sees you. On your right—

“There, there, darling. Don’t be nervous.”

You freeze. All of your joy and excitement withers and dies because on your right is Medraut.

You consider leaving. You shouldn’t. Can’t, really. But the thought occurs to you. Packing up, turning around, and making the long journey home without a single sale. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. No. He won’t ruin this for you. You focus on helping the apprentices, unpacking fresh flowers, minerals and round jars packed full of colorful dust. Your pigments are the finest in Sheralothia. They’re on temple ceilings and canvases hung in palace halls, staining the palettes of the world’s most renowned painters.

Greta, one of the newer apprentices, glances around in awe at the works of leatherworkers, glassblowers and luthiers from distant lands. Inevitably, her gaze is drawn to Medraut and his eclectic display: heavy tomes. Bows and ribbons. Syringes. Small bowls of cosmetic pigments. Cloudy vials of condensed magic in both smooth liquid and thick ichor. Sewing kits. Everything is arranged around a life-size doll at the front and center, sitting stiffly upright with stocking-clad legs dangling off the edge of the table. It’s undeniably beautiful. Dressed in an asymmetric frilly ensemble, its dainty hands are folded one over the other in its lap, nails neatly trimmed and painted. It has a listless expression, lips pursed and painted orchid purple, neither smiling nor frowning. Glassy lavender eyes are accentuated by long lashes and dabs of glittering blush on the cheeks, half-lidded gaze staring at nothing in particular.

“Hush now,” Medraut murmurs. He tucks a stray lock of hair back into place, looping it behind the shell of the doll’s ear. He caresses its face with the back of his hand in slow, soft strokes, the way one touches a lover. “Yes, I know. You dislike the spotlight. But you’re perfect.”

“Greta,” you say sternly. She flinches, scurrying back to your side with a sheepish expression. “Guests will be arriving at any moment and we’re not finished setting up. Let’s not get distracted just yet.”

“Of course!” she stammers. You offer a smile to reassure her when she rejoins the other apprentices, sifting through pigments and materials to find the most eye-catching objects worthy of display. She’s soon drawn into a gossip huddle with the others, voices lowered, nervous glances thrown around. You don’t stop them. Better she hears it now, however twisted by hearsay and urban legend, than later. You try to focus on preparing for the start of the festival but you keep stealing glimpses at the neighboring tables.

Medraut is deceptively delicate-looking, willowy with bony fingers and slender wrists. He’s cut his hair since the last time you saw him. Shoulder-length now, no longer spilling halfway down his back. He still favors the lavish fashions of the nobility; white silk, billowing sleeves, an obsidian brooch affixed to a lace jabot. Everything he does is graceful and deliberate, from the simple act of movement to the precise way he handles the goods arranged in front of him. He keeps returning to the doll, fussing over it, smoothing out creases in its clothing and refluffing drooping bows. Each time, his hand lingers. A squeeze of the shoulder. A stroke of the hair. A slow slide of the palm against the hollow of the throat, unabashed lust in his eyes.

Not unlike the doll, there is an uncanny, ageless quality to his features, a lack of anything that could easily identify him as young or old. That’s just how it is with mages. He could be thirty or three hundred. There’s no way to tell just by looking. You hear the apprentices discussing it. Trading rumors and throwing out guesses. His portrait hangs in the Hall of Gratitude in Twillisp Castle, his smile forever enshrined along with the other advisors King Kirgar maintained during his reign several centuries ago.

“You’re pulling my leg!” Greta hisses. “He can’t be that old!”

The others insist, “He might be even older.”

“He’s from Ithyr, you know. Some of the oldest mages in the world live there.”

“Lived, anyway.”

“Oh,” Greta says, her eyes wide. “Ithyr? To the west? Isn’t that where…”

“Yes. I think that’s why he’s…like that.”

You share a table. Tall, long and draped with black cloth, this flimsy barrier is all that stands between the two of you. Medraut has already placed a few odds and ends on the side closest to him. Combs and hairbrushes. Perfume bottles. An assortment of scalpels in different sizes, spread out on a velvet cloth. You gather a few of the larger, more inelegant minerals you haven’t had the chance to cut and grind into fine powder, lining them up down the center of the table. You try to do this quietly but Medraut turns the moment you place the first stone. He approaches the table, his smile widening.

“Medraut,” you greet him curtly.

“My dear friend,” he says, the same sensual murmur he spoke into the doll’s ear rolling off his tongue. The slow, undisguised wandering of his gaze up and down your body makes you uneasy. His eyes are stark silver in pools of black sclera like twin moons, the pupils somewhat misshapen; common in survivors of arcanapox. “It seems I have the pleasure of your company again this year.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “I wonder how that keeps happening.”

He tilts his head, glancing at something behind you. You step to the side to block his line of sight and he chuckles softly. “Hm. Bloodshot eyes. Unsteady gait. Shaky hands. You work your poor apprentices hard but you work yourself hardest of all. Would you like to sit down? I brought a chair.”

You place the last stone more heavily than you need to, slamming it down at the end of the table. “You don’t cross this line,” you tell him. “You stay on your side and I stay on mine.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for all that. But if it will put your mind at ease…” He shrugs, leaning against his half of the table with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Really, do you think so poorly of me? Your apprentices are precious, but I’d never steal one away. No matter how lovely they’d look in something other than those dreary robes and aprons you’re all so fond of.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” you say, utterly unconvinced.

The slow trickle of the festival’s first guests thankfully diverts his attention. Medraut’s display draws in many curious onlookers and he’s all too happy to explain the history of Ithyrian dollmaking. He comes out from behind the table to stand beside the doll, demonstrating its posable limbs with gentle, coaxing touches. You shouldn’t watch. You have plenty to do. But you keep looking. Keep glancing over and finding him increasingly shameless. Running his hands through the doll’s hair. Stroking its arm. Kneeling once to tighten the laces of its boots and sliding his palm up and down the curve of one long, ball-jointed leg. Up and down. Up and down. Slipping beneath the fluttering edge of its skirt…

You get a few potential customers, too, excitedly chattering patrons of the arts looking for fresh new pigments to supply their preferred painters. A few recognize you from previous years. One particularly discerning man asks if a particular jar of dark dust is used in the creation of “mourning blue,” a rich color becoming increasingly popular in the frescoes of the capital. You’re still not accustomed to being recognized like this, approached with awe and praise. Your whole world is the workshop, turning rocks and plants into colors worthy of royal portraits.

One of your apprentices demonstrates a technique with mortar and pestle, dropping a fistful of flower petals into the bowl. The others stand towards the back and whisper amongst themselves, furtive glances aimed at Medraut.

“How bad was it?”

“Oh, it was dreadful. Haven’t you seen The Death of the Deathless?”

“Gods, that awful thing? I couldn’t bear to look at it!”

“Shhh!”

Silence. You can feel them staring at your back for a moment before the whispers start again, even quieter now.

“It’s true. Our teacher was there when it happened. They apprenticed in Ithyr.”

“They were there? How did they survive?”

“Arcanapox only kills mages. Still, it makes us pretty sick, too. That’s why they have that tremor in their hands."

“Of all things, they painted that?”

“When you see something so awful, you make sense of it however you can.”

“Eyes like hot wax. Eugh.”

“But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Mages don’t handle death well. It’s too strange to them.”

“So that’s why…?”

“Yes, to help them grieve.”

“No, that’s just how it started. What they do now, it’s…well, it’s certainly not the same.”

A finely dressed man in a striped, high-collared doublet approaches Medraut’s table with a broad smile. They know each other. Medraut’s face lights up and they greet each other with half-bows, left hands flicking to the side as though to cast a minor spell; a mage greeting. They speak in hushed but excited tones and you should not be eavesdropping, should not care what they have to say to each other. You rearrange the pigments, sorting them alphabetically. You can’t help yourself. You glance over at them again.

The doll is staring at you.

You nearly drop the jar you’re holding, fumbling with the lid. It hasn’t moved at all except for its head, turned towards you. You swallow nervously, bending to pick up the lid of the jar. The doll’s eyes lower, then follow you back up when you stand. You look away, heart pounding.

“How long did it take?” you hear the man ask, sounding awed.

Medraut laughs softly. “Quite some time, but I enjoy the process. This one especially.”

You look at the dirt beneath your feet. The dangling tablecloth. The line of stones. Medraut’s beautiful hand sliding beneath the doll’s arm. Cupping its elbow. Stroking its wrist with his thumb. Sliding their palms together, lacing his fingers with its stiff ones. His face is flushed and his smile is the sort born of fevered delirium, a man dreaming of something impossibly sweet.

“He’s stunning. Simply breathtaking. And the eyes…”

“A fresh set,” Medraut assures him. “I used the portrait you left with me for reference. A perfect match, isn’t it?”

“Yes. This is everything we wanted and more, Medraut. I can’t thank you enough.” The other man grasps the doll’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing each finger reverently. “Everything is as it always should have been.”

“As it will forever be,” Medraut says, quiet and solemn. For a moment, neither of them speak. They bow their heads, eyes shut tightly as though willing away an unpleasant memory. Medraut snaps out of it first. He clears his throat, his smile returning. “Let me bring you the case.”

‘The case’ is a large, wheeled box with a handle at the top. The exterior is polished leather, while the inside is ruched white velvet. Like a display case, you think. Like a bed. Like a coffin. Medraut picks up the doll like it weighs nothing and carefully sets it inside, arranging it on its side in a fetal curl. Stray ribbons and folds of fabric are tucked in. One last kiss is pressed to its forehead. The case closes, zipped and latched and locked shut with a key Medraut passes to the man. You can’t look away as he leaves, watching the case rattle through the dirt and grass and far away, vanishing beyond the meadow. You think about it all day. You’ll probably have nightmares about it.

Sunset signals the end of the festival’s first day. You’re exhausted, eager to get off your feet. When did you eat last? You dismissed the apprentices for lunch in turns and they offered to bring you something. Offered, but you said no. Too frazzled by all the people to eat, all the talking you had to do. A sudden wave of dizziness sends you stumbling, careening right into your own display.

Strong, beautiful hands catch you. You are held against silk ruffles. A warm chest. A quickening heartbeat. Medraut lowers you gently to the ground, cradling your head in his lap. The world is blurry but you can tell he isn’t smiling anymore. He wipes the sweat from your brow.

“Teacher!” You hear Greta and the others, your apprentices frantic and wailing. Medraut keeps them at a distance, barks at them not to crowd around you. You rarely hear him so sharp-tongued and terse. He tells them where to find a healer, sends them off for food and water. You breathe shakily, feeling worse than you realized. Medraut shushes you, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye.

“My dear friend,” he whispers.

“Put me down.” You try to squirm away from him but you don’t get far. Medraut turns you over, burying your face against his shirt. “Medraut, I’m serious.”

“You need me,” he says. His voice quivers slightly. “You need me, and you long to be cared for. Treated like a precious, delicate thing. Here I am, my dearest one. Let me take care of you for just a moment.” He rubs your back, pressing his fingertips into muscles you didn’t realize were sore. You don’t mean to relax against him. You want to fight, to push him away, but he hums an old song you haven’t heard in decades and you remember damp summer evenings in Ithyr. The hiss of the ocean and the caw of seabirds. The chalky scent of magic pigment, the way it fizzled on your fingers. Stargazing on your back in a field, your hand joined with another. How you looked at the sky but he only looked at you, spellbound.

“Do they still hurt?” you ask him.

“My eyes?” he says. You nod weakly. “No, dear. Not for a long time.” He strokes your head, gentle, sliding pets that make you feel like young and impulsive again. “I wish you would come to Ithyr again. Stay this time. Do you remember that seat in the bay window? You would sit there for hours with your canvas, watching the tide come and go. You would sit there, so very still.” You shake your head and it’s a lie. Denial and avoidance. Of course you remember. “I want to see you there again,” Medraut whispers, stroking along your spine. “In the sunrise. In the moonlight. As you always should have been, forever.”

That’s how they find you when the apprentices return, still in Medraut’s embrace. Curled up like a sick child crying for relief, wrinkling his shirt with your grasping hands. Only when the healer comes do you manage to pull yourself away. Medraut lets go of you slowly, one finger at a time. You assure him repeatedly you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. You see him helping your apprentices pack up the pigments, their looks of wary acceptance, leaving his own section abandoned. There is a large box underneath one of his tables. A leather case, shut tight but unlatched. Empty, then. No doll inside. His personal mage seal is stamped on the side.

It’s the same one he brings every time, year after year. Empty, save for desperate dreams and wishes that this time will be different than all the others. That you will finally say yes.

#rotpeach writes #goretober #original #i got a ton of asks today!! will try to get to a few tonight and the rest as soon as im able. thank you for your patience! ;v;#still gotta go back and look at growing shadows now that i actually slept and hopefully make this the year i also post everything to ao3

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pupsmailbox · 9 months ago

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DOG︰WOLF ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ ace. affen. affie. aidi. airendale. akita. aksaray. alano. alex. alfie. amarok. amaruq. annie. apollo. archie. arianell. aries. armant. artemis. artois. ash. asher. aurora. badulf. bailey. bandit. barbet. bardou. barkley. basenji. bear. beau. bella. beowulf. biewer. blue. bluey. bolt. boris. boxer. brad. brenard. brittany. brutus. bud. buddie. buddy. buster. buttercup. buzz. cailean. cain. cairn. caleb. canaan. cane. canid. canis. carlo. carol. catellus. celeste. charles. charlie. chase. chewie. chip. cliff. clifford. coco. collie. conall. conan. conell. cooper. daciana. daisy. dale. darwin. dash. daxie. dexter. diana. dire. dixie. duke. dylan. echo. emory. eros. eskie. ester. fang. fenrir. fido. finn. ford. fox. frankie. ghan. glen. gold. gordon. gray. grey. griffon. grim. grimmwolf. hamilton. harley. havana. hero. hound. howl. hunter. indie. indy. jack. joey. kai. kaleb. kalev. kelpie. ken. kerry. kibble. kibs. kit. lady. leo. leon. llewelyn. lola. lowell. lucine. lucy. luna. lupin. lyall. lyca. lycro. lycus. mace. maisie. mal. malinois. marley. max. mia. miles. milo. mingan. mob. molly. mudd. mutt. nala. night. noire. noiresse. noirette. nova. nugget. nyx. oliver. ollie. orion. oscar. paxton. peach. pebble. phoebe. picard. pila. pluto. poppy. puff. pup. ralph. randelle. randy. red. redd. reika. remus. rex. rhys. riley. rocky. rolfo. roman. romulus. rosie. rover. rowdy. roxie. roxy. ruby. rudy. ruff. rufus. ruppell. russel. russell. sadie. scottie. scout. scruff. scruffy. selena. shep. shepard. shepherd. silver. sophie. spike. spitz. spot. stafford. star. stella. stick. storm. stormy. suki. teddy. terry. tiger. tosa. venerie. walker. will. wolf. wolfgang. zev. zip. zoey.

PRONOUNS ⌇　arf/arf. awoo/awoo. ba/ball. ba/bark. bark/bark. bite/bite. ble/blep. bo/bone. bo/bork. bork/bork. cae/canine. can/cani. cani/cani. canid/canidae. canin/canine. canine/canine. cha/chase. chew/chew. claw/claw. co/collar. coll/collar. cute/cute. dig/dig. dog/dog. drool/drool. en/energy. fang/fang. fe/fetch. floof/floof. fluff/fluff. fluff/fluffy. fur/fur. fur/furry. ga/game. grey/grey. grim/grim. gro/growl. growl/growl. grr/grr. guard/guard. ho/howl. houn/hound. hound/hound. howl/howl. hunt/hunt. jump/jump. lea/leash. leash/leash. lo/loyal. loyal/loyal. lu/lupi. lup/lup. moon/moon. mutt/mutt. muz/muzzle. night/night. pa/paw. paw/paw. pawprint/pawprit. pet/pet. pla/play. pla/playful. play/play. pooch/pooch. predator/predator. pro/protect. pup/pup. puppy/puppy. ri/rir. ri/ruff. roll/roll. rough/rough. ru/run. ruff/ruff. run/run. silv/silver. slob/slober. snap/snap. snarl/snarl. sni/sniff. snout/snout. soft/soft. squi/squirrel. star/star. star/starry. sti/stick. tai/tail. tail/tail. teeth/teeth. teeth/teething. tre/treat. tre/tree. wa/wag. wa/walk. wag/wag. walk/walk. wolf/wolf. wolf/wolve. wolv/wolve. woof/woof. yap/yap. yip/yip. 🌳. 🎾. 🐕. 🐕‍🦺. 🐩. 🐶. 🐺. 🐾. 🐿. 🔆. 🥎. 🦮. 🦴. 🧸.

#⭐️lists #id pack #npt #name suggestions #name ideas #name list #pronoun suggestions #pronoun ideas #pronoun list #neopronouns #nounself #emojiself #dogkin #dog therian #puppykin #puppy therian #wolfkin #wolf therian

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kitcatttt · 23 days ago

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Okkkkk I couldn’t resist have headshots of Bandit and Captain

RELEASE ME

#oh shit kit got a pencil #risk of rain #risk of rain 2 #ror #ror2 #risk of rain captain #risk of rain bandit #tw body horror #I love body horror ❤️❤️❤️

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lexsssu · 1 year ago

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Bloom (Youko Kurama)

TAGS: Youko/Dragoness!reader, pet names, cunnilingus, breeding, oneshot Ao3 ver. | Ko-fi | Commissions (OPEN)

“Such a pretty little flower you have here, my dear...It’s even oozing such lascivious nectar. My, my...how lewd...”

“Nooo! Don’t look at it!!!”

“How can I not look when it’s twitching so desperately? I think the best way to make this flower bloom its most beautiful is to fertilize it. Don’t you think so?”

“Y-Youko…!”

The fox yokai only smirks in response as one of his demonic flora holds you in place with its vines, your prone naked body lifted several feet off the ground with your arms and legs spread wide. This position allowed nothing to be hidden from his view, just how he liked it.

A long finger rubs against the weeping slit, nodding in satisfaction at the abundant honey that dripped and easily coated his digit before licking it off, unwilling to allow it to go to waste when you worked so hard to produce it just for him. He enjoys the taste as much as the sight of you trembling in embarrassment as his tongue slowly laps up the fluids from his fingers.

“We can’t allow even a drop of this precious nectar to go to waste when it’s a delicacy,” he explains, placing his large hands onto your inner thighs as his thumbs land on the fleshy lips of your cunt in order to spread them wide and reveal the tender pink hole inside. “That is why I have brought it upon myself to make use of this precious commodity.”

Your protests die in your throat when the silver-haired fox proceeds to feast on your pussy like a man starved, lapping up the dripping slick before pressing his face into your twitching lips and sticking his tongue inside. Thighs trembling, you are powerless to do anything as Youko repeatedly shoved his tongue as far as it could go, scraping at the spongy walls as he swallowed down your nectar with gusto. The knot inside your lower stomach tightens impossibly with each second that passes at the mercy of the bandit until it snaps, crying out his name as he practically sucks your soul out of your body.

“Thank you for the meal, little Snapdragon. Such fine nectar you secrete…”

As much as he wanted to eat you forever, there were more pressing matters to attend to. Namely, his loins which painfully poked at his trousers in an effort to be released from their prison, eager to sink into the velvety soft heat of your warm, delicious cunt. Due to the both of you being attuned to your animalistic natures, him being a fox and you being a dragon, it was no wonder Youko was all the more aware of the heady mix of your arousal and his own in the air. Having his nose so close to your precious flower allowed him to smell the full force of your scent, enticing his body to release the long restrained urge to mate and knot a fertile female and have her bear his kits.

“...But I believe it is time for us to begin the main course”

Youko resisted the urge to purr as his vines began moving your body and setting it into the appropriate position with your chest pressed down against the piles of downy fur he’d skinned from his many successful hunts while you were propped up on your knees with legs spread wide. There was no way he was allowing the future mother of his kits to be taken roughly against the abrasive stone ground of your cave dwelling. From your scent alone he could easily tell that you were still pure, untouched by any other male which made him all the more adamant about making your first time one to remember fondly.

The rumble of his chest vibrated against your smaller back as he draped his larger body over your own, the action seemingly comforting you and yet urging you to submit at the same time. You could feel the hot and heavy cock that rubbed against your lower lips, going back and forth as it coated itself in your slick while his large hands gripped your plush waist.

“Sing for me, my pretty little flower”

A lusty moan escapes your lips when the fat head of his cock pierces into your untouched pussy, each gratifying inch slipping inside the unexplored territory until only the heavy sacs that hung below his proud length were left. There is a twinge of pain as your maidenhead was taken, but nothing your body can’t handle. Rather, your body responds enthusiastically to the intrusion, your cunt clamping down on the thick organ that spreads it wide open.

Kurama hissed at the moist sheath that seemed to happily welcome his member, nose flaring as the scent of your virgin’s blood and arousal mixed into a potent and heady mix that had him hammering into your pussy once he was sure you had adjusted to him.

The fox and the dragon continue to mate within the confines of their sealed den for the next several days, unwilling to part from each other until the male was absolutely sure that he had successfully flooded your womb with his seed and ensured the future of his lineage. Once he’d confirmed your condition, Kurama happily spent the next several days in yet another hedonistic frenzy of mating as a way to celebrate the happy event in your lives.

You had to threaten Youko to give you a break or else you’d ban him from touching you for a century.

Safe to say, he did heed your warning and finally allowed you to walk out of your den, but he made sure to hover protectively behind you all the time. Unwilling to allow any other male to get ideas about his mate.

You simply thought it was adorable.

#lexsssu writes #yu yu hakusho #yyh #yu yu hakusho kurama #youko kurama #youko kurama x reader #yu yu hakusho x reader #yyh youko x reader #crossposted on ao3

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bestworstcase · 9 months ago

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Something I've been chewing on that I do wonder if you have any thoughts on. What is the intended characterization/symbolism of Yang's semblance. Jaune is a healer/support. Ren learned to control his emotions and then grew empathetic. Qrow has his bad luck which is probably a defense mechanism with consequences from the bandits that raised him and Raven. Taiyang's description of Yang's semblance is the closest to an analysis the audience has gotten and that is - "basically a Temper Tantrum". Very interestingly the narrative has so far let that description stand uncontested. And I believe you were the one that did the analysis that Yang's problem was overly depending upon her semblance as a finisher. Also fun to consider how one of the ways that Yang has her parallel with Cinder is with the fire association... which for Yang is just actually her preferred ammunition and the go to imagery for her songs that I can recall off the top of my head except for temper metaphors.

that was me yeah

a core theme of yang’s character is that she’s made of contradictions and cannot be easily defined or fit into a single box. this is true of every character in rwby—there’s always more than meets the eye, complexity beneath the surface—but yang as a character is subject to other characters’ struggle to parse who she is. tai sees a temper tantrum, ruby sees invulnerability, blake has been on an emotional journey spanning six volumes of just learning to see and love yang’s whole, complete self. yang is raven’s daughter, after all—but she’s also summer’s daughter so much that the resemblance screams itself out of the screen.

so. her semblance.

in the story, it’s been described three different times by three different characters:

ruby: “every hit makes her stronger, and she uses that to fight back. that’s what makes her special”

tai: “basically a temper tantrum, great in a bind, but it won’t always save you”

blake: “his semblance is like yours, he absorbs energy through his sword, stores it up and sends it back when he’s ready” (+ yang feeling it’s “cheap” that he “gets to dish out damage without feeling it”)

<- three bears.

in goldilocks terms, yang’s semblance is “too strong” (ruby sees her as invulnerable), “too weak” (tai sees the power it grants her as essentially hollow, false) and “just right” (yang is neither invulnerable nor fragile and her semblance is just a part of her). i also think that what yang says of adam’s semblance is more revealing of her own self-perception than necessarily being meant as an objective critique of adam—it’s not “cheap” to parry/riposte and in fact yang’s growth as a combatant post-beacon looks like learning to fight more defensively and evasively, less reliant on soaking up damage/power for explosive finishers.

insofar as there’s a meaningful difference between adam needing to block hits vs yang not it’s that yang’s semblance gives her a bit of a cushion—she can still riposte even if she misses the parry—and in all honesty i think probably comes down to their kit. yang is a hand-to-hand fighter. she’s blocking hits with her forearms and, gauntlets or not, she’s going to feel that. the specific damage-absorption mechanics of their semblances cater to their fighting styles.

but, yang feels that it’s “cheap” for adam to absorb energy through his sword rather than his own body, because yang takes a certain pride in being able to get back up after being knocked down. her idea that she must take damage before she can deal it back twice as hard is probably not a real, immutable characteristic of her semblance but something that developed in response to how yang herself copes with trauma—it’s a way of, i think, regaining a sense of control and security by telling herself that it’s okay if bad things happen because it will just make her stronger in the end.

the narrative challenges this way of thinking post-beacon—losing her arm and being left behind did not make yang stronger, receiving support from trusted adults like oobleck and port and reuniting with her friends/family is what made her stronger. learning to accept help and treat herself with more compassion is making her stronger. exploring who she is apart from ruby is making her stronger. this is the direction she’s growing in emotionally—that being hurt doesn’t make her strong, healing makes her strong—and her use of her semblance is shifting in tandem with that (still pops it as a finisher quite often but it is pretty rare since v6 that yang uses it to gain the upper hand in fights she’s at risk of losing, bc these days she’s more focused on evasion/outmaneuvering opponents to create openings for her semblance to end the fight)

and then it’s connected to yang’s anger (and fear, as when she gets between neo and ruby) because both the feelings and the semblance are in essence a self-protective response—yang gets angry when she or someone she cares about is hurt and uses that anger to protect herself and/or the person she loves. her semblance is about taking painful things that happen to her and transmuting that into the power to defend herself. same thing.

i don’t actually think that her semblance is hooked into her anger in the, like, mechanical sense (we’ve definitely seen her pop the semblance in context where she’s having a GREAT time, for one)—the correlation arises from yang’s anger being motivated by protectiveness and a desire to not be hurt, which is also what manifests in her semblance.

i would argue that “basically a temper tantrum” is meant to be read in context with ruby’s “that’s what makes her special” and then both those extremes are brought to a resolution by blake’s neutral description of what burn is, mechanically; in that sense i don’t think that tai’s analysis has been left uncontested except insofar as yang didn’t argue with him—but conversely, tai more or less tells her to think of her semblance as a risky weapon of last resort and yang went “k” and started using her semblance more, so i think it’s less that yang takes his advice at face value than it is yang recognizing that tai raises a generally good point [being creative and flexible is valuable] and thinking okay, i can probably get more out of my semblance if i try new things.

her position is that burn is normal (“how is me using my semblance different from someone else using theirs?”), and the way she takes this advice on board reflects that—if someone else relied on their semblance for just one specific tactic and nothing else, what advice would they be getting from their instructors? push yourself further, test the limits of what you think you can do, get out of your comfort zone. that’s what winter tells weiss when she’s struggling! that’s how RNJR are taught in v5! tai views burn as fundamentally different from other semblances, and his advice really comes down to “don’t rely on it, you don’t need it.” but yang disregards that part of what he tells her entirely. she quietly sorts through what tai tells her and only keeps what she thinks will actually help her improve—which is, in itself, of a piece with her semblance. she takes the ‘hit’—the harsh and rather unfair criticism—and then filters/converts it into something more constructive.

(there is also some interesting subtext here with the protective/self-protective drive behind both yang’s anger and her semblance and tai’s perception that the semblance is a “temper tantrum”—which aside from framing burn itself as abnormal also casts yang’s anger as irrational, childish, out-of-control. given the dynamic of yang’s childhood situation, the parentification and leaving yang and ruby alone at home for extended periods of time and over-identification of yang with raven plus favoritism toward ruby… and factoring in tai referring to yang’s anxiety and post-traumatic depression as “moping” well. across the board he seems either unwilling or unable to seriously/genuinely engage with yang’s feelings so how much of his perception that yang has “temper tantrums” follows from outbursts she had when overwhelmed as a child or young teen that tai didn’t take seriously or chose to ignore rather than deal with the root cause of neglect/trauma?)

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