#part 2 eventually

[dirtytransmasc]

Baby Spider: I don’t understand..

Aonung: I know bro it’s okay:

Baby spider: but he’s right behind you..

Aonung: aww Spider baby-‘turns around’

Neteyam: hay guysss I’m backk

ao'nung didn't want to believe it, not at first, not when it felt like an awful trick. surely he couldn't really back, he was dead, he had been dead for months. but spider was reaching for the undead boy and neteyam was walking towards him, that skittish but comforting smile he always wore.

ao'nung found himself, despite every instinct telling him to not fall for it, to not get his broken by what surely couldn't be true, meeting him in the middle, sinking into his embrace. he heard spider talking to the other boy, latching onto him as well, but he couldn't make out the words over the sound of neteyam's heartbeat, the feeling of it pounding against his cheek where it rest on his scarred chest.

"Eywa's handing out miracles now is she?" he joked through the tears, relief sagging his body, neteyam holding the trio up in his strong arms.

"yeah, it seems that way."

ao'nung pulled away only to shift his grip on spider, the little one starting to slip down his chest as he squirmed to be in neteyam's arms. he carefully wound his hands under spiders arms, passing him to neteyam, making sure he was pressed safely to his chest.

"got him?"

"I got him, I promise." neteyam's eyes flashed as he took the baby into his arms, smiling at ao'nung as he stood awkwardly watching spider hug his brother as tight as he could, "so... how've you been?" neteyam asked awkwardly

"how have I been? you were dead neteyam, I... I missed you so much, and I want to be really angry with you for leaving us, but I can't, and-" he couldn't help but throw himself back into the boy, sandwiching spider between them, spider rubbing his head up against ao'nung like a cat. "don't go again,"

"I won't, I promise." he was holding onto ao'nungs neck, gently rubbing a thumb against his hairline, like he did with lo'ak. "now, we should probably go talk... to our families."" he spoke wearily, like a man about to meet his in-laws for the first time.

"yeah... oh Eywa, your so screwed dude,"

"you'll make sure they don't smother me, right?" his voice has the slightest lilt of a laugh

"um, if your holding the baby they won't tackle you on sight, but your mama, she might smother the two of you together, she's really taken to spider the last few months."

"she has?" he sounded hopeful, looking back down at the baby.

"yeah... we adopted spider, after you... she healed, as best as she could, spider and her are closer now. ever since this whole thing happened, she's trying to fix it... I- I tried to stop it at first, but... he needs this."

"that's good, he deserves a real family, not just us kids, and my mom, she deserved to heal. you're a good brother 'nung, protecting him, you did good... can't say I would have let my mom near him if I was you."

"yeah, you would, cause you would do what's best for him." he knew that to ring true about neteyam, he did what was right, always, even if it cost him everything.

neteyam just nodded, his focus back on spi, who was wiping his cheeks of his tears, luckily, they could be counted as happy tears this time around.

ao'nung lead the way, listening to neteyam and spider's conversation.

"how have you been little man?"

"mmm... confused... my mama says I was blessed by eywa, but its so weird, everyone's big now, and we have a new little sister and... you were gone and neytiri seems to like me now. I have a new family know, they're very nice, they said you were friends. ao'nungs a good big brother and tsireya is very nice," spider rambled away until he was out of breath.

"that does sound very confusing spi," he clearly didn't know what to say to the boy, how does one respond to that

"mhm, but I guess its ok... I like my new family, and I'm still friends with you guys and neytiri lets me stay late now, so I'll be ok." spiders voice held a hopeful confidence as he hugged himself close to his brother.

"that's good spi, that's really good." neteyam sounded choked again, it had to be rough hearing his little brother talk of his family as if they were just friends, like the treatment neytiri used to put him through was resolved simply by letting him stay for dinner, to speak of people who were just becoming friends in his own memory like family. but neteyam kept a strong face for spider, and ao'nung was grateful for it.

"come this way, straight to the family pod, it'll be best if no one sees you yet, cause... I have a feeling that would not end well for you." ao'nung quipped, leading neteyam down a far more secluded path to the pod, helping conceal him as they entered.

it was empty, ao'nung was grateful for that.

"I will go find the others, you stay here with him, prepare yourself."

"will do," neteyam answered, alreayd being lead by spider to the corner he shared with ao'nung showing him the shells he had found with their mama.

ao'nung took a long, deep breath, this was going to be a long long day.

[rystiel]

part 2 to this (turns out he never got around to showing someone that mind reading crystal)

(part 3)

[1960z]

ds9 characters as onion/reductress articles

[meirimerens]

dad's visitation day so bad it almost makes you trip out of the closet and fall on your face and have your ipod (2nd gen) slip out of your pocket and the earphones unplug from the jack port and the chorus from "jenny" by studio killers ring very loud in the awkward space between you and your best buddy #oops

computer enhance

[cyberels]

later, loser.ᐟ ᯓ★

˗ˋˏ 𝐄���𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌𝐒 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ˎˊ-

☆ ellie discovers the quickest way to get a girl underneath her

daily click! palestine masterpost

☆: sometimes i start writing without a plot in mind to get myself out of a funk and and and this is what i came up w lol so sorry if it’s doodoo ass

☆ warnings -> mention of blood, injuries, all that good shit that comes with skateboarding, probably really inaccurate skating talk, drugs, tbh probably really bad writing but bare with me here, no concept of stranger danger from reader when she sees a hot girl (ellie) for plot reasons lol

☆ skaterboarder!ellie yayyy she wears glasses because i said so &&&&& also ellie works at a vinyl shop and reader works at a bakery :)

☆ ☆ ellies playlist! ☆ ☆

u don’t have to listen but i made it to listen while i write and i thought it’d be fun to add

my masterlist

ellie was no stranger to making mistakes, she’s human, it happens… however, she usually doesn’t make this many stupid choices within the span of one single hour.

today, ellie was running late.

mistake number one.

she practically flew out of the door and hopped on her board, mumbling a half assed apology to her neighbor who she accidentally shoulder checked on her way out when she put on her headphones.

she’s probably going way too fast, but she’s been skateboarding for years, she can handle it. she still has the penny boards that she started skating on when she was 12 hanging up in her living room, right beside some of her other boards she’s had since then that she’s either destroyed or replaced. she weaved in and out of the people walking practically effortlessly, not caring if she was pissing anyone off, they’d live. she’d never have to see them again, anyways.

she opened her phone to turn on her music.

you, on the other hand, were taking your time; you had a good while until you had to be at work. you’ve created a habit of looking for ladybugs in the bushes outside your apartment complex after you noticed that the plant is home to many of the little insects. usually you just glance at the plant as you pass by, but today, you fully stopped to look.

unfortunately, you were unaware of ellie being just feet away from you.

guess you’re no stranger to mistakes, either.

granted, ellie would have had enough time to stop… if she was paying attention.

which she was not.

mistake number two.

you hear a string of curse words behind you. you barely manage to turn around before you’re pushed into the bushes by a girl who promptly lands on top of you. her skateboard rolled away pathetically. it’s almost like it was embarrassed, too.

if there had been any ladybugs, they were definitely squashed now.

you open your eyes slowly to find the other girl hovering just above you. her necklace dangles temptingly close to your lips as she pushes herself up. she's still on top of you, her face just inches away from yours. she blinks a few times, slowly taking in the situation. she seems lost in thought, the wheels in her head turning painstakingly slowly as she tries to comprehend what's happening and her part in it.

she’s taking way too long to get off of you, though, which only serves to frustrate you more.

“hellooo? can you get up?” you mumble through gritted teeth to the girl above you, turning your head to the side to avoid her gaze.

in hindsight, you probably should’ve asked if she was okay, but right now all you wanted to do was get up and pretend like this never happened.

you don’t even want to know how many people saw you fall.

“oh— oh fuck.” ellie stuttered, taking one last glance at you before she moved herself onto the sidewalk, not finding the strength to stand up fully just yet.

she grabbed her headphones that had been flung off in the impact. small scrapes lined the side of them, but at least they probably still worked. she put them around her neck, letting her head fall back in her hands. she took a deep breath, trying to get a grip on her emotions and the situation.

you sigh as you get up, and ellie can tell you’re mad based solely on how the exhale of air sounded.

“uh… you good?” you ask after an uncomfortable pause, eyeing the other girl. it was obvious you didn’t really care, but at least you tried to be polite.

you were still taking your time collecting yourself, brushing leaves out of your hair and wiping blood from your hands onto your jeans (thank god you wore black jeans today). you were definitely going to be sore tomorrow, but other than your scraped up hands, you were fine.

just really pissed off.

ellie looked up at you and then immediately looked back down, running her hands over her face once more. “yeah, i’m… good.”

you roll your eyes as you hold your hand (the one with the least amount of scrapes) out towards ellie, offering to pull her up. you can't help but feel pity as she sits on the sidewalk. not in a sympathizing way, but more of a "damn, this girl looks pathetic" way. she hesitates for a second, but then grabs your hand and smiles weakly.

“thanks.”

as much as you know that this situation partially is your fault, you’re still annoyed. you had spent so long getting ready today just to have some idiot push you into dirt.

when you speak again, your words come out harsher than you intended… not that you minded. “yeah. watch where you’re fucking going next time.”

ouch.

okay, maybe (keyword: maybe) ellie had caused the worst part of this, but she wasn’t going to sit here and take you blatantly being rude when you’re just as much to blame as she is. “maybe if you didn’t think you owned the sidewalk, i wouldn't have ran into you.”

you reach down beside you and grab her, now shattered, phone and her (also shattered) glasses. you raise your eyebrows as you look over the broken screen.

“maybe if you were paying attention.” you pause, wiggling the phone in front of her face. “you would’ve realized i stopped walking.”

she snatched her things back, she didn’t have a comeback for that.

her phone was fucked… usable, but the screen was shattered so badly that if she scrolled on it she’d probably slice open her thumb. small price to pay, she figures.

it’s not like she’s gonna buy a new one… but she would have to cough up the money for new glasses, though. damn it.

“why the hell did you stop walking anyways?”

you hesitate, looking back at the bush sheepishly, vaguely gesturing towards it as you speak again. “i— not that it’s any of your business— i wanted to see if there were any ladybugs on the leaves.”

“…oh.”

well now ellie just feels like a dickhead, because that’s actually really cute. that was not the answer she was expecting.

you continue looking away and ellie sighs, attempting to push past you to grab her skateboard.

mistake number three.

the second she takes a step, she falls into you again, her ankle completely giving out underneath her. you catch her, your arms wrapping around her hips as you hold her up.

ellie has never wanted to die more than she did at this moment.

her face was literally sandwiched in between your chest. she pushed herself back, hopping slightly.

what the fuck just happened?

“oh my fucking god. i’m so sorry. i– oh fuck, this is so awkward.”

yeah, awkward was one word for it. you stare at her blankly for a moment before you kick her skateboard towards her.

you could feel her touch lingering on your body like she was still there. if your hands were just a little lower you would’ve…

“its– it’s fine. dude, are you sure you’re alright?”

you sound more like you care this time, at least.

not that you do care, or anything,

just trying to make sure she wasn’t seriously hurt.

that’s all.

“i’m fine.” it was an obvious lie, but she was preoccupied with thinking about how she was going to skate to and from work if she could barely walk… she’d have to deal with it, she decided. there wasn’t any other option for her right now, she was already late.. “i’ll be fine.”

“very convincing.” you reply, looking her up and down. “you’re not seriously about to get on that thing again, are you?”

“not that it’s any of your business, but i don’t have any other choice, i’m gonna be late to work and this is all i have to get me there.”

you narrow your eyes at her.

no way this girl was reckless and stupid.

“what? you can’t be serious… you’re still going to work? are you an idiot?”

ellie doesn't answer right away, glancing down at her skateboard for a bit. you’re right, she should call out, but she hated the prospect of missing a day of work. money had been tight, even one missed day would be hell for her and her bank account.

“you gonna give me the money i’d lose if i called out?”

you opened your mouth to reply, but she was already flying past you, very clearly having a hard time but also very clearly not caring.

“don’t stop in the middle of the sidewalk next time, dumbass!” she yelled, leaving you standing in the same spot just watching her leave.

…and kinda wishing she’d come back.

just so you could get the last word.

when you walk into work, it’s unfortunately obvious that you’re pissed off, if the way your manager immediately asks what happened as soon as you clocked in was anything to go by.

you’re thankful for the excuse to rant, though.

“god, abby, where do i even start? i literally just walked out of my apartment and some girl on a skateboard slammed into me and we both went flying into a stupid plant. got a face full of bush and not even the good kind.”

“jesus,” abby laughed, picking a leaf out of your hair. “was she hot?”

“was she hot? is that seriously all you’re gonna say?”

“...well?”

“i hate you so much… but yeah, she was.” you admit, defeat obvious in your tone. you’re well aware that this would’ve been a lot easier for you if you didn’t find the dumb skater attractive. you’d been close enough to her face to see every detail… her freckles, her eyes, her lips— damn it. you couldn’t get her out of your head.

this felt like a sick joke.

abby clapped her hands together. “this isn’t a completely bad thing! did you get her number?”

“no, abby, i didn’t get her number. i was too busy trying to get her away from me because she was stupid and annoying.”

“you’re no fun, could’ve got yourself a skater girl.” she frowned. “are you okay though?”

“you should’ve led with that question, you know?” you huff, looking at the scrapes on your palms again. “i’m fine.”

“yeah, yeah. i should’ve.” abby tosses a pastry towards you. “here, for your troubles, on the house. go sit down in the break room for a little bit, you look like a mess.”

“gonna ignore the last part. thanks, abs.”

──── ✧《✿》✧ ────

──── ✧《✿》✧ ────

“jesus fucking christ.” ellie mumbled to herself, hopping off her board before she opened the door to the small vinyl store she worked at.

“late again, williams— oh. oh wow. you look like shit.” austin, the owner of the shop spoke, nudging ellie as she walked by. he was wearing a stupid smirk on his face which made ellie more aggravated.

asshole.

“real nice.” ellie grumbled, putting up her skateboard and backpack. “sorry for being late, won’t happen again, i just— some people are so stupid, you know?”

“by ‘some people’ do you mean you?” he laughed, spinning on his chair. he mocked the way ellie spoke, doing a high pitched voice that sounded nothing like her.

god, he was a 30 year old man-child, but he pays her… so… whatever. she’ll deal.

“ha-ha. good one.”

“ya gonna tell me what happened or are ya gonna leave me guessin’?”

“what happened is people don’t know how to walk anymore.” she scoffed, taking stock of the money she had to count before putting it in the drawer. “so fucking stupid.”

“by the looks of it you don’t know how to walk anymore, either. you gonna be able to work? i’m not payin’ ya to sit around, so if i need to call someone else in…”

she glared at him, trying to see if he’d explode if she stared hard enough.

he was right though, unfortunately, ellie was walking like she had just learned how to. it wasn’t the worst injury she’s ever got from skateboarding, but it was definitely inconvenient.

“yeah, i’ll be fine.” ellie snapped, shifting her weight to her good foot to avoid making her injury any worse. “jesus christ, it’s a twisted ankle. i’m not missing a limb.”

“but—“

“drop it.”

he put his hands up in mock surrender, the smirk still on his face. “oooookay, okay. whatever you say williams. you were still late though, let’s go back to talkin’ about that. what’s the count at now? is this the fifth or sixth time this month?”

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry. shit’s hard when you don’t have a car.” ellie sighed, punching in the numbers on her register. “i’ll do better. today was not my fault, though.”

“am i gonna have to be more strict with you? everyone else shows up on time, you know?”

“yeah, yeah. whatever.” ellie rolled her eyes, trying to focus on work and push the pain out of her mind. “everyone else has a car.”

ellie really did not like austin. his whole holier-than-thou attitude irked her to no end.

still, it beat being jobless, so she knew she shouldn’t complain.

“don’t let it happen again.”

“i won’t, i swear. i’m really sorry.”

“right, okay, i’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick, you alright out here?”

she bit her tongue, holding back a groan.

austin ‘going to the bathroom’ was his way of saying that he’s gonna get really fucking stoned and then sit around and do nothing all day. this was a daily occurrence, at this rate.

“yeah, yeah, i’m good.” ellie mumbled, shoving away the annoyance she felt when he walked past her.

austin was a dickhead, but he was never outright mean, not really. he just… he thought he was better than everyone. a classic ego-centric prick.

as much as she hated him, she did like having a job— and being able to afford a place to sleep at night.

“ohhh, ellie, i gave you more shifts, like you asked.” he said before he walked out, smiling at her. “take a look at the schedule when ya get the chance.”

he has to be kidding.

she’s been begging for more shifts since god knows how long ago, and he decides to give her more now? when she doesn’t even know how she’s gonna be able to make it to work?

amazing. just what she wanted!

“great.” ellie muttered, shooting him a glare even though he was already gone. “more hours that i don’t know how the hell i’m gonna get to.”

she shook her head, austin wasn’t worth getting this pissed about— especially when he did try to do what she asked.

the store was never busy in the morning, so she sat in austins chair, finally taking a second to herself. she went over her options on how this was going to go.

she could have asked dina for a ride, if dina wasn’t off on some work trip about three hours away for the next two weeks, taking her and jesses shared car with her.

terrible timing.

she’d take public transportation if it was reliable and also if she didn’t have a few bad experiences with it already.

that wasn’t really a good option.

uber was definitely not an option. she already was going to have to buy new glasses and eventually pay for her phone to get fixed, she wasn’t about to drop $50 a day on ride.

she was screwed.

nothing was working out for her right now— the universe was laughing at her, just like it always did.

she wanted to kick and scream, but that wouldn’t help anything, plus she wouldn’t be able to kick very well right now.

oh well… she’d be fine, she’d just have to push through it.

her phone buzzed in her pocket and she winced when she seen the cracked screen again, it was so wrecked that it barely let her type in her password.

──── ✧《✿》✧ ────

──── ✧《✿》✧ ────

was ellie stupid for agreeing to go out of her way when she was already struggling to walk? yes.

does she care? no.

jesse was a good guy, he’s done a shit ton of favors for her, so this was the least she could do.

she’d never been to the bakery, but she always smelled it when she’d pass by, and it always looked like it’d be good. she did deserve a little treat after the day she had, anyways.

thank you jesse and jesse’s money.

when ellies shift is over, she feels so much worse than she did earlier, and austin repeating that ellie looked like shit over and over again wasn’t helping.

ugh.

“you’re a wreck, williams—“

“—goodbye austin, byeee. i’m leaving, out the door, shifts over. see you tomorrow.” she slammed the door shut, letting out a frustrated sigh as she got on her board again. “god. fuck off.”

the bakery wasn’t far, it was literally right across the street, but it felt like it was miles away to ellie. she leaned on the wall for a second to catch her breath before she walked inside.

it was a cute shop, one of those places you see on pinterest or instagram, with the led light signs and fake plants, it was actually really nice. she doesn’t know why she never came here before.

“let me know if i can help… oh god. it’s you.”

she looks over at you and she starts to wish the fall had just killed her on impact.

“please… pretend like this morning didn’t happen. i don’t want to deal with arguing right now.” ellie sighs, not giving you time to reply to her before she goes into saying her order.

she looked at your name tag as she paid, she could barely see what it said, her eyes squinting slightly as she tried to make out your name.

you scribbled little smiley faces and stars around your name, which was cuter than ellie would like to admit.

“go sit, i’ll bring your stuff to you after i box them, ‘kay?”

“i can wait here.“

“sit.”

“fine.”

she sat at one of the booths, attempting to use her phone without losing a finger. she wasn’t even paying attention to the content, just scrolling mindlessly as the memories of this morning replayed in her mind over and over again.

she was hoping to never see you again.

maybe coming here was a mistake.

“here.” you say after a few moments, placing the boxes on the table. “enjoy.”

you were being kind, but she could read behind the curtness of your tone.

you thought she was dumb. she could always tell by the way you talked to her; that look of disdain on your face.

“thanks.” she said, and then the silence took over again. it was obvious that neither of them wanted to start another conversation after the way the last one ended.

ellie couldn’t help but notice how just scraped up your hands were. you had bandages on them, but the blood that seeped through was bright red, like it was demanding to be looked at.

demanding ellie to feel bad for what she did.

damn it, she really should’ve just paid attention this morning.

would’ve saved her a lot of trouble.

she got up, sucking her teeth and hissing as she shifted her weight. she leaned on the table for balance as a few curse words left her mouth.

“god, you’re the dumbest person i’ve ever met.” you declared, confirming her suspicions.

she scoffed, trying to shake the pain away from her ankle.

man, this sucked.

“shut the hell up.” ellie snapped. “you don’t have to be so snarky, you know? i’m already dealing with the consequences of my shitty morning, you can drop the whole, ‘i’m better than you’ bullshit. if you listened earlier, you’d have known i said that i have no other choice.”

“i did listen, idiot. i don’t mean to sound like i’m trying to be better than you, okay? i’m sorry. but you seriously don’t have anyone that can help you out? do you have friends?”

“i have friends, asshole. they’re just either busy or i don’t want to inconvenience them. what’s it matter to you anyways?”

you don’t really have an answer, you’re not sure why it matters. maybe it’s because ellie looked really miserable, or maybe it’s because it had been partially your fault that she’s hurt… or maybe both. but you couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt about the situation she was in.

“i have a car.”

ellie paused, looking up at you. she wasn’t sure if she heard you correctly, or if this was just some weird, shitty joke.

“okay? congratulations?”

“don’t make me spell it out.” you reply, annoyance clear in your tone. “i’m saying, you’re obviously hurt, and it’s kinda my fault, so… if you needed a ride…”

“no.”

“don’t be stubborn. look, i get it, we’re not on the best terms right now, but i can’t just let you go like this without at least offering, y’know? plus, you seem like you could use the help.”

ellie’s mind was screaming at her to accept— it was logical. you offered a ride, she needs a ride, she should accept your offer.

“i could be a serial killer for all you know. you don’t even know my name.”

“yeah, okay. you? a serial killer? i’d just run away. not like you’d be able to chase after me.”

“hey, i can run pretty damn fast, you know?” ellie hissed. if she wanted, she could definitely chase you down… but she’d rather not do that at the moment. that was probably not a great idea. “hell, i could be an axe murderer.”

“what’s your name?”

“huh?”

“are you dumb?”

“…it’s ellie.”

“‘kay, ellie, now i know your name and if you’re observant— which i doubt but i’m gonna play devils advocate— you know mine. nice to meet you. now we know each other. i’m not gonna sit here and play 21 questions, do you want me to take you to your place or not?”

“what if you kill me anyways?” she asked, she was kidding, she just wanted to piss you off.

“i am not gonna fucking— you know what, you’re annoying. never mind.”

“wait. i’m sorry.”

fuck.

maybe this whole thing about you wasn’t so bad. you were just— abrasive.

she swallowed, forcing herself to stay calm. “i’ll take a ride.”

“what’s the magic word?”

“die.” ellie hissed. “you’re not funny.”

“almost! that’s four words. do you want a hint?”

ellie stared at you blankly for a few seconds before answering. “i am not saying please.”

“you just said it.” you grinned. “look, i get off at 6:30, that’s like… 20 minutes from now, if you don’t mind waiting. i’ll come get you when i’m off, sound good?”

“yeah. that sounds good.”

this is such a bad idea.

[degenerateshinji]

chuchulovelymunimunimuramura

[egophiliac]

So how’s ride kamens going for you as I just pulled my self together long enough to read the other half of the current main story

I've been working on catching up on the event stories since they announced the upcoming main story update! (I totally bombed the last few events...they're so fast-paced and I just didn't have time...😭)

and then of course they went and dropped THIS on us today

(you don't understand, I LOVE Tajador and I already love the two blurry frames they've given us of non-silhouetted Kelka, I'm ready to absolutely lose my shit come the announcement/reveal(?) stream on Thursday --)

[keepin-it-on-the-d-l]

Something something, Henry giving Lark unconditional forgiveness and Lark wanting nothing but to be found at fault VS Henry placing Sparrow at fault for code purple and Sparrow hoping for forgiveness when they reunite.

[intotheelliwoods]

Thinking about Sprouts stress-induced extra beanage, lmao

2 Arms Left Masterpost <- <-

[galactaknightyaoi]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GALACTA KNIGHT!!!! And congratulations to Meta Knight for experiencing the Cain Instinct for the first time.

Galacta Knight, as you might've been able to tell already, is one of my favorite characters, and KSSU is one of my favorite games (the original SS was my introduction to Kirby!) so I wanted to go all out. Happy day, old man. I pray for at least 20 more years.

Oh, and don't worry! He's not upset about the cake smash, he thinks it's funny. And he got back at him.

As for the in-universe explanation for there being 16 candles in his cake?

... 500+ didn't fit in safely.

The birthday boy and his family were just a bit too flammable.

[thevoidstaredback]

Every man has his breaking point. Danny's is just a bit higher than everyone else's because he's a king and has a high tolerance for absolute bull shit. No matter how strong that bar is, though, one can only bend so far before snapping.

Unfortunately for everyone around him, Danny has reached his breaking point.

"I wish I could get drunk," he stared into his drink longingly, "Or high. But mostly drunk."

"Why do ya say that?" Billy asked, tilting his head curiously to the left.

Danny sighed, "It's a long story."

"I've got time." he shrugged.

"Are ya sure?" Danny raised an eyebrow. "You don't think any emergencies are gonna crop up? Nothing you'll need to go take care of?"

Billy backed off a little, folding into his seat. "What're you talking about? I'm just some kid on the street. I ain't going anywhere."

Danny rolled his head from side to side. "Mostly, I'm talking about the JL meeting the both of us are gonna skip out on tonight."

"What-?"

"C'mon, Captain, it won't do to talk here," he stood, picking up his coffee and waiting for Billy to do the same.

Billy's eyes narrowed as he looked Danny up and down. "I don't recognise you," he whispered, "Who are you."

Danny produced another calling card from his sleeve as he sipped his drink, holding it in front of himself but not handing it over. When Billy was looking at it, he flipped it over. The white background turned matte black, all the runes in the Ouroboros turning so white that they glowed. The DP in the very middle tinted blue, pulsing with toxic green energy, slightly cold to the touch. The edges started to frost over.

Quickly, Billy pulled the card Danny had given him before from the inner pocket of his jacket. It, too, had changed to match the one Danny held, though there was no longer a DP in the middle. Instead, it said 'Phantom' in fancy calligraphy.

"No way," the kid muttered, his expression awestruck, "Phantom? That's you? No shit?"

Danny chuckled, tucking the card away again, "No shit, kid. Don't tell anyone, though. You're the only one who knows."

"Really?" he squeaked.

"Really."

***

Having someone know his whole story was refreshing, just as he's sure Billy felt good to have someone know his, too. That didn't stop him from feeling bad about dumping it all on the poor kid.

"I still wish I could get drunk," Phantom lamented."

Constantine looked up from the book he was reading. "You can't get drunk?"

"Nope."

"How'd ya figure that one out, kid?"

"Please don't call me a kid."

That's not good. The blond marked the page before setting the book to the side. Phantom had never actually asked him to stop calling him a kid. "What's wrong?" He didn't normally do the whole 'feelings' things, but the was an exception.

Phantom sighed long and sad. He didn't look up from the carpet. "I told you they were going to ask invasive questions."

"Who was it?" It was more of a demand then a question.

"Red Robin,"

"Red- I thought you would've skipped town when we were done there? I sure as hell did."

"I know you did, but I decided to stick around for a bit. Wander, y'know? Red Robin caught up to me and would leave me alone."

Oh, oh no. Those were tears. Were they? Yeah, shit, they are! John is not equipped to handle this!

Phantom sniffled. "He asked me how I died."

Fuck.

John Constantine is not easy to anger. Sure, he gets tired, and irritated, and a whole slew of emotions, but he is very slow to anger.

Phantom, he knows, is not a child. The ghost can very much take care of himself in basically every way one could think of. He saved the world on his own, several times, when he was fourteen. He became a King and Protector when he was fourteen. He died when he was fourteen.

Right now, all he could see was the child who hadn't ever been properly laid to rest. It was hard not to call Phantom a child when he seemed so small, seeking comfort from anyone. Phantom was crying. He'd retreated to the House and locked himself in Constantine's room, only talking when he was ready to, but he'd waited to cry.

Phantom didn't like crying. Every person in the JLD knew this.

No. John Constantine is not quick to anger, but he is scary when he reaches that point. Batman might be the night and vengeance and all that shit, but John Constantine was wrathful.

He sat beside Phantom and let the ghost lean into him and cry. He didn't like dealing with feelings, but this was a child in need of comfort and he was the only one around to offer it. "Do you really want me to stop calling you 'kid'?"

A sniffle and a small head shake. "No."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"...sure."

"How old are you really? As a ghost, not as a human or a halfa. How old are you?"

"Fourteen." he mumbled, "I'll never be any older than fourteen, John," he was getting a bit hysterical now, "I'll never be any older than fourteen! I-I died and-and now I have to rule and-and people keep asking and no one believes me and-!" A sob cut him off, heavy with grief and wet with tears. He cried for hours, giving up on trying to form words. Constantine let him, ignoring the wet patches on his shirt. Eventually, Phantom's sobs died down into hiccups. "I didn't...I'm- I'm sorry."

"It's alright, mate," he meant it, really and truly.

Phantom rubbed his eyes, "I'm gonna go hide somewhere."

"Not gonna share where?"

"No, I want to be alone for a while." He paused at the door, "Whatever you're gonna do, will you leave Captain Marvel out of it?"

Odd request, but, "Alright," he nodded, "I'll talk to the others." And by 'talk', he means lecture. There are boundaries that one shouldn't cross, and not asking the dead how they died should've been obvious! With his League issued communicator, John called an emergency meeting in one hour, required attendance, barring Captain Marvel. First things first, though, he needed to talk to Deadman.

Part 7 Storyboard

Tag List:

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[bitchfitch]

Idk man. You're doomed

you're five the first time a knife is put in your hands. A man who never bothered to give you a name tells you how to hide it. How to use it to defend another. How to use it to take your own life should you fail.

You're six, then seven. The other boys your age run in the streets playing games together. You've never spoken to any of them. Your go with the man who isn't your father to a funeral for a man who wasn't your brother. A woman gives your not-father a knife identical to the one you've now carried for years. Your not-father tells you today is a day of pride. Your not a brother fulfilled his purpose without his blade ever having to taste his own blood.

You see the body through the throne rooms doors. It looks like a marble statue. Bleach white and perfectly still where it lays at the foot of the King.

You're ten the day you meet your purpose. Another boy. The adopted son of the thing in the throne room. He's the prince. You will die for him. He looks at you with hate in his eyes the first time you're in the same room as him.

He tells you to run. He doesn't want you. He doesn't want to be the prince. He hates the King and misses the family he was taken from. He's scared. He doesn't want to kill you.

You don't run. You can't. You have nowhere to go and know nothing but your purpose. Protect him. Stand beside him. Grow up with him as his dearest friend.

He's not allowed to play with the other children either. He's not allowed to play.

All of his free time is eaten up by studying because every second he doesn't have his nose in a book he's on a pedestal with strangers knelt beneath him. Their hands cupped as they pray to him for his father's blessings. You see the prince spit blood when he leaves the room before the throne room. He chews the inside of his mouth raw to stop his fiery tongue. When you go to lay in your bed on the other side of the room from his he rants into the night about the nobleman beggars and their demands and how his father never stops talking.

You're twelve. You both notice that you've gotten a hair taller than the prince. He challenges you to a mock sword battle about it in the secrecy of the bedroom you share with him. His eyes alight and alive with all the fire he keeps covered through his days.

You're fourteen the first time you use your knife. A beggar grabbed the prince by the hem of his robes after the holy child failed to soothe his woes.

The guards were on the man in a split second, dragging him not to the dungeon, but to you where you stand at your purpose's side.

The prince doesn't watch. He stares over the crowd that always filled the hall before the throne room.

You kill for him. The beggar's pleads lost to deeply engrained training. His blood stains the hems of the prince's gowns.

He draws shut the curtain between your halves of the room that night. He asks you leave to take your breakfast elsewhere the next morning. When you meet him at his pedestal he sits with the hems of his robes wrapped tight around him.

He talks to you again weeks later. He sobs through the night when you fail to do as you're told when he once again demands you flee the only life you've ever been allowed to know.

You're seventeen. Your prince gains a brother, he's four. His parents beg he not be taken from them. Your prince can't look at them when he voices his and the child's new father's will.

Your not-father asks you take careful record of every moment of the child's life. You will have another not-brother soon and he must be a match for the new prince as you were for yours.

The boy cries from the room beside your's and your prince's for days until he turns the same stoney cold you're so used to seeing from your prince.

Your prince asks you if you hate him. You tell him no.

You're twenty-four and he's sick. Weak and stumbling over his words like he hasn't slept every hour his father wasn't using his voice these last weeks.

You've never so much as brushed the hair from your prince's face. He was holy, and you are not. To touch him would be to defile him.

You catch him when he faints on the walk between your shared chambers and the dreaded preyer hall.

You carry him to the medical ward surrounded by guards. The physicians can't touch the unconscious prince either. Not without for forfeiting their lives as you have. its decided that, as you have already sealed your own execution order, you would be permitted to continue touching him. Moving him. Helping the doctors examine him. Your foul hands against his skin that feels like cold stone. You help him eat, you hold him upright so that he may drink. He's barely aware of what is around him he still manages to protest every time you draw to far from him.

He orders the guards to leave. Spits that you are to not be touched. His limited energy wasted on pleading for your life.

For days you stay in that limbo with him. A condemned man and his ever weakening purpose.

The doctors have an idea that may save the prince but it's so profane they hesitate to offer it.

The solution to his sickness was obvious to them from the first few minutes of examination, but the clergy had had to argue it for days without the prince being able to tell them his father's will.

Ultimately, it was decided that it was the prince himself who should make the call.

He laid against you, his head tucked up under your chin with his hand over your heart as though his presence there would save you from the consequences of holding him.

The prince could be saved. All he needed was a blood transfusion to replenish his weak veins. But there was no donor holy enough. To take profane blood into his divine body would ruin his potential as host.

One side of the clergy pleaded with him to let you carry him to the throne room, pass the doors you only ever saw through once, to the foot of his father's divinity. There, all he would have to do was his slay his one human connection. His only friend, his only true family, and replace his father as host. His and your purposes fulfilled. Your execution given purpose beyond punishing you.

The prince's jaw worked in that subtle way that meant he was biting his cheek bloody again.

What was the purpose of his younger brother if not this? The prince would have the fouling transfusion, and he will be prince no more. His brother taking his place as mouthpiece and future body for their father.

The clergymen bickered in the room with you both. Your prince, weak and so sick as to not be able to stand, took your knife from your belt and ordered you hold out your hand for him.

He held you by the wrist as he sliced across the heal of your palm. The pain was made numb by your every thought melting at the sight of him pressing his lips to the wound to drink down your filth.

The transfusion was performed without further delay.

You were donor. He was able to walk back to your rooms with only an arm slung around your shoulders for support.

He was prince no more. Touching him was no longer a sin punishable by death. Your execution cancelled after he threatened to kill himself to take generations of holy secrets to his grave in vengeance.

He told you to call him Cadfael when you laid in your bed with him pressed close to you. His hand over your heart like he feared it would cease beating if he moved it. No one has spoken his name since he was stolen from his birth family.

You're 25, he's still so sick. Weak, cold to the touch, exhausted. You donate blood over and over until the doctors refuse to take more from you. Your symptoms aren't as severe as his, they go away when you have time to replenish your own supplies. He gets worse the longer he has to go between refillings.

He refuses to take from the people who once worshipped at his feet or the prisoners in the dungeons or the good samaritans who simply want to help a sick man. He's so scared of earning a reputation of literally stealing others blood for his own benefit. He only takes yours because you threaten to bleed yourself to death for his sake if he doesn't. He knows you aren't bluffing. It's always been your purpose to die for him.

The new prince can't hear his father's will. The boy, only twelve, sits on his brother's pedestal as beggars talk past him to the profane man knelt behind him. Cadfael whispers their fathers will into his young ears so he can be the mouthpiece he was supposed to be.

The clergy fear what it means for the fate of their country if the king rejects his younger son. The elder has been ruined, surely the King wouldn't see him as fit host? Why won't he accept the boy he had ordered stolen from his profane blooded family those years ago?

Cadfael whispers the answer to you the first time you ask. His words kept safe in the darkness between your bodies where you lay under the covers of your bed.

You are his only bond to his humanity. The only thing he cares about. the only thing he would morn losing. You're purpose is to die for him, his is to live for you. You were never seen as profane by the king who had slaughtered its bondee over and over again. Every time it took a new host, their loved's blood is what nurtured the transition. You were never something profane to it.

Cadfael is still holy and pure.

It scares him. He refuses to let the clergy know. He's had so much more freedom. You have had so much more freedom. You both saw the city streets for the first time after he got sick. Talked to people other than the clergy and eachother. Were he not ill, you would have run away together to be normal men. He talks about a house on a beach with a dog. He'd spend his days transcribing texts as all he knew to do was repeat other's words, you would work something simple and physical. A blacksmith or a farm hand pulling shellfish from the sand.

His father is still talking about the day Cadfael would enter the throne room and kill you.

You're twenty-six. He's been getting sicker and sicker. His weakness growing, your blood doing less and less to heal him. He breaks down sobbing in front of the beggars. All his father would say was that the time for Cadfael to ascend to the throne drew near.

Cadfael would die soon. The line of succession would be broken, their god left without a host when it's current body finished rotting away. For his people's sake he had to fulfill his and your's purposes.

He crawls, he can't stand, to his brother's feet. His hands cupped in preyer to their father as he begs to just be healed. It has healed so many others. Why can't it just heal him? Why does he have to die young without having ever gotten to live a life as anything but a mouthpiece for the monster behind the throne room doors?

his father answers him, and he cries how unfair it all is.

He refuses. He demands you take him to your shared room. You carry him, he hasn't walked on his own in months.

You're twenty-seven. He can't sit up anymore. He looks like a corpse in your bed as he rambles for you to transcribe his sacrilegious plan. His father's words slip out between his sentences. It begs you with his mouth to bring him to ignore his desires. To carry him to the throne room and fulfill your purpose. Save it. Save it. Save it. Its son's plan will be its slow death.

The plan is completed, the recipe is engrained in your mind.

You carry him to the throne room. He feels like air in your arms. His skin stretched tight against his bones. His hair thin and stringy. his eyes glazed. The blankets you wrapped around him in a desperate attempt to keep him warm must weigh more than him.

The doors open for you both. You see the king for the first time. Your not-brother still lays at its feet. He didn't have a name either. You place your purpose beside the throne. his father turns its rotten head to watch you as you clear away your not-brother's bones. The dry flesh that still stuck them flaked like snow as you piled them amongst the bones of countless kings and queens and their beloved bonds.

Cadfael speaks for the first time in days. It's his father wasting his limited energy to beg you spare it. Cadfael is just one man, as are you. To do as he asks would lead to the deaths of countless others. This world needs it more than it needs either of you. Its blessings. Its protection.

You draw your knife, identical to the ones that had been used within this room countless times. And fulfilled your purpose.

You killed for your prince. Cutting the king open to spill its milk white blood, its entrails pulled from it like it were a simple animal being cleaned for consumption. its heart pulled from its chest. It beat in your hand. a tangled knot of bright light.

you took the bag of prepared components from where they were tucked against your purpose's chest. He only needed a sliver off the king's heart. He swore that once they were done it could be returned to the king without a single soul having to suffer for this misdeed.

You carved off what he needed, placed it within the bag, and returned the heart to its host. Within seconds its innards engulfed it and pulled it back through the gash in its abdomen. Your prince was right. he almost always was.

When you return to him he fights to hold out his bone thin arms to you. The cure needed blood. He is so weak and frail and blinded by his sickness that all you have to do is run the dull side of your blade against his wrists to trick him into believing he's been cut. You hold his hand as you slash your own arm open. You've already devoted so much of your blood to him, what's a little more? You couldn't bare the idea of bleeding him.

He intones the spell, his voice weak.

when it is done the bag glows with his cure. Your hands shake, the constant stream of your life pouring over the bag had drained you of so much energy. You bring the cure to his lips and he takes it from you like he had taken the countless tiny pieces of food you had managed to feed him these last few years.

You wipe your blood from his face as he goes still.

You tend your own wound before picking him up and carrying him from that place. The clergy shriek at you for what you've done. Not a single one will dare draw near you and your prince.

He sleeps for weeks. Your wound scabs, then scars.

When he wakes his eyes are clear. He smiles at you. He tells you his father is furious with you both with a grin so giddy that you can't stop yourself kissing it from his lips. He's still so weak. but his sickness is gone.

He learns to walk again, though he can never go more than a few steps. He eats his fill. He gains his weight back. Every night you hold him through he feels like a different man. His bones covered once more, his skin holds warmth his smile bright and alive and him.

You're twenty-nine when he demands time away from you for the first time since you killed a man for him.

He locks himself in the spare room that has become his study. Leaving only when he was requested in the preyer hall to speak for the father that still needed him.

Days pass, and when he comes to you again he demands to know if you trust him. Of course you do.

He feeds you the second dose of his remedy. Your blood feels on fire. when you wake from what felt like the pits of hell he told you you would never die. Never age. Never grow ill. It was your reward, he says, for all your years of service to him. He tells you to flee, or to stay beside him for the rest of the unnatural lives you have carved off of God for yourselves. You tell him to stop wasting his breath on asking you leave his side.

You're thirty when word spreads of what you and he have done. The beggar's in the prayer hall plead not with the king, or the younger prince but with the traitor behind him. Their god would leave them to die- Cadfael can save them. Cadfael can heal the sickest of the sick. Cure all disease.

The man who once dreaded that he would be hated by his people for accepting their blood as a cure to his ailment bled himself near to death as he made panacea after panacea. Each one using a tiny sliver of his father's heart. Each one promising a lifetime of health.

The healed sleep fitfully for weeks in the palace infirmary. Their skin darkening with burns as they whimper and scream in their sleep, before turning to flaking white ash in the hours before they woke up shrieking their agony. Smoke poured from them as they burned alive.

Their screams never ceasing. They can't die. They just keep burning.

Cadfael doesn't know what he's done wrong- The fires spread. He's never used his father's gifted magic. Never dared to invite that parasite further into his body. In that moment it fails him completely.

Instead it's something unholy and rotting, his cure still buried I'm his gut, that makes the room flood with water.

The burnt still writhe. He orders the halls cleared. The dungeon emptied. He can do nothing with his workspace flooded. The burning need to be kept doused and drowned while he fixes what he's done.

He doesn't know what went wrong. He spends weeks going over every step. He interrogates you. Your blood burns, but the flames never engulf You- Why? Why why why?

He tries fix after fix. Prisoners are brought in and used as guinea pigs. He has to fix what he's done. The fires grow, the dungeon has turned into an endlessly boiling cave lake. The burned scream. He swears he can hear them from the other side of the castle.

He stops eating again. He doesn't have time. He has to fix what he's done. You watch him regress. The fire that was Cadfael turns from that of a hearth to that of an inferno. He loses himself in his studies. Piece by piece as the obsession consumes him like the tides steal sinking ships.

He doesn't burn. Why doesn't he burn? It's cold water that fills him. It has nothing to do with his place as prince- All the ingredients were the same. Why was he spared? Why were you? His father refuses to answer his questions.

This is what the king warned them would happen. Two lives saved and countless others ruined.

You watch him change. His obsession makes him ruthless. A few more test subjects- that's all it'll take and then they will all be saved.

The beggars stop coming to pray to him. Fear spreads. The prince has gone mad.

You watch him lose all he weight he managed to game back. He becomes weak as hes too engrossed in his studies to eat. You try to discourage him, to bring him back. He banishes you from his study and doesn't emerge for days.

He smells like rot when he does. Wild eyed and barely able to stand as exhaustion finally drives him to crawl back to your shared room. He sleeps in your bed. He hasn't slept in his own in years. Even now it doesn't occur to you to take his instead of laying beside him.

You're thirty-two when the rebellions begin.

Thirty three when you join as an Informant. Cadfael is so busy with his fruitless searching that you can come and go without notice.

Thirty-four when the palace is stormed.

You knew the plans of the rebellion ahead of time. Your work with them being what would be your purpose's salvation.

He never wanted to be prince.

In the fear and panic you break away from the plan. You take him by his hand and lead him down the paths you never told the rebels of. Deep beneath the castle, in the cisterns that had been drained to flood the lowest floors in an attempt to contain the ever growing number of burned. Your exit is close. You'll go somewhere on the coast. Strangers in a new town who fled to escape the turmoil in the city. No one will know it's the mad prince who walks with you.

Cadfael follows. You tell him your plan and he kisses you. It's perfect. On a coast he would have an entire ocean at his disposal to continue his work with.

The burned kept safe until he could fix what he's done. His research conducted in secret.

His research continued.

You were five years old when you were given a knife and told your purpose. Protect and serve and love the holy prince.

Cadfael, the boy, the man, the prince, the brilliant, is dead. You realize that he has been for a very long time.

The monster before you killed him and wears his skin.

He's facing away from you, that head of bright red hair bleached white, the skin across the sliver of exposed neck the color of fine marble instead of warm pallor.

You were never supposed to see him consumed by the King like this.

His blood is cold when it pours over your hand. Your blade piercing the thin muscle just below his shoulder blade and delving between the ribs you used to count while you held him.

He gasps. you burry you face in the crook of his neck. He smells like rot and ashes. He feels like your prince long dead as you hold him through those final moments.

You're lauded as a hero when the resistance fighters find you still holding him in the bowels of the place always meant to be your mausoleum.

They pull you from him, and his spell finally breaks. His rotten body disovels into a flood like his experiments always turned to flame.

[premamelody]

like theyre like siblings part 2 for me

explaination or smth

[tealgoat]

Fritters part 1! Dialogue by @wonder-of-the-stars !!!

Silly lil comic notes under line break

Page 1

-Added loops to loops speech bubbles because it's funny

-Odile's loops, do in fact, start on a Wednesday lolol

-The lil sketchy marks around Loop's neck and wrists are meant to imply a gradient/ they're in a weird it's clothes but also still skin phase.

Page 2

Loops hands out pose is supposed to mimic some of odile's in game sprites

Page 3

-Can you tell I've been reading dungeon meshi

-Fun fact I just used the initial thumbnail sketch I did for the fritters instead of cleaning up the sketch, I think it makes food look more natural/ better (in my style at least!!)

Page 4

-Tilted triangle panel was inspired by wonder! Thank you wonder

-Even angry loops still partially doing odile's hand pose

-Last 2 odile panels can be connected

-Random thing but I was struggling with that odile pose so much I just traced an old pic I did of loop lol (hey accidental parallels or whatever)

-This ones silly but with the last panel I thought it might be fun to have the gem Odile changes into a star post game in the frame- it's "something different" lol foreshadowing

Page 5

-I wanted to frame it as loop not directly being shown giving the peppers back/ still having the bag- do they give it back to her off screen? Let the peppers just sit there tauntingly refusing to eat them? Do they eat them when she leaves? Up to you!

-Loops pose is directly referencing one of their in game poses

Page 6

-Another in game pose

-Time has passed! This is the same day

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev appearance descriptions masterpost

Jean-Paul Marat — In Histoire de la Révolution française: 1789-1796 (1851) Nicolas Villiaumé pins down Marat’s height to four pieds and eight pouces (around 157 cm). This is a somewhat dubious claim considering Villiaumé was born 26 years after Marat’s death and therefore hardly could have measured him himself, but we do know he had had contacts with Marat’s sister Albertine, so maybe there’s still something to this. That Marat was short is however not something Villaumé is alone in claiming. Brissot wrote in his memoirs that he was ”the size of a sapajou,” the pamphlet Bordel patriotique (1791) claimed that he had ”such a sad face, such an unattractive height,” while John Moore in A Journal During a Residence in France, From the Beginning of August, to the Middle of December, 1792 (1793) documented that ”Marat is little man, of a cadaverous complexion, and a countenance exceedingly expressive of his disposition. […] The only artifice he uses in favour of his looks is that of wearing a round hat, so far pulled down before as to hide a great part of his countenance.” In Portrait de Marat (1793) Fabre d’Eglantine left the following very detailed description: ”Marat was short of stature, scarcely five feet high. He was nevertheless of a firm, thick-set figure, without being stout. His shoulders and chest were broad, the lower part of his body thin, thigh short and thick, legs bowed, and strong arms, which he employed with great vigor and grace. Upon a rather short neck he carried a head of a very pronounced character. He had a large and bony face, aquiline nose, flat and slightly depressed, the under part of the nose prominent; the mouth medium-sized and curled at one corner by a frequent contraction; the lips were thin, the forehead large, the eyes of a yellowish grey color, spirited, animated, piercing, clear, naturally soft and ever gracious and with a confident look; the eyebrows thin, the complexion thick and skin withered, chin unshaven, hair brown and neglected. He was accustomed to walk with head erect, straight and thrown back, with a measured stride that kept time with the movement of his hips. His ordinary carriage was with his two arms firmly crossed upon his chest. In speaking in society he always appeared much agitated, and almost invariably ended the expression of a sentiment by a movement of the foot, which he thrust rapidly forward, stamping it at the same time on the ground, and then rising on tiptoe, as though to lift his short stature to the height of his opinion. The tone of his voice was thin, sonorous, slightly hoarse, and of a ringing quality. A defect of the tongue rendered it difficult for him to pronounce clearly the letters c and l, to which he was accustomed to give the sound g. There was no other perceptible peculiarity except a rather heavy manner of utterance; but the beauty of his thought, the fullness of his eloquence, the simplicity of his elocution, and the point of his speeches absolutely effaced the maxillary heaviness. At the tribune, if he rose without obstacle or excitement, he stood with assurance and dignity, his right hand upon his hip, his left arm extended upon the desk in front of him, his head thrown back, turned toward his audience at three-quarters, and a little inclined toward his right shoulder. If on the contrary he had to vanquish at the tribune the shrieking of chicanery and bad faith or the despotism of the president, he awaited the reéstablishment of order in silence and resuming his speech with firmness, he adopted a bold attitude, his arms crossed diagonally upon his chest, his figure bent forward toward the left. His face and his look at such times acquired an almost sardonic character, which was not belied by the cynicism of his speech. He dressed in a careless manner: indeed, his negligence in this respect announced a complete neglect of the conventions of custom and of taste and, one might almost say, gave him an air of ressemblance.”

Albertine Marat — both Alphonse Ésquiros and François-Vincent Raspail who each interviewed Albertine in her old age, as well as Albertine’s obituary (1841) noted a striking similarity in apperance between her and her older brother. Esquiros added that she had ”two black and piercing eyes.” A neighbor of Albertine claimed in 1847 that she had ”the face of a man,” and that she had told her that ”my comrades were never jealous of me, I was too ugly for that” (cited in Marat et ses calomniateurs ou Réfutation de l’Histoire des Girondins de Lamartine (1847) by Constant Hilbe) 

Simonne Evrard — An official minute from July 1792, written shortly after Marat’s death, affirmed the following: “Height: 1m, 62, brown hair and eyebrows, ordinary forehead, aquiline nose, brown eyes, large mouth, oval face.” The minute for her interrogation instead says: “grey eyes, average mouth.”Cited in this article by marat-jean-paul.org. When a neighbor was asked whether Simonne was pretty or not around two decades after her death in 1824, she responded that she was ”très-bien” and possessed ”an angelic sweetness” (cited in Marat et ses calomniateurs ou Réfutation de l’Histoire des Girondins de Lamartine (1847) by Constant Hilbe) while Joseph Souberbielle instead claimed that ”she was extremely plain and could never have had any good looks.”

Maximilien Robespierre — The hostile pampleth Vie secrette, politique et curieuse de M. J Maximilien Robespierre… released shortly after thermidor by L. Duperron, specifies Robespierre’s hight to have been ”five pieds and two or three pouces” (between 165 and 170 cm). He gets described as being ”of mediocre hight” by his former teacher Liévin-Bonaventure Proyart in 1795, ”a little below average height” by journalist Galart de Montjoie in 1795, ”of medium hight” by the former Convention deputy Antoine-Claire Thibaudeau in 1830 and ”of middling form” by his sister in 1834, but ”of small size” by John Moore in 1792 and Claude François Beaulieu in 1824. The 1792 pampleth Le véritable portrait de nos législateurs… wrote that Robespierre lacked ”an imposing physique, a body à la Danton,”supported by Joseph Fiévée who described him as ”small and frail” in 1836, and Louis Marie de La Révellière who said he was ”a physically puny man” in his memoirs published 1895. For his face, both François Guérin (on a note written below a sketch in 1791), Buzot in his Mémoires sur la Révolution française (written 1794), Germaine de Staël in her Considerations on the Principal Events of the French Revolution (1818), a foreign visitor by the name of Reichardt in 1792 (cited in Robespierre by J.M Thompson), Beaulieu and La Révellière-Lépeaux all agreed that he had a ”pale complexion.” Charlotte does instead describe it as ”delicate” and writes that Maximilien’s face ”breathed sweetness and goodwill, but it was not as regularly handsome as that of his brother,” while Proyart claims his apperance was ”entirely commonplace.” The foreigner Reichardt wrote Robespierre had ”flattened, almost crushed in, features,” something which Proyart agrees with, writing that his ”very flat features” consisted of ”a rather small head born on broad shoulders, a round face, an indifferent pock-marked complexion, a livid hue [and] a small round nose.” Thibaudeau writes Robespierre had a ”thin face and cold physiognomy, bilious complexion and false look,” Duperron that ”his colouring was livid, bilious;  his eyes gloomy and dull,” something which Stanislas Fréron in Notes sur Robespierre (1794) also agrees with, claiming that ”Robespierre was choked with bile. His yellow eyes and complexion showed it.” His eyes were however green according to Merlin de Thionville and Guérin while Proyart insists they were ”pale blue and slightly sunken.”  Etienne Dumont, who claimed to have talked to Robespierre twice, wrote in his Souvernirs sur Mirabeau et sur les deux premières assemblées législatives (1832) that ”he had a sinister appearance; he would not look people in the face, and blinked continually and painfully,” and Duperron too insists on ”a frequent flickering of the eyelids.” Both Fréron, Buzot, Merlin de Thionville, La Révellière, Louis Sébastien Mercier in his Le Nouveau Paris (1797) and Beffroy de Reigny in Dictionnaire néologique des hommes et des choses ou notice alphabétique des hommes de la Révolution, qui ont paru à l’Auteur les plus dignes d’attention… (1799) made the peculiar claim that Robespierre’s face was similar to that of a cat. Proyart, Beaulieu and Millingen all wrote that it was marked by smallpox scars, ”mediocretly” according to Proyart, ”deeply” according to the other two. Proyart also writes that Robespierre’s hair was light brown (châtain-blond). He is the only one to have described his hair color as far as I’m aware. 

For his clothes, both Montjoie, Louis-Sébastien Mercier in 1801, Helen Maria Williams in 1795, Duperron, Millingen and Fiévée recall the fact that Robespierre wore glasses, the first two claiming he never appeared in public without them, Duperron that he ”almost always” wore them, and Millingen that they were green. Pierre Villiers, who claimed to have served as Robespierre’s secretary in 1790, recalled in Souvenirs d'un deporté (1802) that Robespierre ”was very frugal, fastidiously clean in his clothes, I could almost say in his one coat, which was was of a dark olive colour,” but also that ”He was very poor and had not even proper clothes,” and even had to borrow a suit from a friend at one point. Duperron records that ”[Robespierre’s] clothes were elegant, his hair always neat,” Millingen that ”his dress was careful, and I recollect that he wore a frill and ruffles, that seemed to me of valuable lace,”Charlotte that ”his dress was of an extreme cleanliness without fastidiousness,” Williams that he ”always appeared not only dressed with neatness, but with some degree of elegance, and while he called himself the leader of the sans-culottes, never adopted the costume of his band. His hideous countenance […] was decorated with hair carefully arranged and nicely powdered,” Fiévée that Robespierre in 1793 was ”almost alone in having retained the costume and hairstyle in use before the Revolution,” something which made him ressemble ”a tailor from the Ancien régime,” Thibadeau that ”he was neat in his clothes, and he had kept the powder when no one wore it anymore,” Germaine de Staël that ”he was the only person who wore powder in his hair; his clothes were neat, and his countenance nothing familiar,” Révellière writes that Robespierre’s voice was ”toneless, monotonous and harsh,” Beaulieu that it ”was sharp and shrill, almost always in tune with violence,” and  Thinadeau that his ”tone” was ”dogmatic and imperious.”

Augustin Robespierre — described as ”big, well formed, and [with a] face full of nobility and beauty” in the memoirs of his sister Charlotte. Charles Nodier did in Souvenirs, épisodes et portraits pour servir à l'histoire de la Révolution et de l'Empire (1831) recall that Augustin had a ”pale and macerated physiognomy” and a quite monotonous voice.

Charlotte Robespierre — an anonymous doctor who claimed to have run into Charlotte in 1833, the year before her death, described her as ”very thin.” Jules Simon, who reported to have met her the following year, did him too describe her as ”a very thin woman, very upright in her small frame, dressed in the antique style with very puritanical cleanliness.”

Camille Desmoulins — described as ”quite tall, with good shoulders” in number 16 of the hostile journal Chronique du Manège (1790). Described as ugly by both said journal, the journal Journal Général de la Cour et de la Ville in 1791, his friend François Suleau in 1791, former teacher Proyart in 1795, Galart de Montjoie in 1796, Georges Duval in 1841, Amandine Rolland in 1864 (she does however add that it was ”with that witty and animated ugliness that pleases”) and even himself in 1793. Proyart describes his complexion as ”black,” Duval as ”bilious.” Both of them agree in calling his eyes ”sinister.” Duval also claims that Desmoulins’ physiognomy was similar to that of an ospray. Montjoie writes that Desmoulins had ”a difficult pronunciation, a hard voice, no oratorical talent,” Proyart that ”he spoke very heavily and stammered in speech” and Camille himself that he has ”difficulty in pronunciation” in a letter dated March 1787, and confesses ”the feebleness of my voice and my slight oratorical powers” in number 4 of the Vieux Cordelier. In his very last letter to his wife, dated April 1 1794, Desmoulins reveals that he wears glasses.

Lucile Desmoulins — The concierge at the Sainte-Pélagie prison documented the following when Lucille was brought before him on April 4 1794: ”height of five pieds and one and a half pouce (166 cm). Brown hair, eyebrows and eyes. Middle sized nose and mouth. Round face and chin. Ordinary front. A mark above the chin on the right.” Cited in Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république (2018). Described as beautiful by the journal Journal Général de la Cour et de la Ville in 1791 (it specifies her to be ”as pretty as her husband is ugly”), former Convention deputy Pierre Paganel in 1815, Louis Marie Prudhomme in 1830, Amandine Rolland in 1864 and Théodore de Lameth (memoirs published 1913).

Georges Danton — Described as having an ugly face by both Manon Roland in 1793, Vadier in 1794, the anonymous pamphlet Histoire, caractère de Maximilien Robespierre et anecdotes sur ses successeurs in 1794, Louis-Sébastien Mercier in 1797, Antoine Fantin-Desodoards in 1807, John Gideon Millingen in 1848, Élisabeth Duplay Lebas in the 1840s, the memoirs (1860) of François-René Chateaubriand (he specifies that Danton had ”the face of a gendarme mixed with that of a lustful and cruel prosecutor”) as well as the Mémoires de la Societé d’agriculture, commerce, sciences et arts du department de la Marse, Chalons-sur-Marne (1862). As reason for this ugliness, Millingen lifts his ”course, shaggy hair” (that apparently gave him the apperance of a ”wild beast”), the fact he was deeply marked with small-poxes, and that his eyes were unusually small (”and sparkling in surrounding darkness”), while Chateaubriand instead underlines that he was ”snub-nosed,” with ”windy nostrils [and] seamed flats.” Mercier writes that Danton’s face was ”hideously crushed.” The former Convention deputy Alexandre Rousselin (1774-1847) reported in his Danton — Fragment Historique that Danton developed a lip deformity after getting gored by a bull as a baby, had his nose crushed by another bull, got trampled in the face by a group of pigs and finally survived ”a very serious case of smallpoxes, accompanied by purpura.” In 1792, John Moore reported that ”Danton is not so tall, but much broader than Roland; his form is coarse and uncommonly robust,” while Vadier claims that Danton possessed a ”robust form, colossal eloquence,” the anonymous pamphlet that ”he was very strong, he said himself that he had athletic forms,” Desodoards that he ”held the nature of athletic and colossal forms,” Chateaubriand that he was ”a vandal in the size of Goth” (don’t know who he’s referring to), Pierre Paganel (in Essai historique et critique sur la révolution française: ses causes, ses résultats, avec les portraits des hommes les plus célèbres (1815)) that he was of an ”enormous stature,” while the pamphlet described him as a ”gigantic orator” whose voice ”shook the vaults of the hall.” René Levasseur in 1829, John Moore, Millingen, Paganel and Desodoards all agreed with this, the first four writing that Danton possessed a ”stentorian voice,” the latter that he had ”a very strong voice, without being sonorous or flexible.” In her memoirs (1834) Charlotte Robespierre claims that ”[Danton] did not at all conserve the dignity suited to the representative of a great people in his manners; his toilette was in disorder.”

Louis Antoine Saint-Just — In Saint-Just (1985) Bernard Vinot writes that Saint-Just’s childhood friend Augustin Lejeune recalled his “honest physiognomy,” and that his sister Louise would evoke her brother’s ”great beauty” for her grandchildren (I unfortunately can’t find the original sources here). The elderly Élisabeth Le Bas too stated that ”he was handsome, Saint-Just, with his pensive face, on which one saw the greatest energy, tempered by an air of indefinable gentleness and candor” (testimony found in Les Carnets de David d’Angers (1838-1855) by Pierre-Jean David d’Angers, cited in Veuve de Thermidor: le rôle et l'influence d'Élisabeth Duplay-Le Bas (1772-1859) sur la mémoire et l'historiographie de la Révolution française (2023) by Jolène Audrey Bureau, page 127). In Souvenirs de la révolution et de l’empire, Charles Nodier (who was twelve years old when he met Saint-Just…) agrees in calling him ”handsome,” but adds that he ”was far from offering this graceful combination of cute features with which we have seen it endowed by the euphemistic pencil of a lithograph,” had an ”ample and rather disproportionate chin,” that ”the arc of his eyebrows, instead of rounding into smooth and regular semi-circles, was closer to a straight line, and its interior angles, which were bushy and severe, merged into one another at the slightest serious thought that one saw pass on his forehead” and finally that ”his soft and fleshy lips indicated an almost invincible inclination to laziness and voluptuousness.” How would you know what his lips were like, Nodier. In Essai historique et critique sur la révolution française (1815) Pierre Paganel writes that Saint-Just had ”regular features and austere physiognomy.” He describes his complexion as ”bilious” while Nodier calls it ”pale and grayish, like that of most of the active men of the revolution.” Similar to Élisabeth’s description, Nodier writes that Saint-Just’s eyes were big and ”usually thoughtful,” while Paganel instead writes they were ”small and lively.” Saint-Just was of ”average height” according to Paganel, but ”of small stature” according to Nodier. According to Paganel, Saint-Just had a ”healthy body [and] proportions which expressed strength,” while Saint-Just’s colleague Levasseur de la Sarthe instead wrote in his memoirs that he was ”weak in body, to the point of fearing the whistling of bullets.” Finally, Paganel also gives the following details: ”large head, thick hair, disdainful gaze, strong but veiled voice, a general tinge of anxiety, the dark accent of concern and distrust, an extreme coldness in tone and manners.” In Lettre de Camille Desmoulins, député de Paris à la Convention, August général Dillon en prison aux Madelonettes (1793) Desmoulins jokingly writes that ”one can see by [Saint-Just’s] gait and bearing that he looks upon his own head as the corner-stone of the Revolution, for he carries it upon his shoulders with as much respect and as if it was the Sacred Host.” In Histoire de la Révolution française(1878), Jules Michelet claims that Élisabeth Le Bas had told him that this portrait, depicting Saint-Just as having ”a very low forehead, [with] the top of his head flattened, so that his hair, without being long, almost touched his eyes,” was similar to what he had looked like.

Jacques-Pierre Brissot — The following was documented after Brissot had been arrested at Moulins on June 10 1793 — ”height of five pieds (162 cm), a small amount of flat dark brown hair, eyebrows of the same color, high forehead and receding hairline, gray-brown, quite large and covered eyes, long and not very large nose, average mouth, long chin with a dimple, black beard, oval face narrow at the bottom” (cited in J.-P. Brissot mémoires (1754-1793); [suivi de] correspondance et papiers (1912)). In Journal During a Residence in France, from the Beginning of August, to the Middle of December, 1792 John Moore described Brissot as ”a little man, of an intelligent countenance, but of a weakly frame of body” and claimed that a person had told him that Brissot had told him that he is ”of so feeble a constitution” that he won’t be able to put up any resistance was someone try to assassinate him.

Jérôme Pétion — described as ”big and fat” (grand et gros) by Louis-Philippe in 1850 (cited in The Croker Papers: the Correspondence and Diaries of the late right honourable John Wilson Croker… (1885) volume 3, page 209). Manon Roland wrote in her memoirs that Pétion ”had nothing to regret physically; his size, his face, his gentleness, his urbanity, speak in his favor” as well as that he ”spoke fairly well,” a descriptions which Louis Marie Prudhomme partly agreed with, himself recording that Pétion ”had a proud countenance, a fairly handsome face, an affable look, a gentle eloquence, movements of talent and address; but his manners were composed, his eyes were dull, and he had something glistening in his features which repelled confidence” in Paris pendant le révolution (1789-1798) ou le nouveau Paris (1798). In Quelques notices pour l’histoire, et le récit de mes périls depuis le 31 mai 1793 (1794) Jean-Baptiste Louvet reported that, while on the run from the authorities after the insurrection of May 31, the less than forty years old Pétion already had a white hair and beard. This is confirmed by Frédéric Vaultier, who in Souvenirs de l'insurrection Normande, dite du Fédéralisme, en 1793 (1858) described Pétion during the same period as ”a good-looking man, with a calm and open physiognomy and beautiful white hair,” as well as by the examination of his mangled courpse on June 26 1794, which states he had ”grayish hair” (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées (1872) by Charles Vatel, volume 2, page 154.

François Buzot — according to the memoirs (1793) of Manon Roland, he had ”a noble figure and elegant size.” In the examination made of Buzot’s body after the suicide there is to read that he had black hair (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées (1872) by Charles Vatel, volume 2, page 153)

Charles Barbaroux — his son wrote in Jeunesse de Barbaroux (1822) that ”nature had richly endowed Barbaroux; a robust and large body; a charming, fine and witty physiognomy.” In 1867, François Laprade, who had witnessed Barbaroux’ execution as a thirteen year old, recollected that ”he was a brown man - that is to say he had brownish skin, black hair and beard, reclining figure” (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées, volume 3, page 728)

Marguerite-Élie Guadet — According to his passport (cited in Charlotte de Corday et les Girondins: pièces classées et annotées, volume 3, page 672): ”height of 5 pieds, 5 pouces (176 cm) middle sized mouth, black hair and eyebrows, ordinary chin, blue eyes, big forehead, thin face, upturned nose.” According to Frédéric Vaultier’s Souvenirs de l'insurrection Normande, dite du Fédéralisme, en 1793(1858), ”Guadet was a man of fine height, meagre, brown, bilious complexion, black beard, most expressive face.”

Joseph Le Bon — his passport description (cited in Louis Jacob, Joseph Le Bon, (1932) by Louis Jacob, volume 1, page 63) gives the following information: ”Height of five pieds six pouces (178 cm), light brown hair and eyebrows, high forehead, average nose, blue eyes, medium-sized mouth, smallpox scars.”

Claire Lacombe — the concierge of the Sainte Pélagie documented the following about the imprisoned Lacombe: ”height of 5 pieds, 2 pouces (168 cm). Brown hair, eyebrows and eyes, medium nose, large mouth, round face and chin, plain forehead” (cited in Trois femmes de la Révolution : Olymps de Gouges, Théroigne de Méricourt, Rose Lacombe (1900) by Léopold Lacour)

Charlotte Corday — according to her passport, ”height of five pieds one pouce (165 cm), brown hair and eyebrows, gray eyes, high forehead, long nose, medium mouth, round, forked (fourchu) chin, oval face.” (cited in Dossiers du procès criminel de Charlotte Corday, devant le Tribunal révolutionnaire(1861) by Charles-Joseph Vatel, page 55)

Prieur de la Marne — a passport dated October 1 1793 gives the following details: ”age of 37 years, height of 5 pieds 5 pouces (176 cm), blondish brown hair and eyebrows, receding hairline, long nose, grey eyes, large mouth.”

Maurice Duplay — ”height of 5 pieds 6 pouces (179 cm), blondish brown hair and eyebrows, receding hairline, grey eyes, long, open nose, large mouth, round, full chin and face.” Descriptions given in 1795 and cited in Les deniers montagnards (1874) by Jules Claretie.

Jean Lambert Tallien — Both a spy report written in 1794 found among Robespierre’s papers and Mme de la Tour du Pin, a noblewoman who met Tallien in late 1793, describe Tallien’s hair as blonde. Mme de la Tour du Pin adds that said hair was curly and that he had a pretty face.

[spaceshipellie]

sitting pretty

gamer!ellie x reader

summary: you’re desperate for ellie to touch you but she’s too busy playing video games, so you compromise.

warnings: dom!ellie, sub!reader, use of strap (r receiving), reader’s wearing a skirt, strap/cockwarming, thigh riding, consensual videoing, 18+ MDNI

author’s note: so my lovely @lonelyfooryouonly made this SCRUMPTIOUSLY FERAL PIECE OF ART of ellie!! ellie in a hoodie and beanie makes me wanna do unhinged things so ofc i had to write something inspired by it.. thanks loony babe 🌷💋

˚ · • . ° .

you were lying on your bed in the apartment you shared with your girlfriend, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. your thumb flicking between the same three apps, barely paying attention to anything you were actually doing.

that familiar feeling was happening between your legs and you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for some release. what you really needed was your girlfriend but she was busy playing video games in the other room when she should be busy with you.

you reached your hand down and applied some pressure on your underwear, a tiny whimper escaping your lips. you rubbed a few slow circles before giving up. your fingers just weren’t the same. swinging your legs off the bed, you shuffled over to the door of the room where she was. it was open slightly and you could see her sat slumped in the massive chair, hands resting on her lower stomach with the controller. her knees were parted, one leg bouncing as she concentrated on the screen. the sight of her alone made you wanna come.

you snuck through the door, hoping she’d turn and look at you but she didn’t. she just kept playing as if she didn’t even know you were there.

you watched, almost falling into a trance, as her skilled fingers repeatedly pressed buttons and swivelled the joystick. you went up behind her chair and put your hands on her shoulders, resting your chin on top of her head.

“you okay, babe?” she deadpanned.

“ellie,” you dragged her name out a bit.

“what?”

“can you stop playing for a bit please?”

“why?”

you rolled your eyes.

“i miss you.”

“i’m right here.”

“no, i mean…” surely she knew what you meant. either she was playing dumb or she just was dumb. either way, you weren’t giving up. you squeezed her shoulders harder.

“i mean i miss you.”

she paused her game and span the chair around so she was facing you. her fingers reached out to lazily play with the hem of your pleated skirt before she dropped her hand to her thigh.

“oh yeah?”

you nodded.

“well what do you want?”

you shifted on your feet. “you.”

she chuckled to herself. ���so cute. but i’m busy here, babe. can’t it wait?”

you groaned a little in annoyance.

“don’t pout.”

“i’m not pouting.”

“are you that desperate?”

you let out a frustrated, “yes.”

she smiled wickedly as she started to spin her chair back around to the screen.

“ellie, please.” you grabbed the top of the chair preventing her from turning it any further.

“tell me what you want then maybe i’ll do it.”

you huffed at the way she was making you work for it.

“can i sit in your lap? then you can still play.”

“is that all?” she saw right through you.

“fine. please can i sit on your strap?” you almost whispered, feeling embarrassed to ask but god, you wanted it so badly.

she laughed tauntingly again and flicked her eyes at the door.

“go get it then.”

you scampered off back to the bedroom, grabbing the pink strap. you took a second whilst your brain span wildly as you looked at the veins and ridges on it.

she watched as you eagerly bounced back into the room. she was very nonchalant as she held her hand out for it and put it on with ease. unzipping her jeans enough to be able to shove her hand around to get it on before resuming her slouched position in the chair. you moved forward towards her, your thighs bumping the side of hers. you suddenly felt a bit intimidated about taking the size of it. she looked up at you.

“need some help first?” her words might have been sweet but her tone was anything but. it was sadistic and mocking.

“yes.” your leg nudged hers.

with her hand closest to you, she reached under your skirt and pushed your underwear to the side, running a finger through your folds, teasingly letting it linger on your clit before pulling it away. the simple touch was enough to make you flinch and she snickered at how easy it was for her to make you like this. completely at her mercy.

she then pulled your underwear down and you kicked them off when they fell to your feet. she patted her thigh and waited for you to straddle it, whimpering as your clit came into contact with the rough material of her black jeans.

“happy?”

you nodded and she squeezed your thigh before directing her attention back to her game, both hands now on the controller and eyes glued to the screen, leaving you to fend for yourself.

you rocked your hips against her, revelling in the friction that was happening. ellie completely ignored you. it partly frustrated you but also turned you on to an impossible level. you knew you were probably in for a long night when she was like this and the thought made your insides twist.

you kept grinding on her, your hands stabilising yourself on her thigh in front of you, a couple fingers loosely gripping her hoodie. you kept eyeing the strap, desperately trying to get yourself to a point where you felt ready to take it. ellie didn’t seem to care how long it took you, she was fine occupying herself with the video game whilst you used her to get off. her eyes didn’t even glance over.

the sensation in your cunt suddenly heightened as you felt yourself about to come. your hand gripped her shoulder through her soft, thick hoodie. you sped up your pace ever so slightly as you felt the knot in your stomach unravel. your eyelids already felt heavy and your brain foggy so it made you jump slightly when you felt her hand glide up the outside of your thigh, dipping under your skirt. you looked at her but she was still looking at the screen. you buried your head in her shoulder.

“you done?” she said, her fingers brushing your skin. the first semi-attentive thing she’d done so far. you nodded your head against her shoulder. she tapped your thigh and you climbed off. putting her hand on the back of your thigh she encouraged you to straddle her lap.

you held onto her shoulders as you hovered above the strap which she held steady for you, the tip brushing against your clit before you tried to sink down on it. you moaned as you got past the tip. ellie watched your face intensely as you slowly lowered yourself, feeling the entire length fill you up and stretch you. you gasped at the sting mixed with pleasure and adjusted your hips to get comfortable. ellie’s hand rested on your thigh that was squashed against her own in the gaming chair.

“feeling better?” her head cocked sideways slightly as she looked at you.

“yes,” you mumbled, leaning your head back on her shoulder.

she adjusted in her seat slightly so she could see the screen clearly (and so she could fuck with you) and the slight movement from her hips caused you to clench. her arms wrapped around your waist as she resumed playing the game. she might have been acting to you like she didn’t care but she was loving this. her girl clinging to her because you’re just that needy.

she played for what felt like ages to you. occasionally you would wiggle or lift your hips slightly, whimpering at the warm feeling it caused deep inside. you couldn’t see but every time those pretty little noises left your mouth, ellie smirked to herself. the feeling of your body against her chest whilst you warmed her strap gave her the biggest ego boost.

thinking that you had been doing this long enough you started to pepper tiny kisses on her neck, moaning about how she was taking so long. she ignored you for a bit before you decided to gently graze your teeth on her skin to get her attention. she paused the game and turned her head to look at you.

“getting impatient?”

you nodded.

“i thought you wanted this,” she teased.

“i do but i need more, ellie, it’s been ages,” you said softly.

she lifted up your skirt to look at where you were wrapped around her, admiring the shine from the juices that had dripped down all over the base. she laughed.

“so fucking messy.”

she reached an arm around you to grab her phone from the desk and rolled the chair over a little to where there was a mirror leaning against the wall.

“look at yourself,” she instructed and with your back to the mirror, you turned your head over your shoulder to look at yourself in her lap. she gripped your ass, pushing the skirt up a little and used her hold to move you up and down a couple times slowly. you let out a strangled moan at the feeling and the sight of your pussy sliding up and down from behind. she gave your ass a little slap before setting you down again.

“you okay if i video it, baby?”

you nodded eagerly. she got her phone out and recorded the mirrors imagine of you slowly riding her dick. her other hand pushed the skirt up again so that she could get a clear view.

“fuck,” she breathed as she stopped recording and put her phone down. “look at you, so eager to please.”

you kept rolling your hips pathetically as she rested her arms on the arms of the chair, looking up at your face. she watched how your eyes pleaded with her to do more. to touch you. have her way with you. but she wanted to drag this out.

“please touch me,” you whined.

“no, do this yourself,” she smiled devilishly at you, “make yourself come on my cock.”

you groaned as your fingers dug deeper into her shoulders and you continued rolling your hips, your clit brushing up against the fabric of her hoodie. you started sloppily bouncing, your legs feeling too shaky to hold yourself up. the wet, sticky sounds that came from it were loud and humiliating.

“ellie, i can’t.”

“yes, you can.”

you pushed yourself through until you were coming undone around her. white, creamy cum dribbled out of you and down the strap onto her jeans. she finally put her hands on you for a second when she lifted the skirt up to look at the aftermath. she swiped a bit of your cum from her jeans and sucked it off her finger whilst holding eye contact with you.

“go and wait on the bed for me.”