#sorry for blurry resolution

[sketchsprite]

making my official tumblr return (and art return i kind of havent done art in over a year)

welcome to my psych fixation

[autistickaitovocaloid]

kaitostim

[insidiousclouds]

Okay, yep, fuckin love sai

[leclsrc]

wanna be nearer ✴︎ mv1

genre: 18+, fuck buddies ahhhaha, smut, porn w/o plot basically...

word count: 3.6k  

It seems every time you tell yourself to stop, Max comes back into your life and all sense of resolve crumbles. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by SO MANY PEOPLE i can't even start compiling all the asks hahah but if u asked for this here it is! writing's been tuff for me lately but this was the one thing i could continue daily (weird) also there is a case to be made re: max's hottest pictures being like 1 pixel in resolution... hope u all like it!!!

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, some vague sexting/a sex tape being watched, praise/dirty talk central, size kink, unprotected sex, handjob (f receiving), max being a meanie

It’s busy today. You haven’t seen him all day. 

To be fair, you weren’t necessarily looking—not at first, anyways. How many days had it been since the last time, now? The one in your hotel room? Almost two weeks, you think. The real answer’s blurry in your head, especially when you count the close calls, but this should be a record for you two at this point. Neither of you acknowledge that the only reason you’ve been so good at staying away from each other is because when you’re not roped into the same media junket, you avoid each other at all costs.

The media pen is full; everybody’s shoulder-to-shoulder because a few other networks bought their way into the space for the Singapore race. Right when your mind settles back into the focus of work, though—

“Here,” he says, his voice rough and tickling your ear. You nearly stumble forward, shocked at how his voice almost vibrates through you, a low trill that ripples top to bottom.

His hand settles at the small of your back, like his verbal confirmation wasn’t enough on its own; it’s big and his thumb rubs softly at the smooth strip of skin in-between your low skirt and your top. “Passing through.”

“Sure,” you say, dry. “Sorry.” You clear your throat and cant backwards into his touch—briefly, before you step forward and allow him to pass fully. Across you, Lissie looks up from her phone and you sense her trying to gauge why you’re so close to Max.

You blink and wait for him to disappear, wondering what you’ll tell her—how, more like. How the conversation even opens. How you’d phrase the truth, which in itself is a horribly grey area. Well, Lis, if you must know, Max and I have casual sex. A lot. It’s actually not very casual. We stopped now, but—yes, Max. That Max, yes. 

“What about Max?”

Your eyes snap upward and then to your left, where you can see Max’s figure disappearing into a crowd of engineers. They return to Lissie and you feign confusion to mask panic. “What?”

“You were spacing out and then suddenly said his name.” She presses the tip of her pen onto her chin, humming. She doesn’t look at you and you thank God for it—eye contact would’ve rattled the truth out of you in seconds.

“I…” You shake your head. “I was irritated with—I’ve been irritated with him all morning. It’s. Yeah.”

“Oh,” she says, nodding, looking away for a second but not pausing. “Oh, okay. D’you wanna go over this edit again?”

—

The stale air of his hotel room, alleviated only by the vaguely fragrant linen spray they use when he’s out, is what greets Max when he arrives in the afternoon.The first thing he does—the only task he’d even thought of en route here—after the door clicks shut is pull up his Messages app and type.

Just got to hotel. He tosses his phone onto the bed while he waits, tugs his cap off and rakes reckless fingers through his hair. His new stylist’s got him onto jeans that don’t “look painted on” (you once said, verbatim), but he’d rather die than lounge in denim, so he swaps them out for just his Calvins.

His mind’s lethargic, but even his version of lethargic is high-drive for others—his brain has the silly tendency to work in absolute overdrive. He itches for a drink and orders a Scotch on the telephone. He checks his phone, which is lying facedown still, and as soon as he picks it up it chimes with your reply.

OK, nice. Did u need something?

No, just wanted to let you know. He hits send, then adds another. You’re off @ 8?

Ended early, I’m in the car. He’s in the middle of drafting a response when you send a follow-up.

I thought we agreed no contact unless business

He scoffs out a dry laugh. Despite himself, he reads the text in your voice, his brain completing the image of the bossy tone with crossed arms and a wickedly arched brow. In response he types: Can’t even update a friend nowadays? I am very tired you know.

Rules are rules, he reads. Then, Get some rest.

Yeah. Got a drink.

I said rest, not drink. Even then he can hear the exasperation in your voice.

How was work? I hurt a muscle doing training. That’s why I’m at the hotel early.

Feel better soon, you send. Had some press stuff today. Boring shit

Yeah? I missed you today.

Really?

A lot. He hums and leans backward, lets his head settle into the pillow, the smell of the linen spray consuming his nostrils. He waits for his phone to buzz, vibrate softly on the hard surface of his chest. It does, after a few minutes, after he’s let his eyes shut and let himself rest them for a bit, after the room service comes knocking and gives him the Scotch he’d requested while ago.

He’s back sitting on his bed when it vibrates. He picks it up and reads: How much?

You’re awfully easy to rile up. He smiles around the rim of his glass—he knows exactly where this is heading. 

So much I think I’ll watch some videos of us.

The only caveat of casual sex as two people who essentially dislike each other is the fact that it’s all under wraps—which means if you two try to sneak off together, or are even caught in the same vicinity, people raise suspicions. And that means there are weeks where you barely get to fuck.

And that means you both grow antsy for it. He makes fun of you for being needy, when you’re tipsy and palming at the denim of his jeans or when you bend over when you know he’s looking. But the truth is he grows needy for it, too, craves you like you’re all that matters—he gets extra handsy, drops another innuendo when he knows you’re listening. There is a case to be made that he’s worse, in fact, because fans sometimes skirt around his words and wonder why he sounds so flirty when you’re the reporter in the room.

It was difficult but eventually he found a minor workaround: sometimes he films the two of you. There’s none of those propping his phone up kind of stuff, he just fishes for it in the middle of fucking you so he can store it for himself. It’s locked on his phone and he only has a few (the few has grown in number lately), but God it gives him release when he needs it and you’re not there.

I’ll call you when I’m at the lobby, comes the response. It’s always futile, the attempts to stay away from each other.

He pulls up the folder and lets his eyes skate over the thumbnails, squeezes himself through his boxers. Fuck. He can’t seem to decide what he wants to watch—the ones of you sucking him off, the ones of his fingers stretching you out. He recalls the whine in your voice in each of them, the pleads that escaped you for him to fuck you harder.

So Max, for the life of him, can’t even count how many times these videos have made him cum. But there’s one he hasn’t seen yet—the one he took the night before you two parted. You’d become extra needy on this night, preceding the season, he supposes, the separation. You already were anticipating the deprivation, starved for him more than usual. He’d have kissed you pretty, given you one orgasm after another and still you’d want more. And on this night it was you who asked him to film, you who wanted all of them on tape, so you’d both have something to tide you over until he got to fuck you again.

He pulls his cock out and strokes over it. And with his other hand, he presses his thumb on that video.

In it he’s fucking you in the dark, keeping the phone’s flashlight on your pussy as he sinks his cock into you. When he pulls back out the light reflects on the slick coating his dick, makes it glisten. It looks so wet, sounds so wet, with each thrust into you. He remembers just how it feels; he imagines that he’s back in your bed, fucking you again; that his fist is your pussy, and the spit lubricating it is the wetness that’s drooling out of you on camera.

He can see how tight you are—the way your pussy grips the shaft each time he pulls his cock out, greedy for him. Just like you.

The two of you were supposed to be quiet, too. You were at a hotel, your room beside another driver’s; you were supposed to be careful not to stir anyone. But your moans are louder than he remembers; so is the way you say, breathily, between gasps, Right there, Maxie, m’so close. Max inhales through his teeth, his cock throbbing at that—that Maxie, the cute little whimper out your mouth.

He strokes himself faster, watches the way your fingers slip into frame to rub at your clit, his thrusts getting sloppier and sloppier. He can see, hear—feel how wet you are, the sound of your cunt growing wetter with every thrust. He hears his own voice again, mutter out So good for me, yeah? And your babbled affirmation in response.

You cum hard, your slick getting everything wet and shiny and Max watches himself cum next. His dick’s already spurting when he pulls out and lets himself release on your lower stomach, some of it shooting onto your tits. He blinks, anchors himself back, quickens his wrist and digs his heels into the bed to keep himself from coming. Just a second longer. He knows what comes next and he needs to see it.

Like clockwork, he watches two of your fingers swipe through his cum, bringing them up to your lips. You blink up at the camera and smile. Quit it, your lips mouth, pink and cum-slick. Put it down, Maxie… fill me up again. He releases in weak spurts over his fist, a damp, flushed grunt escaping him as he does. He feels like the air’s been knocked out of him.

His phone rings and he presses it to his ear. “Hey, angel. Come on up.”

One week later

“Vodka,” you say to the bellboy when you get to the elevator. “To my hotel room. Very cold. Please. And thank you.”

The guy scurries off to fetch it for you, and five minutes and one elevator ride later, you're wrestling himself into your room, flexing your sore foot. Japan does hotel rooms well. The leather of your Manolo digs into your foot the way it does after you’ve walked the entire day and you can feel a blister forming on the back of your right heel but it doesn’t really matter, you guess, if you’re already home. Hotel-home, anyway.

You expect to find solace lounging on your bed, waiting out the hours to your morning briefing for the race and throw back a glass or two of vodka. 

Instead, you find Max on your couch. He’s sipping ice-cold vodka—your ice-cold vodka.

“Hey, pretty,” he says. “Good vodka. I got staff to wire my FIFA on the TV.”

You just stare. “My TV. What,” you say, your eyes spotting the bottle of frosty vodka by his glass, “are you doing here?”

“I hadn’t seen you all day and I wanted to,” he explains simply. “Do you want food or something?”

“Food? I—nevermind,” you shrug. You’re frozen by the door, only just warmed now from the cold air that bit at your bare legs. “Max, how long have you been here?”

“Since Will Buxton started the post-FP debrief,” he huffs. He fiddles with the remote in his grip and extends it to the TV, where FIFA comes to life. “Aw, come on, angel. I know, I know. No sex and all that. I just like your company, you know?”

“Please. Go fuck yourself,” you scoff, toeing off your shoes and wiping your hands on the fabric of your skirt. He says one thing but you expect another—it’s only natural, given all the other times one of you had failed to keep a similar promise. But still you walk yourself beside him, fix the strap of your short dress, and allow him to pour you a drink.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately?” He asks absently. “About how you’re always having these talks with me about… about not having sex anymore, but you never even last two days.” He raises you the glass. “What is it, relapsing?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter. “It’s only because you keep trying to get me all hot and bothered.” You recall each time: in Monaco, in Madrid, in France. “Maybe if you got off my back once in a while, we’d be back to normal.”

He shrugs. “You just don’t have strong resolve.”

“Excuse me?” You scoff, irritation scratching at your throat.

“Wanna test that out? Come play.”

Your eyes flit over to the bright screen, all exhaustion cleared from your system. An animated Kylian Mbappe kicks a football in a loop. “Fine. One round and you’re out of my room.” He throws his hands up in surrender and you make a move to sit next to him. Max puts his hands out towards you then, nodding. You mistake it for some handshake, accept them, and then he’s wrangle you onto his lap facing outward. You feel your pulse at your throat as he pulls you tight against him.

“This is cheating,” you say, your voice dry.

“You got it wrong. Teaching.”

He moves his fingers atop yours, explaining what to press, what goes where, what to do for this or that. He can smell your perfume, hear your stilted breaths, and when he peeks over your shoulder he can see where your dress falls loose, showing the lace of your bra and your tits underneath them.

If he had it his way, he’d hike your dress up and have you ride him. But he’s given you a challenge.

You play a practice round and end up scoring a few goals, fingers making quick work of the buttons. Behind you, Max watches, content, answering your questions when you ask them hurriedly—how do I do this? That? Did I just score?

You score once, then twice, then three times, and before you know it you’re scoring in quick succession. The game is fun—it’s easy. If Max was trying to give you a hard time, he failed. You grow determined, competitive within seconds (something he really should’ve anticipated), and you’re scoring goals with skill that you’d confidently say rivals Max’s.

Max. You almost—almost forget he’s there, and then you sit up straighter and you’re hit with the sensation of his dick pressing into your ass. You inhale sharply and the controller clatters to the floor.

“You okay, pretty?” His hand comes up to rest on your knee, inching closer and closer with every hitch of your breath. Your hand, now free of the controller, seizes his, stopping it right at the middle of your thigh. 

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look stressed.” He doesn’t move. “You were so close, too, weren’t you?” The score stares you right in the face: 4-5. “Maybe you just need to get your mind off it.” It’s so bullshit, so extremely obvious, but he’s right in your ear and his hand is so near where you’ve missed its presence.

You’re usually competitive. You can usually hold your ground. But with this and him—

“Maybe,” you breathe, loosening your grip. He spreads his legs, spreading yours in the process, and brings his hand closer, running slender fingers over the lace material of your underwear until you’re squirming. It grows damper the more he touches, your mouth hanging open with stunted whimpers.

“You always come back to me, schatz, don’t you,” he says, whispers against your ear. You wrench a moan out. “Remember the first time? You interviewed me in Abu Dhabi… you teased me the whole day and begged to come thrice in my room. The time in Monaco you touched yourself to me when I was in the next room. The time we almost hooked up in Miami…” He groans, to himself more than you. “You’re a dirty girl.” He’s curling two fingers inside of you now, grazing against the sweet spot pulls the most delicious moans out of your innocent mouth.

“Every time… you go, that was the last time.” While your mind recaps the memories he’s busy spelling into your ear, Max’s fingers are curling inside of you against that sweet spot just right, and your moans are getting louder and louder.

“Fuck,” he huffs, watching your flushed face get more and more euphoric.

“Aw, pretty, look at that,” Max laughs. He’s looking at your thighs, watching the way they tense and shake as his fingers stroke your g spot. Each pump and curl into your twitching pussy feels better and better, and your dripping walls are starting to clench around his fingers.

“Wait, I—I can’t,” you pant, lolling your head onto his shoulder and involuntarily bucking your hips upward. 

“Yeah you can,” he orders. “It’s so easy to get you to cum, isn’t it? Or is that just for me? The driver you hate the most?” He laughs. “Get all wet for the guy you couldn’t care less about. Say you hate me and get my dick nice and wet the next day.” You’re grinding onto his three fingers now, shameless with it.

“Are you gonna cum?” He asks.

“Oh,” you whine. “Yeah, fuck—yes.”

“Tell me what you’re gonna do,” he says wickedly. You can hear him smile.

“I’m gonna—please—I’m gonna cum,” you pant, tension coming to a halt and then bursting all at once out of you. His other arm holds your hips down against him, and you spend a minute and another twitching, your skin sticky with sweat and slick.

It’s not long before you’re whirled back to face him, your hands making quick work of his jeans. It’s a skill you’ve both mastered, the art of the quickie—in closets, hotel rooms, with sweaty, open-mouthed kisses pressed along the column of your throat, moans swallowed. 

He hikes your dress up and your panties to the side, immediately bullies his cock into you—the glide is slow, but easy. You’re so fucking wet.

“Fucking big,” you gasp out. “Jesus, Jesus—fuck.” Your head drops and presses against his; he uses the opportunity to kiss you. You moan into it, feeling the stretch, your slick wetness dragging down the length of him as he thrusts up, up, further. “Been a while.”

“Feel good, though, yeah?” Your toes curl and you nod; you’re flushed all over and you need him to hurry up. You grind downward, onto him. He does, then, fucks you hard and fast, like he’s thirsted for this for way longer than he did. You’re squirming, all wet, and it tempts him to go harder. Your face is shiny with sweat, lips drawn in between your teeth.

“Slo—slow down,” you manage, babbling; he doesn’t, speeding up his thrusts until you’re moaning his name. “Max—wait—fuck, you’re so mean,” you whine, wrapping your arms around him and letting him take control. 

“You’re fine,” he grunts, pulling out almost all the way. “You take my dick so well, schatz, every fucking time. Don’t you?”

“I do,” you gasp out, and he’s slamming into you gain. You cry out loudly, sniffling from the overstimulation—you’d barely recovered from your initial orgasm and already you’re hurtling into what feels like three at the same time. 

“For someone who doesn’t like me,” he sneers, “you sure do moan like a slut, huh?”

His words get you more turned on than you’re willing to admit, but you shake your head.

“No?” He laughs, breathy from the effort. “Maybe I should film you now. Send it to your boss, let him see his stellar reporter’s getting Verstappen’s dick wet.” 

Finally, the tension building inside of you reaches a head, and your pussy starts to twitch around his dick. He notices, grunts sharply and leans forward, shuddering as he releases into you. Your moans are choked and tapering into whimpers as you release slick all over him, and you attempt to catch your breath, collapsing onto his still-clothed, now-sticky chest. You scratch at the dri-fit material and inhale him, the smell of his cologne, his sweat. You bite at his earlobe, laugh when he flinches.

“That,” you say into his skin, “was the last time.” It’s both seriously and as a joke, playing off of what he’d remarked earlier.

“Jesus, princess. I’m still inside you.” 

You giggle and drum lightly along the plane of his chest. In a few minutes he’ll pick you up to shower, but now you’re content to inhale him in. Quietly you wonder why you just can’t get enough of him—if you were in better senses, you’d have realized he was thinking the same thing about you.

[sinclair-wax-fan]

.

[becasart]

She's beautiful, ethereal, stunning, dazzling, magnificent, jaw dropping... She's everything 😩💕💕💕

*EDITTTTTTTT: oh goshhh, it was bothering me how BLURRY the image turned out the first time I posted this. I never make comics and am unsure of resolution stuff when it comes to posting online, so sorry about that. Hope this is better!

[pennyserenade]

devil in his heart | jackson rippner x reader

summary | after finding out your long-time boyfriend's real occupation, you have to grapple with who he really is. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | 18+, dark, dubcon (bordering on noncon), smut, explicit smut, fingering, degradation, violence word count | 1.9k+ a/n | i honest to god don't know what possessed me, but we are all grown ups here. read with caution! enjoy! love ya! also: i wrote this to devil in his heart by the donays and he's got the power by the exciters, if you're interested in a soundtrack. not beta'd

Truth be told, this is the best game of cat and mouse he's had in years, and he doesn't like that it's ending so soon.

As he gets on your level, crouching near your slumped form, Jackson almost feels a little sorry that you couldn't win. It's not that you weren't witty enough--you were. It's just that, well, he's better. This reminds him of when he was ten and had wanted to go to space only to figure out when he was twelve that he was too scared of the vastness of the galaxy. Some things are just out of reach, too good to be true. He mourns it all the same.

His fingers tenderly push back sweat soaked strands of hair from your face. You look up at him, blurry-eyed, but still so resolute--lips thinned, smoldering with anger. God. He swipes a finger across your lip just to know what it feels like, and likes it better for the fact that you jerk away so aggressively that you knock your head back into the wall.

His tongue clicks. "You should've known, after following me all those weeks, that I'm good at this."

Jackson wraps his fingers tightly around your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. You give in, mostly because you have so little energy to protest. His eyes look ominously glacial, lit up only by the moonlight cascading in from the window.

You look down at his lips; the flesh there is still swollen, broken from the harsh swing of your elbow earlier in the night. His tongue spears out to feel at the area. "You're a sloppy assassin, baby. My blood's all over this goddamn place. All over you--" he gestures down to your simple white tee shirt, which has been made dirty with dirt, sweat, blood. You don't care. You feel dizzy and half-scared to pass out, to even think of it, because you've never seen him look quite like this.

You think back to that first time you met him, how he had seemed so polite. He was traveling by train to visit his folks back home for Christmas (he said things like 'folks' in a crisp Midwestern accent, for God's sake). He had said he worked in life insurance policy, which made you laugh and caused him to say, "I know, I know--ironic, Jack Rippner dealing out life insurance." You had thought it was ironic. It is: ironically cruel.

He buys his ties from GAP, his dress shirts from Macy's, likes EggNog and celebrates the fourth of July with as much enthusiasm as any plain, good-hearted American man can.

He’s met your mother; he loves her breadsticks.

You spit on him. It takes the very last of your strength, but it's worth it to see the way his eyes ignite. His hand wipes it off, thumb running through the saliva on his fingers as his lips purse. "You know," he begins, voice eerily calm, "I always thought we'd make good parents. God knows we've come close to it enough times. You just can't help but beg for my cum in you, the slut you are." He chuckles darkly. "I always imagined that you'd be the good cop and I'd be the bad one."

Jackson pushes your head back into the wall, propping you there, almost choking you, but not quite. You let out a deep, wavering breath. He smirks. "But I see that's not the case now, is it? You don't seem to like very much when I play with my food before I eat it, do you?" His fingers press against your lips again, saliva coated. You let him. "Here I thought, all along, 'my baby's a goddamn pacifist. She didn't even like fishing!' It kept me up at night, the idea of you finding out what I did. But look at you!" His thumb tenderly strokes your neck, moving around a mysterious fluid--could be your blood, his blood, spit, water, anything. "I think if I reached between your legs now, you'd be soaked."

You choke out a sound of protest, wiggling beneath his gasp. He tuts, his fingers digging more tightly into your throat. For a brief moment, you can’t breathe. You find enough strength to claw at his hand, to widen your eyes and plead.

“C’mon, you’ll like this. You always do.” He loosens his grip on your neck.

As you gasp for air, Jackson knocks your legs apart. It doesn’t take much effort to get your cunt—you’d foolishly made the mistake of wearing a dress today—and he hums in delight when his fingers reach past your cotton underwear, confirming what he suspected to be true. His lips form into a mocking pout as your eyes begin to well with tears. It's not fear—you’re beyond that. It’s anger. The betrayal of this curdles inside you, eating you alive. Your eyes fill with ire.

“Don’t be that way,” he shakes his head, softening a degree. He holds your chin between his fingers again, the other hand rubbing wide circles over your clit. “I’m not going to kill you. How could I? I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you, truth be told, but it’s not that.”

Your hips jerk involuntarily, causing him to growl. “That’s the spirit, kitten. When you hit me earlier, I thought—after, of course, 'God she’s a bitch!’—that you might be a good asset. I know you’ve got a lot of morals holding you back right now, so I figure I’ll let you do the easy work at first. Let you think you’re doing some good in the world.” He presses down on your clit, his touch more intent, more focused. You squirm, hating the way he knows that you like it like this.

His fingers slip down into your cunt, wetting them. “Fuck, you’re soaking. If this is how you get when we do this, you might just reform me. I’m not opposed. We—“ he reattaches his fingers to your cunt. You whine, arching into his touch.“—could do good work. I freelance, if you couldn’t tell already. Though I’m sure you can. You’re a thorough investigator when you want to be. That’ll be helpful, too.”

Jackson picks up his pace, swallowing as he stares down at your lap. He can’t see anything, his hand hidden beneath the fabric of the dress and your underwear, but it seems to thrill him all the same. You too, admittedly.

“I—I couldn’t,” you retort, biting at your lip. “You—you kill!”

“Don’t be such a prude,” he deadpans. “It’s political assassinations and occasionally, though very rarely, an innocent bystander. And I do my best to make sure those cases are few and far between. I do.” He presses down more intently, watching with delight as you squirm, trying not to cum. “Oh, go on. It’s just you and me here. No one’s gonna know except me, and I won’t tell anyone. I’m good with secrets. You know that now.”

He’s near exultant, talking to you about this. The pitch of his voice is higher, and he’s looking at you like he’s won a prize of the highest degree. You’d spit on him again if he wasn’t making you feel so goddamn good.

“I won’t do it,” you shake your head firmly. Jackson takes the opportunity to slip a finger in your cunt, to press in and show you how much he has always—will always—know you.

“Okay, okay, I’ll bite,” he soothes, entering another. It’s a squeeze, but a welcome one, especially when he begins to thrust them against the spongy surface of your walls. Your toes curl, and you hate him, hate him violently. “If you want me to be rough, you really only have to ask, but since you like this game so much we’ll play it.”

As he fingers you, he begins to palm your clit. The sensation is overwhelming. Tears cascade down your face and he leans forward, licking them from your lips. The warmth of the orgasm rises in you alarmingly quick, his fingers deftly touching the inside of you, his palm lining with your clit each time you rut involuntarily. Your body knows him. It trusts him. He knows it.

The orgasm licks through you like a goddamn flame, igniting everything and leaving it all worse for it. When you cry out, Jackson smirks, so fucking pleased. But he doesn’t stop. He goes on, rubbing down harder, thrusting in quicker, until you’re wiggling beneath him.

“Please!” you say, trying to move his hand away.

He’s resolute. “No can do, honey. You’ve been a naughty girl, indulgent in the worst way. Gluttony is a sin, and I've been good–I’ve never punished you for it before–but you’ve hurt my feelings now.”

He slides in a third finger, his crystal eyes dark in the shadows. You feel impossibly full, and on the brink of another orgasm. You whine out. He knocks your head back into the wall with force. It doesn’t take your breath away, but it stuns you to silence. “That’ll be enough of that. This is for me now, got it? Getting you all wet so my cock will fit in that tight cunt of yours. Want you to hear it, your pussy taking me.”

As if to prove a point, he thrusts in again, and you do hear it—the way your body allows him in. An obscene squelch. You bite your lip, feel more tears fall down your cheeks.

“Jackson—“ you plead. You’re tired, achy, terribly confused. He works you open so well. You can smell the sour sweet smell of his body odor. You love it. You cannot help it. Your body trusted this man for so long. Still does.

You fool, you tell yourself, before your body gives way to his will again—you collapse into him, screaming out a silent whimper as the orgasm makes you convulse.

“That’s it,” he encourages, not stopping. “Be good for me. If you’re good, we’ll make this enterprise into a family business. If you’re bad—well, we’ll just have to make this our life, won’t we? You all weak, me with all the power. I don’t think you’ll like it, but you understand, it’s how it must be done if you don’t obey.”

He sighs, as if it’s putting him out too.

You know he’s serious. What’s worse is you know he’s right: that you won’t like it, that he’ll get his way eventually.

When you give in, he knows immediately, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your temple. “I always knew you had it in you a little. You were always such a whore for me. I’m happy it worked out so well for us both. Now–” He pushes your legs further apart, moving in with his own hips. “Let’s play your most favorite game. It’s longer, requires more patience, but I like it just as much as you do.”

The jingle of his belt buckle makes a shot of fear, mixed with arousal, shoot up your spine. You think: God, no.

He laughs darkly. “Don’t worry, baby, I’ve been making sure you’ve been taking your birth control. I’m not really ready for that, either. It’s just the idea that thrills you, isn’t it anyway? And that smallest, tiniest chance that it could happen.” He smirks, loosening his belt. His fingers exit you, leaving you empty, feeling scandalized and ruined. Jackson rubs them on the cloth of your dress, uncaring.

“I hate you,” you spit out, venom lacing your words.

He looks thoroughly amused as he releases his weeping cock from his underwear. “No you don’t. You’re just ashamed of yourself. But fear not–” he wipes a tear off your face, “--when we’re done here, you’ll be glad for this. Just remember, baby, that I’m on your side.”

[u-makemeunpocoloco]

Kitsune Ace trying to groom his tails but he’s getting fur everywhere and making a mess😔

If you’re still accepting drawing requests!!! I just think he would look kinda goofy heheh🫶 you don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna!

Remember to drink water and take breaks 🫶🫶🫶

I'm sorry it took me so long to draw even though I said I was only drawing a doddle <:3 ansdmnasmdnasömd just… masdmasmd I just had a sudden inspiration and then brrrrrrrrrrr. what was supposed to be just a doddle suddenly turned into a comic (。O。).

look asjkajsdnasnskandöamsnasn

(i hope tumblr isn't lowering the resolution of this drawing just because it's in high resolution. damn it looks blurry to my eyes >:( )

bro, I've always wanted to draw a comic like this. but no matter how hard I tried, it never satisfied me. and bammmm a comic. all I needed was a good plot. thanks for that. (also, this is only page 1. i'll keep going. (but who knows when page 2 will come (￣y▽,￣)𝑨𝑨 ))

(but who knows when page 2 will come (￣y▽,￣)𝑘 ))hmmm hmmm i think i'll make a page about a twst yokai au where i'll write the request rules tbh. i've always had my own ideas about this au. hopefully this time i can write them out loud.

ah ah ah ah btw i will have a request about this when your request box opens. let me write it here so that when your request box opens i can just throw it in >:3 like a reminder to myself. otherwise i will definitely forget.

[genericpuff]

Great episode, but—and maybe it's because I'm on mobile—I noticed some of the panels were a little blurry. Not to the point of being unreadable, but there's definitely a quality difference the longer the panel is compared to the shorter ones.

Unfortunately this is a limitation of Tumblr that's also at odds with the image limit, sorry u.u"" Sometimes I do need to cut long panels in half to accommodate the resolution limitations (as the larger an image is, the more Tumblr will deep fry the shit out of it), but then it becomes an issue when I hit the 30 image limit and can't upload the full episode. So I'm kind of having to just do the best that I can to upload the best images that I can that don't exceed 30 panels. Sometimes the image limit isn't an issue, but it was this time around as the episode was particularly long, so I had to settle for "good enough, here's hoping Tumblr doesn't fuck around" with this one u.u

That said, that's also why we have the Dillyhub mirror so that you can read episodes in their original resolution, which is perfect for when Tumblr decides to fuck around with mobile users >;0 The newest episode is up now if you want to read it there!

[themalhambird]

(from the same universe as this, chronologically proceeds it. Picks up almost immediately after the final episode of Series 1)

Shahara is not going to miss her Baba’s birthday party because her taxi driver turned out to be a mad woman. She’s still not sure why she let this Iris Maplewood person keep driving her while she rambled on about time travel and quantum whatever, except that she’s been a copper long enough to have a sense for when she’s in danger, and she didn’t get that from Maplewood. So it was easier to take the taxi ride and put up with the rambling than it was to try and stop the cab, get out and walk -  and Maplewood refused to take a fare which was a bonus. So Shahara gets to the party exactly when she’s supposed to, and she revels in the hug she gets to give her son, and the hug her Baba gives to her. She revels in the crowd of family and friends- the Aunties and Uncles she can never remember if she has a blood connection to or not. That’s never been important. What’s important right now is good food and good music and good talk, and how good she’s gotten at distraction when the question of whether she has a man in her life yet or not comes up.

Except, throughout the night, at the back of her mind, is this nagging feeling- this unease about the fact that, well, this unease about the fact that she didn’t feel any unease when when some random cabby sprouting conspiracies about the Kyal corporation somehow knew a whole ton of personal details about Shahara’s life. And then there’s that sense she’s had all day, this- what’s the opposite of deja vu? The sense that suddenly you were in a place you hadn’t been mere moments before? She’d shrugged it off as tiredness- the stress of the job- she’d spoken to her inspector earlier about maybe putting in for some leave. And perhaps that’s an even better idea than she’d already been thinking. If she’s taking Iris Maplewood seriously, she’s cracking. 

I’m not taking this seriously, she tells herself firmly, sipping at the mocktail as she watches Jawad run about with the other kids.  I’m not going to think about it at all. I don’t believe-

“-a word you say,” Shahara tells Maplewood as she gets into the front of the woman’s taxi. “Just for the record. I’m agreeing to this because- I don’t know. I want to prove to myself that you’re talking nonsense, I guess.”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Maplewood said. The car is sitting at the top of Longharvest Lane, headlights illuminating the alleyway. “I don’t know which of them it will be tonight, but one of them will show, I’m sure of it.”

Right. Either a detective sergeant from world war two or a detective inspector from the victorian era is going to materialise out of nowhere. Kyal, one of the biggest finance….trading….look, Shahara has never really been sure what Kyal is or does, and honestly she can easily believe that a corporation that big, handling that much money, is corrupt somehow. What she can’t believe is that it’s a Doomsday Cult and that Iris Maplewood comes from the future, and has travelled back to 2023 so she can get Shahara Hasan, and two blokes she’s sent others to fish out from the past, in to the same place to help bring Kyal down because together they already managed it once (sort of) by stopping an explosion that decimated the world…today, but also a few days in the future. Something. This is nuts.

“I hope it’s Hillinghead,” Maplewood muses. “He seemed- easy enough to reason with. I think. I don’t know, the memory’s blurry. It didn’t really happen, but also it had to have happened for it not to have happened. Bootstrap paradox, or something. I don’t know. There are echoes…I was sorry for him. I can’t remember why.” 

Shahara clenches her fist tight. She is resolutely not remembering some kid sitting at the table of a fast food place with a gun in his hand. She isn’t-

“Thirty seconds,” Maplewood says. “I’m going to just,” she switches the car headlights off. “Don’t want them exploding,” she explains. 

“Exploding?” Shahara exclaims. “You didn’t say anything about anything-”

The streetlamp outside flares white hot. Glass shatters, smashes some more as it falls to the pavement. There’s a red glow, almost like a bleeding wound, in the darkness ahead- for the briefest of moments. Shahara squints, trying to see properly, but the glow is too bright and everything else too dark…

And then it’s gone. There’s nothing but darkness and the rowdy sounds of London late at night behind them. Shahara stares, stunned, through the windscreen into the blackness beyond. Iris flicks the headlamps back on. In the two, brilliant beams of light, the blocky shape of a body can be seen crumpled in the road. “Oh my god,” Shahara breathes. 

“I’ve got a blanket, there’s a torch in the door your side,” Iris says. She’s already got her door open, pulling a blanket that had been folded up on her lap with her. Shahara fumbles to catch up, grabbing the torch and stabbing for the switch with her thumb. 

“Why a blank- oh,” there’s no need for the rest of the sentence. As they hurry over to him, Shahara can see that the man who appeared from nowhere is completely naked. He’s already stirring, running one hand through tousled black hair as he starts to bring himself onto his knees, coughing. 

“What the hell-”

His cockney accent reminds Shahara of the teenagers she’s spoken to on occasion- kids trying a little too hard to sound hard, to fit in. 

“Hillinghead?” she asks cautiously

“The hell is a Hillinghead?” He looks up at her. In the torchlight Shahara can see that he’s quite a handsome man- kind of dapper, except that there’s soot on his face. 

“Charles Whiteman?” Iris says. She hands him the blanket. Whiteman takes it with a frown- blanches when it apparently hits him that he’s naked, and hastily wraps the blanket around his waist like a towel as he wobbles to his feet. 

“Yeah? Who the hell are you? What the hell-” he looks around. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

*** 

So, time travel is, apparently, real. 

Iris has got a flat- they take Whiteman back to it, and Shahara…Shahara has to go back to work. She has to go to her job and deal and…honestly, it’s easier than it should be. The whole thing doesn’t seem real, even when she stops on her way home to drop groceries off to check in on the woman from the future and the man from the past. Even when she goes for drinks in the coppers’ pub, and she goes and finds the photograph from Whiteman’s era, just out of curiosity, and immediately finds a face she knows. Whiteman doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he’s in the future so much as grousing that his Inspector’s going to do his nut about his disappearing, and grumbling that ‘Esther’- whoever Esther is, kid sister, Shahara thinks, from the irritated-fond way of talking- is going to cause chaos if left unattended for five minutes. She likes him- she’s getting to like Iris too, truth be told- and he’s entertaining on a stakeout. Because they’re still missing a Victorian. 

By Iris’ calculations, Hillinghead should have materialised the night after Whiteman. But it’s almost a week later, and they’ve been watching each night, and there’s nothing.

***

“Hasan! Case for you! Take Rick.” She catches the slim file that’s thrown at her by the Inspector. “John Doe, Royal Hospital. Doctors reckon he’s well enough for talking. Need to find out who he is, need to find out how he ended up badly beaten and stark naked in Longharvest Lane.”

The folder drops from Hasan’s hands. “You what?” she says, but the Inspector’s already moving on, assigning other cases to other detectives, and Rick’s making his way over to her so she shakes herself and picks the folder up off the floor. She opens it, and finds a few cursory notes from the uniform officers that first attended: IC1 male, contusion to the right temple, assorted bruises, broken bones…found the night before Whiteman showed up. There’s a page of photos paperclipped in- she focuses in on the close up of a handsome face,if dishevelled face: reddish hair and a beard- a nasty bruise on his right temple. And there’s a photo of his wrist, as well, and it’s got the same mark that Iris Maplewood and Charles Whiteman both have. She manages to snag a photo of the page of photos on her phone before Rick reaches her, then hastily shoves it back in her pocket “You up for driving?” she asks. Rick grins. 

“Hell yeah. Thought I’d have to fight you for it.” 

“Nah. Jawad’s off school - stomach bug or something. To be honest, I could do with the time to message dad a bit, check in on how they’re doing.”

“Ah mate.” Rick says sympathetically as they head out to the parking lot. “Sorry. Hey, if you wanna swing by once we’re done at the hospital. We can always say we were chasing up a lead.”

“Nah, it’ll be alright. Mostly I wanna make sure he’s not conning Grandad into letting him eat nothing but ice cream all day. If we were closer maybe, but it’s out of the way. Besides, we might actually have leads.” 

She’s pretty sure that they won’t. She’s pretty sure that the man they’re about to speak to is from the 1800s and she really, really hopes he hasn’t told anyone at the hospital that because he’ll get himself sectioned faster than he can blink. She gets into the passenger side of the car, fastens her seatbelt, and sends the photo to Iris. This him? She writes underneath.

Fifteen seconds later, Iris pings a simple message back:

Fuck.

[mightbeblair]

what if kris and berdly went on the ferris wheel instead?

commissions: https://blairdactyl.carrd.co/

the upscaing was acting weird, sorry if it's a bit blurry... here's the original sized image (in deltarune's resolution), unsure if this is gonna upload correctly:

i really hope it looks fine qwq

[joojconverts]

4t3 Conversion of SFTP's Medieval Hennin & Necklace

A 4t3 conversion of a medieval accessories mini-set for all your ladies! Hope you like it! Enjoy! <3

The original set has a dress, but I didn't convert it because it's very problematic! The creator warned about it on the post, but I thought it wasn't going to interfere on my conversion of it, turns out it did lol, so I decided not to include it! Sorry if you wanted it!

————— —————

Known Problems:

The hennin gets a bit blurry when the necklace is used along with it, but I can't really do anything about it other than shrinking the texture's resolutions, which I already did. It's a ts3 thing. Sorry!

LIGHTING GLITCHES ONLY APPEAR ON CAS!

————— —————

ALL OG CREDITS GO TO @simsfromthepast​! IT’S NOT MY MESHES, AND IT’S NOT MY TEXTURES, I JUST CONVERTED THEM TO THE SIMS 3!

————— —————  

NOTES:

The hennin is unissex and hat-slider compatible, as always! (The little piece of fabric stays beside the shoulder when moving)

SimFileShare |  Dropbox

☕   buy me a coffee or become a patron!

————— —————

Credits:

SimsFromThePast - Original post

💖 @katsujiiccfinds​​​ @emilyccfinds​​​ @kpccfinds​​​​  @xto3conversionsfinds

[elderscrollsconceptart]

This is probably highly unlikely, but I need to ask. This is a piece found in Vivec city, and I was wondering if you'd by any chance be able to find a higher resolution version of it? I know some art found in temples is reused concept art, so I'm hoping there's a clearer version of this one too.

Unfortunately this image here is the highest resolution I've come across. Its directly from the game files so unless there's an unpublished asset or concept piece out there, this is the highest quality that exists.

I double checked all the Morrowind concept art I have as well as the art book, and this image isn't on there despite alot of other temple icons and imagery appearing as concept art. This image could be based on an unpublished sketch or it could be a totally unique asset. IMO it's likely based on a sketch that perhaps lacked full detail as the asset seems to be very blurry.

Sorry I couldn't find any higher resolution but AFAIK none exists in higher quality than I posted above. Also there is obviously no artist credit for this asset unfortunately.

[asmilethatshines]

I overdid myself again for a drawing maybe 5 people will look at 🤣 But after I finished it and looked at it in awe (I did it?) the satisfaction was real 🫢

“In a world battle won, no blood was spilled,

The King triumphant, his castle firm and still.

But victory came with a lover’s sacrifice,

And now his kingdom crumbles, his throne does thrill

Castles of cards now falter and fluster,

Throne of dices clatter, a somber sound.

The King, once mighty, now lost in a fray,

His own battle lost, his dream unbound.”

I want to send my thanks and gratitude to two people for helping me with this picture:

1/ great writer @neallo for tolerating with my nonsense and help me with English vocabulary/choosing the words (actually I wanted to ask you to write the poem for me but 1/I knew you were busy with your poll and would feel burden to say no 🤣 2/I was too embarrassed to explain my ideas from the first place). As nice and helpful as always you answered my questions 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

2/ I was left with 35 f*cked up themes and I did finish sketching all ideas in pencil. And with an ambiguous theme like this usually I would come up with a stupid simple idea to get it done (initially it was Miku - Vocaloid stood in the middle of the canvas that’s all 😐). But after a short but motivating conversation with great artist @paradisepoisoned and looking at her page I literally lost sleep a night to think of a better for this theme. So thank you for the motivation to do something fresh I hope someday I can be as good as you 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

And that’s “Standing Still” - a mocked version of Near’s existence.

Sorry for the lack of colors but in my mind Near’s world after Mello died is black and white and gray.

I gave up on figuring out the blurry photo resolution for Tumblr. But the original picture makes a nice phone screen display so it serves its role well.

[nie7027]

{{I've had this draft saved literally since April 18th 2019 but I didn't post it back then because I wanted to finish the super5 headcanons first... which i of course havent done.

But I think it's finally time I post it.

I reread it recently and I don't think it's as spoilery of other wips as I had initially and thought and its related to the other stuff I'm gonna post soon so why not use it as a preview for it?

Anyway it finally is here. I hope you enjoy this tiny list of headcanons}}

Mob psychobook headcanons

These could actually apply to any social red but Psychobook is the one i know besides Tumblr (and no, none of them have tumblr...maybe just Seri)

Teru's

Teru's used to be the typical popular kid psychobook where used to he the typical popular kid psychobook where he posted pics of the parties he went("Crazy night guys, thanks for inviting me!), his soccer matches ("Another victory for Vinegars soccer team. You are welcome~") and trainings(even some from his personal training when it didnt end that bad), the food he ate at the new trendy coffe he went and the obligatory selfie every couple of days that will make his notifications blow up everytime with likes and comments

Now he sometimes still does those but he posts mostly pics of nice sights he finds on his bicycle routes, pics of him hanging with his friends/new family or the lastest fuck up Reigen did

He, Shou and Tome are invested in a meme competition. Whoever makes Mob laugh the loudest wins. Sadly they have to be with him so he can see them.

Rarely Terus posts a pic of him & Mob (or Mob alone) with the emoji equivalent of a gay keysmash and when he does it drives crazy the whole alumnae of Vinegar middle school, everybody wondering who is that bland looking guy and what Teru meant by that.

Mob's

Mob's used to be empty but now it's filled with pics Tome posts of their karaoke outings, pics where the body improvement club tag him and Terus, shous and tomes memes

But he rarely uses it and doesnt get to see them. Still he likes the milk memes teru found (do those even exist?)

Thats why he doesnt know he has basically become the body improvements star. Captain musashi and the others tend to photos of him with inspirational quotes (warrio male kind of) in the club page to attract new reclutees

After terus mysterious post a swarm of Vinegar students tried to add him as friend

But Mob thinks they are internet weirdos and ignores their invitation

It's actually Dimple who uses it more

Ritsu's

Ritsus used to be th pristine psychobook profile proper of a student council member. He had added the majority of the school and he made posts of the schools next event, resolutions the council had reached after their last session or answered any question any student could have but was to shy to personally ask.

His most personal post where the seldom book quotes he posted from the lastest book he read and liked.

Everything changed with Shou

The students didnt know who he was but suddenly this random kid started to tag Ritsu in even more random posts(most of them hamster related...Ritsu liked all of them?) and post pics of him AND RITSU doing the weirdest things you could imagine

Theres a pic of Ritsu with the most ridiculous susprised face(thats the most expressive people have seen him?? Whats going on?) in front of a microwave in flames. The fact shou edited it with a caption saying "And he didnt believe me eggs could explode" didnt help

Theres another of them hangin at the tallest part of the city (people dont undertsmad how is that even possible? You cant even acces that area)

And theres even a blurry pic that looks like they are running away from a police car

Shinji, who knows whats Ritsu is truly capable of, likes each of those pics

Everybody in Salt middle school is confused. But the only thing they get is Ritsus "Sorry" to Kamuro when the council president makes a blank comment in the infamous police pic.

They quickly recognize Shou as the kid that sometimes flies(yeah FLIES) besides Ritsus classroom or sneaks in the school

Shou's

The only reason Shou made a psychobook profile was to keep in contact with the espers that helped him during the domination arc

But he quickly realizes how useful it is to annoy Ritsu when he is bored

Besides the memes and Ritsu pics, his psychobook is full of interesting facts of different animals and reblogs of drawings from artist he follows and tutorials

As Mob he was invaded by a swarm of vinegar students once he appears in one of Terus pics. He accepts all of them the same way he accepted Ritsus classmates. It ends well for him because that way his drawing are seen by many peoplea and he receives lots of likes.

It takes a while but he finally unblocks Seri one day. Seri likes each and every thing he posts and makes encouraging comments on his drawings.

Serizawa's

Seri had a profile during his isolation days where he added many "friends" (random internet weirdos) with whom he talked about the things he liked and the media he consumed

Once he rejoins society with the Spirits and such cre he makes a new personal profile

He only has his family, the spirits and such crew, his school friends and the super5 added but thats all he needs

He follows many cooking and baking pages and once he learns to cook he saves the recipes he wants to try

He doesnt know if he cried more the day Shou unblocked him or they day Teru put him as his dad.

Minegishis

Minegishi only has the super5, Mob Ritsu, Tome and his coworkers added as friends

He follows many pages about plants and how to take care of them and pages that post downloadable audiobooks for Shimazaki

He rarely posts but he likes all the posts where he is tagged.

His elder coworkers tag him in lovely pictures of flowers with inspirational quotes. He likes those too.

The other super5 make fun of him for this but they secretly like them, especially those that talk about being a good person.

He follows many trolling pages too but never reblogs them. He doesnt want the other to know where he gets some of his humor sense.

Hatori

Hatori follows mostly memes pages, specially those about programming because he can "relate"

He say he understands them. (He doesnt)

He almost fell for the "delete system32 to make you computer faster" joke but his coworkers stopped him. He passed it as him messing around

Shibata's

Shibata follows personal trainers and healthy foods pages

He and Seri swap recipes they find and think the other might like

He saves exercises routines and tries to convince the other super 5 to try them with him.

Specially Hatori, he needs them.

He is only succesful when he finds those routines based on fictional characthers

It doesnt last much

He follows the body improvement club page. He actually sends some of the quotes that end up in some of the Mobs pics.

Shimazaki's

Shimazaki doesnt have a psychobook per se

It's a bot that hatori made to post "uwu" ":3" or "nyas~" every once in a while

The profile pic is the photo they took of Shimazaki wearing the prank glasses

Sometimes the other super5 post photos of their hang outs

"Its our register of Shimazakis progress!" says Hatori

Sometimes it receives messages from internet weirdos and most of them go along the lines of "Weren't you the guy that kidnapped the prime minister?".

The others are horny texts.

They delete all of them.

Tome's

Tomes psychobook can be considered the normalest of the spirits and such crew.

Even though half of her posts are cospirational thories and supposedly aliens sightings

Apart from that she has the normal amount of friends ("Seriously guys, why do you have every random you find added?") and posts a regular amount of pics of her hangouts

Besides the memes. Teru and she share LGBTQ content they find interesting

Seri somehow is the first to know about the lastest news of the videogames they follow and tags her on them

She edits Terus posts of Reigen fuck ups and turns them into memes. The super5, Ritsu and Dimble(using Mobs profile) always like them.

Its on psychobook where she organizes the telepathy club next reunion

She has been nagging Mob and Take to use their psychobooks more so they can see in time what they are planning to do

Takenaka's

Take has enough with the whole wind reading thing. Good luck trying to convince him to make a psychobook profile.

Reigen's

Since his birthday during the separation arc Reigen decided to completeley get away from his psychobook seeing as how little those persons cared for him

But he forgets to delete the app

So one day his phone cant stop blaring with notifications and when Reigen picks it up to see what the hell was going on

He had messages and messages of exfriends congratulating him for his son and saying things like "Wow Reigen, you had it very closeted" "we didnt know you were so private" "who is the lucky mother?"

Teru had put him as his dad

Reigen was having an existencial crisis and needed some comfort so he started searching Seri

Only to find him crying because Teru did the same to him

They ended togeyher as a crying mess sprawled over the couch. Only Dimple got to see them like that

So writing my fanfic "Sunflower" made me think of these headcanons but i couldnt post them then because i hadnt finished the super5 headcanons and didnt want to spoil some things. As you can see this finally shows what Ive been saying of "College funds", "Sunflower" and the "super5 headcanons" taking place in the same universe.

Really, i wrote down a timeline of how these things overlap and can tell you what the s&s crew were doing while shimazaki was fucking around or what the super5 were doing while the crew celebrated terus birthdays.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Fairytale AU + Hair Brushing/Braiding

Ah, Elrond/Erestor...and a dash of fairytale vibes! Always a winning combo lol

Sorry for dragging all my blorbos into this LOOOOL

Prompts: Fairytale AU + Hair Brushing/Braiding

Pairing: Elrond x Erestor

Requester: @maglor-my-beloved

Words: 1 130

Warnings: Injury, trauma, doom, nudity, bath scene, Fëanorian Erestor

Once upon a time, in a faraway land that was yet free of the strife of this present day, two young souls sat by a peaceful river’s shore, braiding each other’s hair in a gesture of unmarred affection.

“I shall cherish your design forevermore,” Finwë, future patriarch of a fated line, whispered, and Elwë smiled knowingly.

Soon, though, they were torn apart by destiny.

Many cycles of silver and golden light later, Finwë found himself brushing the hair of his firstborn son—his heir, his cherished boy—and, inspired by the love he had lost, he wove an intricate, intimate pattern into that living silk.

Thus, a hallowed tradition was born on either side of the great divide. For generations, fathers would braid parts of their identity and their most unspeakable well-wishes into the hair of their progeny.

Often hidden but never undone, those tresses spoke of legacies and enduring faithfulness—they spanned ages, becoming ever more complex, and retold the story of a people ever on the brink of desolation.

So it was that, with heavy hearts and three skeletal hands, two notorious kinslayers thusly marked the blessed sons they’d stolen from their intended purpose.

It was with surprise and life-altering emotion that a stubborn, golden-haired princess and her dignified spouse discovered that, despite and beyond their differences, they shared this precious custom. Together, they created a new design for their daughter, interweaving strands that had been set apart by time and providence.

It was with tears in his eyes that a taciturn, irascible hermit looked upon the simple plait a ferocious mortal had put in their sleeping son’s hair.

“So he’ll never forget where he comes from,” Haleth whispered, kissing a burning cheek. “So he might find his people when both of us are gone.”

The one she loved so desperately without being able to save him frowned.

“One day,” she promised, “he’ll be able to trace back these strands of hair to the root of all love. The braid shall lead him home!”

Once upon another time, a valiant leader stood alone in the face of overwhelming evil. He was beaten down mercilessly, and—just as he had accepted that he’d never leave the battlefield alive—a warm hand settled on his hip.

“The day is lost,” a scratchy, breathless voice mumbled. “Come away now and live to fight another day.”

Too weak and injured to protest, Elrond Half-Elven let himself be carried away by Erestor who was stronger, faster, and much more cunning than he looked at first glance.

“I shall bathe you,” Erestor declared as soon as they had reached the camp, “and tend to your wounds.”

When Elrond tried to decline, overcome with a sudden sense of shame and panic, a resolute but tender finger was pressed against his lips like the prelude to a kiss the other didn’t yet feel comfortable dispensing.

“Hush! Your secrets are safe with me!”

Mollified and subdued by the severity of his injuries, the fearless lord mellowed into the caring embrace of his saviour who bore him to a small tent where a copper tub was already waiting to be used.

Servants brought in hot water and clean towels, and Elrond melted into a semi-conscious state of bliss, listening to the soft murmuring of the blurry shapes fading in and out of focus.

It had been many long years since he had last allowed another to gently peel muddied, blood-soaked fabric from his clammy skin, and the very recollection of those hands—drenched in crime and regret—made him sit up with a jolt.

“You must not…” he whispered hoarsely, but already, he could feel nimble fingers comb through the tangled strands of his sweat-matted hair. “I—”

Erestor’s affectionate ministrations slowed to a crawl as he found what his friend had so desperately tried to keep from him—in the face of such stark, unequivocal reluctance, he felt strangely shy and unwilling to cast his eyes down to look upon the discreet braid, burning like a string of hot metal against his palm.

Even though his mind shied away from an identity he had always suspected but never dared confirm, the sensitive tips of his long, sinuous digits deciphered unerringly what his heart might always have known.

“I recognise parts of this design,” he murmured pensively. A wave of heartsick longing threatened to drown him from the inside as he remembered his mother, brushing his hair and sharing all she had been able to learn about his father’s family with him.

Erestor also remembered his father—stern, often distant as if afraid that his mere touch could harm his child, and yet so discreetly and steadfastly loving—and he couldn’t help but wonder what had become of him.

“He thought I was too young to know,” he whispered as if to himself.

“Who? What do you mean?” Elrond articulated painstakingly. The soothing warmth of the herb-infused bath had washed away the last vestiges of his stubborn ferocity, and he felt worn out and dizzy.

With a soft, rueful chuckle, Erestor lifted the obscuring curtain of his dense, dark hair to reveal a gorgeously elaborate tress of his own.

“It is far from being as ornate as yours,” he conceded sheepishly. “Alas, I have fewer legacies to represent and keep alive, but…you are not alone.”

If he had thought that every layer of protection—armour, clothing, and the dignity of his station—had already been stripped from him and that he had nothing left to lose, Elrond now discovered that he had been sorely mistaken.

A weight he had not been fully aware of carrying fell from his soul, and—finally unburdened—his very heart seemed to draw breath for the first time in centuries.

“They have claimed you wholly then,” Erestor said, his voice becoming unsteady as he was shaken to the core by this revelation. At last, he allowed himself to look down and read the labyrinthine story of his dear love’s life, woven in glossy strands that felt more akin to a soothing river on a hot day than to the burning sun itself now.

“How do you know?” Elrond asked, too overcome to play coy.

“My father would only share so much, but—needled and encouraged by my mother’s faith—I have spent a lot of time seeking answers and documenting as much as I could about those lost to horrifying history.”

Spell-bound and stunned into startled silence, Elrond could merely stare at him.

“I shall not undo it,” Erestor promised as he took up his cherished task of carefully washing the abused, battered flesh once more. “Once we get you out of here and into a warm bed, I shall tell you about my findings. Welcome home, little star. You’re much loved still.”

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