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#【 ⊳ INBOX: i need you. 】；

egophiliac · 5 months

Note

ok so as someone still relatively new to TWST (and someone just taking the events as they come to EN instead of keeping up with the JP side) and as a Jack Howl simp

I am of the (CORRECT) opinion that he should absolutely get an Applepom look because... fwuffy. and hat with ear holes. and he'd be SO insistent that he's used to the cold and doesn't need it but he will take it once it's insisted on because he's polite and won't refuse Gramma Felmier

Also I think a fun twist on the "someone's sled breaks and their plushie tears so they have to come up with another idea" bit from the other event is that Jack goes wolf mode to pull the sled (because as said in his starsending wish he pulls sleds back at home on breaks to try and get faster as a wolf!)

I'm biased though because I need more Jacc in my life

Thoughts?

thank you anon for bringing the mental image of harveston Jack into my life. he would be SO fluffy...so warm...he would haul so many apples...

also while I love the imagery of him pulling the sled, I feel like that would probably get them insta-disqualified. :( unless they can somehow 1) convince the judges that this enormous talking wolf is actually a very well-made plush, and 2) get Jack to go along with it (I do think Jack would instantly respect Marja as being more alpha or whatever and would have to, like, choose between his sense of JUSTICE, or going along with cheating at this sporting event so an authority figure doesn't get mad at him) (...wait this is just the plot of episode 2 again) (DANGIT)

#art #twisted wonderland #marja would never stand for cheating though. this is NOT how she became idia's sports anime waifu.#that said we deserve a jack in cuddly winter knits #maybe next winter-themed event...#if i remember right he also canonically snowboards and now i suddenly want a card of that #i want to see whatever weird fantasy twist on snowboarding they would do for an event #jack: for contrived reasons i need 3-5 peers to join my traditional hometown competition where the boards are made of candy or whatever #no you don't understand it would be like...peppermint-themed and extremely cute. i actually do very much want this now.#(sorry to keep doing the marker-style stuff i'm just having fun with ~brushes~)#(also sorry for taking forever with this) (stuff is busy right now!)#(eyes slide away from inbox timestamps...)

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marisatomay · 14 days

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“Sir, Misha Collins said the F slur at a con”

#LETS GOOOOOO MELTDOWN MAY!!!!!!!#I need video of it … if you have video of it my inbox is open please please please

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emotionalcadaver · 10 months

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I originally had typed up a whole ass angry rant about how fucking awful some of the takes are about Oppenheimer (it seems primarily from people who haven't even seen the fucking film), but I decided against posting it (and then I wrote this which now that I'm reading over it, still ended up being a bit of an angry fucking rant so oops).

But what I will say is that the film does not glorify the bomb or what it was used for. So please shut the fuck up about that. Also, this is a story about J. Robert Oppenheimer. The bomb is a large part of the story because it was a huge part of his life. But the focus is on him and his emotional journey through the film. They are trying to pack about 600 pages of dense material into three hours. There is simply not enough time to go on a side quest to address a lot of the things many of you are insisting be addressed. Especially when Oppenheimer himself was not directly involved in them.

I've seen many people say that this story should never have been told. And, kindly, fuck you. We live in an age where people are constantly trying to change, discredit, or dismiss history. We desperately need more people to become engaged with it again. Prior to this film, there were a whole ton of people who had been so failed by their history classes they had no idea who J. Robert Oppenheimer even was. People still know alarmingly little about the bomb and the scientists who worked on it and if this film allows them to be more interested/educated in that topic, that's a win.

This film brings to light more than just the bomb. It's a discussion on morality and the relationship between scientists and the government.

Also, you don't get to say that a piece of art shouldn't be made just because it makes you fucking uncomfortable. Don't consume that piece of art, then. But you have no right to say someone shouldn't make something, or others shouldn't consume or enjoy it just because it makes you uncomfortable.

#fucking people istg #it must exhausting needing every piece of entertainment you consume to be morally pure #why do i feel like i'm about to have a whole bunch of people getting very angry in my inbox #just let people enjoy things jfc #oppenheimer #laur babbles

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skullsemi · 3 months

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There needs to be more child mortimer content he's just too precious

Protect the little brat I'll say

#inbox #my art #mortimer mouse #mickey mouse #goofy #there NEEDS to be more I couldn't agree more with you anon

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st4rd0lly · 3 months

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im sorry i CANNOT stop thinking about being BEAST dazai’s sweet lover, to have such a dangerous and terrifying man absolutely WHIPPED and head over heels for you….. he treats you so so gently, kissing every part of your skin like a place of worship <3 sitting on his lap so patiently as he finishes work, you’re just too good to him !!

he gets so dizzy when he fully realizes that you’re actually real and that you’re here with him, he gets drunk off of your smell and any amount of contact you give him. he starts to get so handsy with you, he can barely help himself.. but you’re so sweet and that’s why he knows you’re gonna be good and help him ! he knows exactly how to rile you up and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make you feel like you’re in heaven when he fucks you, he may be selfish but he’s not completely cruel (at least to you)

#. . . words of the crimson moon —✫・゜・。.#i need him in me #dazai smut #bsd smut #bsd x reader #dazai x reader #please share bsd thirsts with me in my inbox im begging you #please do check my pinned out first tho

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enviedear · 6 months

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BILLY HEADCANNONS PLS HES FHE LOML

billy the kid hc's

request

— he’s a genuine sweetheart in general, but with you, he seems exalted by your presence. because he is.

— he’d devote his life to you, i know it. he’ll always have his yearning for justice, but it’s you he lives for.

“c’mere honey, let me help you.” / “the boys wanted me to go practicin’ with ‘em, but you look too damn pretty to say goodbye to.”

— if he’s playing cards, better believe he’s both playing for you and your honor. billy doesn’t mind losing, but when you’re around he’d rather get bitten by a rattlesnake than meet defeat.

you’d be nervous he’d waste all his money, “that was pure luck, billy! come on, pack up and take me home.” he’d smile at you, lovestruck expression in his eyes, “yes ma’am.”

— i see him falling pretty quick for you. he’d also be quick to figure out his own feelings.

— he’d be cleaning the barrel of his gun, staring at the stars, and realize that it can’t be normal for his mind to drift to you so much.

— billy will find any excuse to ride into town and see you. someone needs something from the general store, he’s offering to go. the boys want to drink their lives away at the saloon, billy will tag along. anything, to see you.

— he’d love listening to you talk. it could be about anything too, he’d listen so intently with a little grin on his lips.

“what’d y'do then, honey?”

— better believe that if you’re billy’s girl, no one is messing with you. if they do, they’re a dead man. he’d try his hardest to be just with his retribution, he’d never blow a man’s brains out just for speaking with you— but let them touch you with any immoral intentions and he wouldn’t even hesitate.

you try to pry the older man’s fingers away from your waist, head twisting away from his puckered lips, “let me go!” he ignores you, pushing you further into the secluded bars’ wall. “get your fucking hands off of 'er!” billy’s voice cuts through your terror, warming your heavy heart. the man drops you, backing away from you as fast he can. you look to billy, he’s got his anger bubbling up underneath his loving gaze, “run outside, darlin’. m’just gonna talk to our friend here.”

— he’d swear to settle down with you, and he’d mean it. he’d start saving and everything. he’d start the beginnings of establishing himself as a true gentleman for you.

“see that ranch o’there?” he asks, pointing to the serene homestead in the distance. you nod and he smiles, “m’gonna set us up with one. one day. for my pretty lady.”

— he’d sing for you, if you ever ask. mostly just beautiful irish songs he remembers his momma singing him.

— speaking of his momma, he’d be very scared if you ever got sick. even if it’s nothing too serious, he’s fretting over you and calling the doctor back before the man’s even left the property.

— i also seeing billy singing to you when he’s drunk. coming over to your place, being loud, causing you to shush him.

“wan’ sing to you, honey! be practicin’ since i left the bar!”

— billy will take you riding with him any chance he gets, if you need to clear your mind or get out of town for a little, billy is offering himself and his horse.

"packed us some food, 'case you wanna stay out."

— the gunslinger would generally try to be realistic. he knows he should be, living where he does. but when it comes to you, he's completely romantic. if your pretty eyes are on his he can't help but to think that everything's going to be okay.

#you better keep spamming my inbox with billy thoughts #i need him... viscerally #billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #william h bonney #william h bonney x reader #billy bonney #billy bonney x reader #tom blyth!billy the kid #tom blyth #coriolanus x reader

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buckttommy · 12 days

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also this running thing 9-1-1 does where every so often they will call up brian and be like hey do you want to be maddie's dead husband again and he'll just be like sure! :) <3 like. i respect the hustle tbh

#brian hallisay #whenever you and your wife need a third let's chat #also @/people in my inbox i am SO close to post limit but i will get to y'all when i get to you #tv: 911 #911: 07 x 06 #911 spoilers

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starrylevi · 6 months

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Thinking about civilian!reader falling in love with postwar!levi. He would tell you the events that occurred before you met him as you softly brush the scars on his face. If he didn’t have permanent reminders, it would be difficult for you to believe the person he was before and what he’s gone through. The man in front of you now is so soft and so gentle. He was slaying titans before and now you’re wheeling him out onto his porch, sharing a cup of tea with him and admiring the garden you helped him grow. You would accompany him to his weekly trips to his favorite tea shop and he’d educate you on all the blends. Every once in a while he’d pull you onto his lap and give you a soft kiss on your cheek, making you giggle. He’d do little things for you that make you happy. His past would be nothing but a ghost. And every time it would dare come back to haunt him, you would be his light and bring him back to the present with your comforting arms.

#I’m so in love with him 🥺#He would be the softest and cutest don’t argue with me #I need to expand more on some of these ideas my brain is just running wild #I know there are requests in my inbox I’m so sorry I’ll have more time to work on them next week since I have it off please don’t be mad #levi #levi ackerman #levi aot #levi x reader #levi x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x y/n #levi drabble #levi headcanons #postwar!levi #levi fluff #levi hcs #manda writes

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catfern · 8 months

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she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor.

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body.

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable.

The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration.

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance.

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall.

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating.

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her.

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun.

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

#i'm gonna get back to cowboy!ellie i swear #i have so many people in my inbox begging for her I HEAR U!!#i just needed a change of pace bc writers block yk #idk what it is w me and mean women but cowboy!ellie is also going to be a bit mean i fear #also i was going to write this w ellie as the gf but i couldn't fit it in #but it is implied!!#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #tlou abby #abby x reader #abby the last of us

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retquits · 6 months

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Hi hello!!! I just wanted to say I adore Robin in your art style so much! She's my favorite character so seeing one of my favorite artists draw her makes me so happy!!!! Thank you!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH!! 🥺💛 WOE MORE ROBIN UPON YE!!!!!

#answers #anon #doodles #one piece #nico robin #anon i just need you to know #that as SOON as i saw this ask in my inbox i ran to my canvas #thinking ANYTHING FOR A ROBIN FAN 😍😩🥺#and then i realized that was some sanji ass behavior #and had to sit down for a moment #like character like fan i guess GHDFJKGHG #ANYWAY THANK YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY!!!

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l3irdl3rain · 24 days

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Create a blog Home For Senior Cats, post about it for years, then make a post about wanting to get dicked down (or maybe get some pussy is more on brand) and disappear, never to post again 😉

go full “old friends senior dog sanctuary” on your asses.

also, just to be clear. if I was going to do that, it would specifically be about Garrus Vakarian cock

#mom if you see this it’s in reference to a meme #this is not someone being creepy in my inbox on tumblr dot com #the Garrus vakarian cock part isn’t a joke tho #they need to figure out how to grow him in a lab so I can marry him #ask

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