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astralnymphh · 2 months

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copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

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hotvintagepoll · 3 months

Text

Propaganda

Clark Gable (Gone With the Wind, It Happened One Night)—There's no proof that Clark Gable stripping in It Happened One Night caused the sale of undershirts to take a nosedive, but there's also no proof that it didn't do that. And either way, him saucily undressing for bed in front of a woman who was married—not to him—is too deliciously scandalous to ignore. He deserves votes for this scene if nothing else. He got an Academy Award for this movie! He could play comedy just as well as drama, he earned medals for his bravery as a bomber gunner in WW2, he competed in car races, he has a great mustache and perfect eyebrows for sexy smirking, he's just HOT.

Sidney Poitier (Lilies of the Field, To Sir With Love)—an unbelievably beautiful man, a complete class act. Something about his eyes breaks my heart every time.

This is round 3 of the bracket. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage man.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Clark Gable propaganda:

"Listen, he was "the King of Hollywood" for a reason and a suave motherfucker. Also a Major in the air force during WWII!"

"So Clark Gable was the king of Hollywood for a reason but honestly what makes him hot to me is his relationship with his wife Carole Lombard like if she loved him so she can't be wrong. Their relationship is so tragic like they met first when they filmed No Man of Her Own in 1932 and like there was nothing between them then but in 1936 they met again at a Hollywood party and this time things were different. Basically from that moment on they were inseparable and had to carry out their romance in secret until his divorce was finalized (he was separated when they met again at the party) and then they eloped in 1939 when he had a break during filming Gone With The Wind. They had a 20 acre farm together with horses, cows and chickens and they loved to do all those outdoorsy activities together. When they were apart for various work obligations they would send each other goofy gag gifts. In 1942 Carole was on a trip to sell war defense bonds when on the flight back home her plane crashed in the mountains of Nevada. Her death devastated Gable he flew to Nevada and demanded he be taken to the spot where the plane crashed despite the dangers posed by its location. Amongst the wreckage they found a hair clip he had given her for Christmas. Her death forever changed him he became more reckless and signed up for the US Army Air Corps in 1942 and he kept her bedroom unchanged in their home. He never stopped loving her when he died in 1960 he was buried next to her. I know Clark wasn't a perfect person and their is some speculation that she was racing home on that plane to him because she was worried that he was having an affair or something but relationships are complicated especially ones occurring in 1930s and 1940e Hollywood amongst two of the biggest starts at the time. (I just wanted to include this so ya know I'm not just looking at their relationship as all sunshine but like you can't deny the love they shared)

"They had an ineffable quality in romance, the ability to have fun together... they were soulmates who thought life was delicious, and they made everyone's life delicious around them" -Esther Williams

"GWtW is an epic stretching across years so Clark has a chance to show off a whole bunch of different sides, from Hot Outsider to Husband to Father and so on. But his most attractive is his final line of the movie, made only better by the story that he lobbied the Film Industry to ‘Let Rhett Curse!’ And who is more classic 30s Hollywood than this man?"

"Also apparently his name was Billy Gable then Glark Gable before finally landing on Clark Gable. A fact that I cant forget now glark gable lives in my mind now"

Sidney Poitier propaganda:

#sidney poitier #clark gable #hotvintagepoll #round 3 #fuck that old man!!!#i'd like to present the hottest man of all time: glark

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bratphilia · 6 months

Text

his bunny (w. afton x reader)

request: "hii!! i have been obsessed with your lillard!afton fics lately and i just have to ask you to write another. i was wondering if you could do something like afab! reader is a student in college and william is her engineering professor? she is purposefully failing his class just to get his attention and some “extra credit”. but little does she know william has been obsessed with her ever since she stepped foot in his class. if it helps, teachers pet by melanie martinez could have a huge influence on this. thank you so so much!! ♡♡"

note: thank you so much, i'm glad you've been enjoying the content i've been putting out! fun fact i was obsessed with this song when k-12 first came out. also professor!william has been on my mind recently so i'm glad you requested this!! the e-mail section is a little awkward because i absolutely hate using "y/n"

pairing: steve raglan / william afton x reader

tags: age gap (reader is college age 18-21 and william is 45-50), creepy and stalking behavior from william, oral sex (m receiving), facial, dirty talk, slut-shaming, mean dom!william, desk sex

engineering. your worst class. not because you were bad at it or anything. it was all your professor.

and no, not because he's a bad teacher either. he's just so fucking hot it makes your brain go fuzzy every time he speaks. he lectures with his large hands enthusiastically. he always wears some form of purple on him, whether it's a tie or his slacks. everything about him is so intoxicating.

but he's never noticed you.

not when you try to catch his eye before and after class. not when you greet him with a "good morning, sir." and every time you've attended his office hours, a fucking ta helps you every single time. it's making you go crazy, not getting what you want.

you even started to wear increasingly skimpier outfits. you always stick to a theme of a sexy school girl, even going as far enough to buy more short skirts and thigh high socks or leg warmers. the buttons of the blouses you wear paired with them are always unbuttoned just to show a peak of cleavage. you ignore the hungry and curious eyes of your other peers as you walk by them; it's not their attention you want. still, you feel a little silly putting in all this effort just for him to barely grumble a reply back to you at your futile efforts to talk to him.

so you put a plan in action. you either purposefully turn in every piece of homework late and answer most, if not all, the questions of your quizzes and mid-term until you're sure you're at the very bottom of the class grades-wise.

in fact, you wake up the day after your mid-term to an e-mail from professor raglan. the subject was titled "Meeting Request" with your name addressed at the beginning.

"I would like to arrange a meeting with you to discuss the current state of your progress in my class. After your most recent assessment and previous assignments, I'm concerned about your future in my class if you continue the pattern I am seeing reflected in your work. Let me know if tonight at 5:00pm works for you.

Thank you,

Professor Raglan"

any regular person's heart would have sunk to the pit of their stomach if they received that e-mail. however, you are not a normal person. your heart fucking soars. you immediately jump to respond in confirmation.

professor raglan knows better than to get caught up with students, but he just can't help it! you're too beautiful to ignore.

the craziest part is he knows what game you're playing. the outfits that reflect nothing but a stereotypical, sexy school girl you would see in a porn video. and especially the way your grades have dropped recently, when you started off being one of the brightest students in his class.

over time, he noticed your lack of participation in class. at first, he chalked it up to something more serious, like personal issues. and then he noticed those lingering stares, the way you chew your pen, twirl your hair, and rub your thighs together. he knows exactly what you're doing, and he's been ignoring you on purpose. he wants you to chase after him, to let him know what you really want, but you just won't. he partially doesn't blame you either, it would be highly inappropriate for a student to engage that way towards their professor. so he ignores you during class. he barely acknowledges the way you've tried to grab his attention.

steve more than reciprocates your feelings. in fact, he's probably more enamored with you than you can possible imagine. he has all your homework, your essays, even your mid-term saved digitally in a folder, with your name as the title, on his computer. he reads looks over them when he's taking a break from grading as a way to detox, which sometimes ends up in him masturbating thinking about you. he loves to read the failed work from his dumb little bunny.

he even followed you home once. he kept close distance away from you, hiding in the shadows of every corner you turned. it's the william in him that wants that does the stalking, he convinces himself. the hyde to his jekyll; his true self coming to show in the role he plays of an average college professor, a totally normal guy with a few quirks.

your room, conveniently let him catch a peep of you touching yourself, and you swore you saw you mouth the word 'professor' when you brought yourself to orgasm.

and so he decides to play your little game. after all, you created the perfect opportunity for him, and he's going to take the bait.

steve sits at his desk, grading the rest of the mid-term papers, while he awaits your arrival. your own paper is sitting separate from the other stack, easily accessible so the two of you can get straight to "talking" about it as soon as possible.

he hears a tell-tale knock at his door, and he tries not to answer with a smile in his voice as he calls out, "come in."

you open the door gingerly, and it takes everything in him not to eye you up and down, but at first glance he knows you're in your usual get-up. it's a pretty little number; white, short-sleeved blouse, black pleated skirt that stops around mid-thigh, and white socks that reach just above your knees. you smile at him, hands clasped behind your back, puffing forward your chest slightly.

"good evening, professor raglan," you say in an oh-so innocent tone, "you wanted to speak with me?"

god, the way you call him professor goes straight to his cock. "yes. sit down," he tells you, gesturing towards the chair in front of his desk.

you sit down and your professor clasps his hands, leaning back in his chair. "i hope my e-mail didn't worry you. this will be quick."

he watches your face fall at his last few words and he has to bite back his amusement. "you see," he starts, taking your paper and pretending to look at your paper, "you didn't answer a single thing correctly. everything was wrong. it's funny, because i've heard nothing but good reports from the ta's that have helped you during office hours."

you lean closer as he continues. a plethora of excuses come to mind, none of which seem adequate for the situation he's putting it. "so i'm just wondering, how dumb do you think i am?"

your mouth slightly falls open. that was not the reaction you intended to invoke from him. "i—i can explain, i just need more—"

he rolls his eyes. "don't give me that. i'm not an idiot like you clearly are."

if anyone else had called you an idiot, you would have been offended, but from him? it goes straight to your pussy.

you purse your lips and rub your thighs together, waiting for him to continue to berate you. "is it extra credit you want?"

"yes, professor," you answer.

"then get on your knees, slut."

he rolls his chair back to make room for you and watches as you make your way in front of him. you get on your knees as he instructed, waiting expectantly.

"do i have to do everything for you?" he sighs in faux disappointment. he loves your shocked reaction that this is even really happening to you. "you wanted this so take my cock out."

"no, professor," you mumble, reaching for the buttons of his slacks. there's an obvious bulge tenting in his pants that almost makes you salivate.

you pull out his cock from his boxers and he shivers at how cold your hands are. you must be freezing wearing that outfit, he realizes. and, fuck, are your hands so much smaller that his. you begin by pumping him and then reach to kitten lick his tip.

you start to suck on the tip and he sucks air between his teeth sharply. it feels like heaven but he can't take your teasing anymore. he grasps your hair, making a make shift ponytail, and guides your mouth to slowly lower down on his cock. you moan around him causing a pleasurable vibration. he continues to use your hair as a way to control your mouth moving in a slow, up and down motion.

"ah — shit — stay still for me, yeah, baby?" he asks breathlessly. you do as he says, keeping your neck still as he begins to thrust into your mouth.

he bucks into you, grunting about what a "tight mouth you have" and how "you're such a dirty whore for your professor." you moan around his cock at his words, only encouraging his movements. the gurgling and gawk noises coming from your throat make him impossibly harder. the grasp on your hair becomes tighter and his thrusts more erratic. he's close.

before steve comes, he moves your mouth off and begins pumping himself. you watch him eagerly as he never breaks eye contact from you. when he does, it's when he shuts his eyes and groans, spurts of his come painting your face, your neck, and top.

you look so beautiful like this, he thinks, but it comes out as, "you look like such a messy whore."

you blush and lick the ejaculate around your mouth. steve grabs your hand and pulls you to your feet. you feel a little unstable but he's pushing you face forward against his desk. he lifts your skirt, which he doesn't bother taking off, only to reveal your thong. of course.

"were you expecting this?" he asks with a chuckle. he pulls your thong and lets it snap against your ass, making you yelp.

"no, but i came prepared," you say boldly.

he tsks. "such a slut."

steve prods his cock at your entrance, making you wiggle your hips when he slides it up and down your slit. you wish he would just stick it in already, but he's bent on teasing you until you can't take it anymore. he wants you to beg for him.

he moves your hair to the side to whisper in your ear. "tell me what you want, bunny."

you whimper at the close proximity. you can feel his beard brushing against your cheek. "need your cock, sir. been wanting it for awhile."

"oh, i know," he says, and you can feel the smile spreading across his face. "just wanted to hear you say it."

with that he presses inside of you, filling you up inch by inch, agonizingly slow. you whine desperately, wanting more. your fingers dig into the desk. he slips out for a moment and slams back in, filling you to the hilt. from that point forward, he starts thrusting at gradually faster pace.

the room is obscenely filled with the sounds of both of your pants and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. he punctuates every thrust with a degrading phrase. it gets you even hotter.

before you know it you're close. clawing behind you, desperate to grab something, he takes both of your hands and holds them against the desk, giving a flurry of hard, fast thrusts. moans and whines tumble from your lips as you feel your body completely captured by an orgasm that makes you weak in the knees.

steve pulls out and comes on your back with a groan himself, incoherently slurring words of "whore" "slut" and "dumb bunny." he buries his face in the crook of your neck, attitude completely doing a 360.

"you did so well for me, sweetheart."

#fnaf #fnaf smut #fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #five nights at freddy's #steve raglan #william afton #william afton x reader

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floralcrematorium · 8 days

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2010s Nostalgia || Hetalia Edition

Hetalia Youtube Nostalgia Playlist | 117 songs | 7hr 5min

• Hey Na Na - Katie Herzig • Viva La Vida - Coldplay • Rasputin - Boney M. • Glad You Came - The Wanted • Hot Mess - Cobra Starship • Counting Stars - OneRepublic • Fireflies - Owl City • Bombshell Blonde - The Jagged Edges • Do Better - Say Anything • Welcome To The Show - Britt Nicole • Dance With The Devil - Breaking Benjamin • Survive - Sick Puppies • Life is Beautiful - Sixx:A.M. • Fairytale - Alexander Rybak • Everybody Loves Me - One Republic • Don't Mess With Me - temposhark • Mimimi - SEREBRO • I Like It Loud - Cash Cash • I Just Wanna Run - The Downtown Fiction • I'm ALIVE! - Becca • Lovestruck - Breathe Electric • I Like To Dance - Hot Chelle Rae • Haven't Had Enough - Marianas Trench • Kiss Me Thru The Phone - Soulja Boy, Sammie • Hard out Here - Lily Allen • Runaway Baby - Bruno Mars • I Don't Care - Fall Out Boy • Airplanes - B.o.B., Hayley Williams • Rock Star - Prima J • This Is War - Thirty Seconds To Mars • Hey Brother - Avicii • Cinderella - Tata Young • Centuries - Fall Out Boy • Déjà Vu - 3OH!3 • Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy Me - Lene Alexandra • Miss Jackson - Panic! At The Disco, LOLO • The Ballad of Mona Lisa - Panic! At The Disco • Europe's Skies - Alexander Rybak • Bad Apple!! - RichaadEB, Cristina Vee • Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off - Panic! At The Disco • Let's Kill Tonight - Panic! At The Disco • Hurricane - Panic! At The Disco • Casual Affair - Panic! At The Disco • Never Close Our Eyes - Adam Lambert • Playing With Fire - Ovi, Paula Seling • Angel With A Shotgun - The Cab • Nicotine - Panic! At The Disco • Killer - The Ready Set • How to Be a Heartbreaker - MARINA • This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race - Fall Out Boy • Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na) - My Chemical Romance • Troublemaker - Olly Murs, Flo Rida • Good Girls Go Bad - Cobra Starship, Leighton Meester • I Can't Decide - Scissor Sisters • One Woman Army - Porcelain Black • How To Start A War - Simon Curtis • Maps - Maroon 5 • Do Better - Say Anything • STARSTRUKK - 3OH!3 • Remember Everything - Five Finger Death Punch • The Diary of Jane - Breaking Benjamin • Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes • When You're Evil - Aurelio Voltaire • Canadian, Please - Julia Bentley, Gunnarolla • Sarah Smiles - Panic! At The Disco • Take Me to Church - Hozier • Viking Death March - Billy Talent • Headstrong - Trapt • Semi-Charmed Life - Third Eye Blind • Don't Believe A Word - Third Eye Blind • Warriors - Imagine Dragons • iNSaNiTY - CircusP • Paralyzer - Finger Eleven • I'm Awesome - Spose • 24 - Jem • Clarity - Zedd, Foxes • Hall of Fame - The Script, will.i.am • The Is Gospel - Panic! At The Disco • Immortals - Fall Out Boy • Rather Be - Clean Bandit, Jess Glynne • Wake Me Up - Avicii • a thousand years - Christina Perri • Just Like Fire - P!nk • Safe & Sound - Taylor Swift, The Civil Wars • Safe And Sound - Capital Cities • Everybody Wants To Rule The World - Lorde • Demons - Imagine Dragons • DNA - Little Mix • Remember The Name - Fort Minor, Styles of Beyond • Victorious - Panic! At The Disco • 右肩の蝶 (Butterfly On Your Right Shoulder) - Kagamine Rin/Len • We Are One (Ole Ole) - Pitbull, Jennifer Lopez, Claudia Leitte • Hero - Skillet • Maraca - Mohombi • The Phoenix - Fall Out Boy • DONTTRUSTME - 3OH!3 • Teenage Dream - Katy Perry • SING - My Chemical Romance • Good Time - Owl City, Carly Rae Jepsen • White Rabbit - Egypt Central • Not Gonna Die - Skillet • The Kill - Thirty Seconds To Mars • We No Speak Americano - Yolanda Be Cool, DCup • Nobody's Listening - Linkin Park • Disco Pogo - Die Atzen • German Sparkle Party - The Something Experience • Dirty Little Secret - The All-American Rejects • I Could Be The One - Avicii, Nicky Romero • Can't Hold Us - Macklemore & Ryan Lewis • Still Into You - Paramore • Primadonna - MARINA • Pompeii - Bastille • 恋愛サーキュレーション (Renai Circulation) - 物語シリーズ • Awake And Alive - Skillet • Monster - Skillet • Poker Face - Lady Gaga • Falling Inside The Black - Skillet

#i want to personally apologize for the sheer amount of PATD songs there are here #shoutout to the xDayDreamersStudiox “I Don't Care” amv SPECIFICALLY #or the I Don't Care nightcore video with the BFT as the background image #anyway i'm sorry if there are any repeats #this playlist is likely to be updated from time to time as i remember more songs #some of these are really niche and some are personal additions but i hope y'all who were there for the days of imovie AMVs will remember #some of these #aaaaanyway hetalia youtube LOOOOOOOOOVED fob's “Save Rock And Roll” album when it came out #and “American Beauty/American Psycho”#same with panic's “Too Weird To Live/Too Rare To Die” and “Death of a Bachelor”#hetalia #hetalia playlist #hetalia music #hetalia world series #floralcrematorium music #hws #ヘタリア #Spotify

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arachine · 1 year

Text

. . . 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 ! ˚₊✩‧₊

— pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

general tags: college! au, established relationship, fluff, suggestive

content warnings: period cramps, reader is a baby, ellie is patient, kissing, allusions to sex, brief mention of dealer!ellie + not proofread and also not my best work bc i was in pain !

note: this is super self-indulgent bc i am, unfortunately, on my monthly, and so, i am making it everyone’s problem >.<

ellie’s annoyed. actually, she’s concerned—maybe, slightly, kind of more than that too, but right now, she’s annoyed. this wasn’t like you—not answering messages, not answering calls.

she’d understand it if you were busy, especially since finals season was steadily approaching as the days passed, but she knew you didn’t have any plans today. that much was confirmed the last time she’d spoken to you, which was, if she could recall (she could recall it perfectly), last night at 8:00 p.m.

future wife 👰‍♀️: gn baby, see you tomorrow for breakfast! get some sleep ok? <33

ellie: alr goodnight baby. i’ll come get you at 9 ok? don’t oversleep this time, wanna get some french toast before all the athletes take it :/

future wife 👰‍♀️: never gonna let me live it down, huh?

ellie: never!

future wife 👰‍♀️: god alr, i won’t oversleep!!! promise :3 now gn fr this time!!! gts!!!

ellie: ok bossy i’m going to sleep 🫡 love you

that was the last message she’d sent to you that night. this morning, however, she made an effort to send you a slew of follow-up texts before making her way over to your dorm:

ellie: good morning sexy, you up?

ellie: it’s french toast time ☝🏻

ellie: don’t tell me you’re sleeping…

there was five minutes sent in-between each message, and yet, still no response. that’s when she got the bright idea to call.

“alright, this should wake her up,” she raised the phone to her ear, pacing around her apartment while waiting for the line to go through. to her dismay, it rung a few times before going straight to voicemail—to which she almost got excited over because you’ve got one of those annoying ass voicemails that sound like someone picked up the line.

“hey […], this is (name). sorry you can’t reach me right now, but leave a message and i’ll get back to you as soon as i c—”

“fucking hell.” ellie pinches the knot between her brows and sighs, ending the call before voicemail you can finish your sentence. again, she calls, thinking this time you’ll answer, but to no avail. it goes right to voicemail.

“the fuck…” she doesn’t even bother leaving a message. beelines right to her closet and grabs her sneaks, a hoodie, and her wallet, then heads out of her apartment building and begins the trek to your dormitory.

when she gets there, she buzzes in with her student keycard, and pads right up to the security desk. just as she’s about to open her mouth, one of the guards sitting interrupts her.

“can i see your proof of residence, please?” he says blankly, raising a fig bar up to his mouth.

“randy, really? you know me, i’m here almost every other day—just without my girlfriend—who i’m actually here to see,” she raises a finger, forearms leaning forward over the desk. randy feigns indifference, and opts to stuff the last of his bar in his mouth.

“you’re not a resident here, ellie. sorry, but you know the rules.”

“how about you shove the rules up your a—actually, that’s alright. my buddy right here will sign me in as a guest.” she grins devilishly at the dark haired man across the lobby, blinking once, twice, before flashing him a smile.

“jesse! my life saver, my best-friend, my messiah, my—“

“what do you want, ellie?” he rolls his eyes, pulling out his student keycard to flash randy. ellie purses her lips as if she’s been found out, then pulls jesse aside by the cloth of his jacket. she leans in real close so that what she says is out of earshot.

“sign me in as a guest and i’ll give you free weed during your next visit,” she bargains, wiggling her brows like she knows the offer is too good to pass up. jesse doesn’t answer her right away. instead, opts to tease her. puts his index finger on his chin, and opens his stance as if he’s really mulling it over. ellie’s not impressed.

a beat, then, he shrugs, mumbling a quick ‘better keep your word williams’.

ellie grins, something real big and cheshire-like, because she knows him. who’d be stupid enough to pass up free weed? exactly, no one. especially not a stressed college student, that’s for sure.

“thanks man, you’re really doing me a solid, you know,” she pats his back, to which he mutters a knowing ‘yeah, yeah, whatever’. she watches intently as he signs her in under his name, then makes a face at randy when she hands over her student keycard for him to keep.

“see ya later rand’!” the auburn haired girl says with the flick of a hand, turning the corner of the desk to get to the elevators.

“yeah, whatever.”

. . .

once the elevator comes to a halt on your floor, ellie gives jesse a final thank you before departing. as she walks down the winding hallway, she can’t help but to think the worst. what if you were unconscious? what if you’d been axe-murdered? what if you’d been kidnapped? all very unlikely, she knows, but not impossible.

when her mind sifts through a few more frightening scenarios, she realizes she’s already made it to your door. should she knock? she feels like she should knock, but then she figures if all her previous attempts to wake you up were unsuccessful, then who’s to say a few measly knocks would do the trick?

she decides against it. instead, she unhooks her carabiner from her jeans and fiddles around with her set of keys until she finds the spare you’d given her. until now, she’d never used it. the day you’d given it to her, you’d told her it was strictly for ‘emergencies’, and what better time to use it than now? this was surely an emergency, right?

the door unlocks and she immediately goes to twist the knob, pushes the door open and then shuts it closed behind her.

“babe, you here?” she calls out, walking through the kitchen, “you alive?” turns down the hall, “you in one piece?”

a beat. silence—save for the heavy padding of her boots as she makes her way towards your bedroom. the door is cracked open, just by a sliver, but she can see—or at least somewhat make out—the beginnings of a sleeping silhouette.

she pushes the door open and ambles to your bedside. you were fast asleep. curled up into a tight little ball with the duvet pulled up to your chin, and a mean little pout on your lips. it was adorable, and it made ellie’s heart twang with relief. at least now that she was able to verify your safety, she could forget all those terrible thoughts that she was getting herself all worked up over.

“hey, sweet girl,” she cooed, brushing the pad of her thumb over your cheek. your brows cinched in response, but you didn’t move. not even an inch. “baby,” ellie drawled in a sing-song voice.

she let her hand fall from your cheek to your back, and she rubbed it in slow, steady circles in an attempt to rouse you. after a while of this—a combination of her rubbing and cooing—you started to react.

“mmm,” you groaned, curling your knees up higher, “it hurts.”

“what hurts? what’s wrong?” opening your eyes, you were able to pair the voice of concern with a familiar face.

“ellie? what are you doing here?”

she lets a small chuckle escape her lips, then raises a hand to rest atop your head.

“what am i doing here? what are you doing here? had me worried sick about you,” she smooths a hand over your head, “missed our breakfast date.”

sighing, you slap a clammy hand over your head, then reach over ellie to grab your phone from the nightstand.

ten messages. three missed calls.

“god, i’m sorry, bellie. took some midol and melatonin last night so that i could beat these cramps, but i guess they worked a little too good, huh?”

“yeah, you nut.” she takes a glance at your nightstand and picks up the bottle of pills, shakes them around before settling them back down. “how many did you take?”

“just two…maybe three?” ellie’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“three? babe, these are 500 mg. why would you do that? the bottle says take two every six hours, and here you are taking more than the recommended amount, on top of taking melatonin,” she chides, though, it’s more out of genuine concern than it is her actually being upset.

you laugh at your own expense, but it’s short-lived because a second later, you’re clutching for your belly and writhing in pain.

ellie sighs, kicks her boots off and fully climbs up onto the bed and under the covers. once she settles into a comfortable position, she pulls you into her side.

“i know, baby, let me take care of you,” she strokes your back soothingly, “but next time, please don’t take that much. were you planning on sleeping forever?”

“maybe.” you jest, snuggling further into her warmth. admittedly, mixing both of those drugs was kind of stupid—maybe really stupid, but in your defense, you were in pain!—and really desperate. when you have cramps this bad, sometimes death sounds like mercy.

“oh, yeah?” the laugh she lets out is a deep rumble, and you can feel the vibrations of it as you lay on her chest. it’s soothing. a remedy that you should’ve utilized sooner, and you would’ve, had you been in the right headspace.

“mhm…” you purr, looking up at her, at her lips. ellie scans your face for pain, then dips down and pilfers a kiss from your lips. it’s slow, and sweet, and ends far too soon for your liking. before she can pull away, you tug her by the collar of her shirt. look up at her with pleading eyes, and fist it tighter between your knuckles.

“more,” you drawl, pulling her back down to meet your lips. she indulges you, because of course she does, and pushes you onto your back.

“thought,” a kiss, “your,” another, “cramps were bothering you?” she queries, breathless as she holds herself up above your sprawled out body. she thumbs with the hem of your shirt, waits expectantly for you to answer.

“they are,” you say, “so why don’t you make ‘em go away?”

and what kind of girlfriend would she be if did otherwise?

#:: — LEXI WRITES !#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x reader fluff #ellie williams fluff #ellie william x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams

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lenoraah · 7 months

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𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴

pairing - charles leclerc x reader

summary - cute and (hopefully) short moments in charles and reader’s relationship written in headcannons

a/n - i did this for Logan and decided to do one for Charles too

☆ logan’s version

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

anniversary-

~cute and smutty

~i see breakfast in bed and then a fun night in your future

~packing would be fun, matching outfits, beach pieces and parkas, something fun for the night

~roses and expensive glass of wine

~i think if your anniversary was on a race weekend then you would definitely go with him even if you had to use the rest of your vacation days (we all know what we’d do for him)

~i think it would be a cute tradition if you would get him something from a small local shop wherever you are while Charles is at practice

~either way it will be fun and exciting and sexy if you want it to be

your color-

~no matter what your color is i can see that Charles will freak out and be all excited whenever he saw something in your color

~bulky knitted sweaters, yoga pants, t-shirt, jackets, really anything

~it would be really adorable when he comes home and half of his luggage is just stuff in your color

~half of your closet would just be the clothes in your color that he has gotten you

~not to mention he’d also get jewelry, pottery, blankets and tiny decor pieces

~I have a very clear image;

~imagine, you are on your way to congratulate one of the drivers while Charles is in an interview. after the interview all he wants to do is find you and in the giant sea of people, it’s kind of hard. however he recognizes you very quickly with a smile on his face. how? by the sweater you have on. which he can clearly see even though your back is facing home while you are talking to Lando.

matching jewelry-

~i think we’ve all seen the one gorgeous Forza Ferrari bracelet that Charles has on

~i love it when a man wears jewelry

~maybe it’s a clay bead bracelet or maybe it’s one of those string ones

~i don’t know it’s really your choice, either way i think it would be really cute and have a heart or maybe something that is color coded

~maybe the two of you made the one for the other person

~i personally think that even though Charles has that huge stack of bracelets, yours would be the one he wouldn’t take off

~now what do we think about a necklace with his first initial on it

having pets together-

~the two of you would get either a cat or dog after the first year you’re together

~one of you would probably throw out a crazy idea like a tarantula or gecko

~which of course quickly gets denied by the other person

~either something inspired names or very original

~if you get a cat, a certain Williams driver will be very thrilled to hang out or catsit for the two of you

~if you get a dog, that means that if you ever decide to bring him/her to a race Angie and Roscoe would have another dog to gossip to about team strategies

~sorry couldn’t help myself, after all i am a depressed Ferrari fan 😀

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x y/n #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc headcanon #f1 x reader #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 imagine #f1 #formula 1 #formula one #original post #original writing

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jokeringcutio · 4 months

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(f) Reader sends accidental Pic to Stepdad William Afton [ Explicit/SMUT]

Fandom: FNAF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Non-con/Dub-con, First Time, Reader loses Virginity to stepdad, Stepdad teaching Stepdaughter Reader a lesson, age difference, forbidden relationship, height difference, infidelity, name-calling, Dark!William. All characters are mature in this. NOTE: These drabbles are in no particular order and not necessarily related. But they are all Stepdad!WilliamAfton x !StepdaughterReader Universe. As a reaction to this prompt:

Reader sends accidental Pic to Stepdad William Afton

The phone buzzed in your hand, a chilling reply displayed on the screen.

I'm coming home.

Panic surged through you like a tidal wave and you had to double-check the sender. But no, it was right there. Dad.

But why was your stepdad coming home, right now, when he was supposed to be working?

As you slowly scrolled the page up, thumb trembling, you came eye to eye with the picture you had intended to send to your crush.

Nothing wrong with it, was there? Most of your friends have done this. They’d encouraged you. Just take a picture with nothing on, send it to the guy you want to be dating, and voila.

But here, something had gone horribly wrong.

Because that intimate picture had been sent to William Afton, your mother’s husband, and since a few years your new dad.

Good lord, how had you made such a slip-up? Running your hands through your hair, you paced the room. Your stepdad was a strict man, not at all pleased when you announced you wanted to start dating. Very discouraging actually.

Boys were strictly forbidden, according to him anyway. But you were a girl with hormones raging and you’d met a nice bloke at your college. Plus, your friends had pushed you to do something like this. Just sent him a sexy pic. Not that you had shown all. But still.

It wasn’t something you wanted your stepdad to see.

Looking at your own picture one more time, you felt embarrassed. You looked good in it, your absolute best. Very seductive. A very revealing pic.

You were so going to get it now.

No way your stepdad was going to let you live this down. You instantly flicked your finger over the picture, deleting it. You weren’t in the mood to send it to the right guy any longer, only felt trepidation now that your stepdad could be home any moment.

He worked at the pizza plex nearby and was one of the managers. He could go wherever and whenever he wanted, and he had a really fancy car as well.

The sound of tires screeching signaled he had arrived sooner than you had anticipated. You had run out of time. Your heart raced and you clenched your fists, unsure of how to explain yourself. Casting a glance at your mirror – you were dressed in your unflattering comfy clothes – you mentally prepared to face your stepdad.

His car roared into the driveway, and then you heard the front door slam shut.

"Where are you?" William's voice boomed throughout the house.

"Upstairs!" you called out, trembling in fear. The sound of his heavy footsteps grew louder as he ascended the stairs. He was tall and very intimidating on a good day. You didn’t want to know how he would be on a bad one. But it seemed like you were about to find out.

He burst into your room, face flushed with anger and confusion. "What the hell were you thinking, sending those pictures?"

"William, I... I didn't mean—" you stammered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“When did I give you permission to use my full name?” William sneered, anger radiated off him in full waves. He pushed the aviator glasses back on his nose with an agitated growl. “I am still your dad, step or not. Address me respectfully.”

You hardly dared to look at him as you complied. “Yes, Daddy,” voice now soft as you glanced at the floor in shame. Yet, there was that little voice in the back of your mind, wondering what he had thought when he had seen your pictures. You looked like your mom – everybody had always said so. Had he thought you attractive?

Slowly, your eyes slid higher, from the floor to his feet and upward, past his shins and to the obvious outline of his cock in his pants. You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, when you realized that your pictures at least must have had some effect on him.

You got your stepdad hard.

You quickly looked up at his face. The thin lines around his eyes betrayed his sternness, the corners of his mouth had dipped into a displeased frown.

"Did you even think about the consequences?" he snapped, his blue eyes blazing with rage.

"Let me explain," you pleaded, your voice barely audible. The weight of his accusations hung heavy in the air.

"Explain what? That you've been sleeping around and sending pictures to your boyfriends?!" William's tone was laced with venom, his words cutting deep.

"Dad, I'm not dating anyone," you stammered, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks. "I just... I wanted to send them to someone I have a crush on. He asked for them."

"Christ," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you even realize what could happen if you do something so reckless?"

His question hung in the air, unanswered. You didn't know what to say, feeling small and humiliated.

"Think about it," he continued, his voice cold as ice. "Your pictures could end up all over the internet, with no way to get them back. And worse, that boy might want to fuck you."

As he spoke, he began unbuckling his belt, using his foot to kick your door shut. Your eyes grew wide, surprised by the suddenness of his actions. What was going on? Your body froze as you watched him, kicking off his shoes, unable to process what was happening.

Was this really the man who had been a part of your family for so long?

“It’s a good thing your mom doesn’t know what whorish behavior her daughter has been up to, because I swear, she would have gotten a heart attack.”

You stumbled backward, calves hitting the edge of your bed which made you glance shortly over your shoulder. There was nowhere to go any longer.

“Now, if you just do as I say, then we can keep this quiet,” William said, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. His pants fell to the floor and he kicked them off, leaving him in just his disheveled blouse and his socks.

His cock, long and thick, peeked out from between the edges of his blouse, the head an angry red and slit already weeping pre-cum. A mouthwatering sight, a man well-endowed. You could have enjoyed it, had he been anyone but your stepdad.

"Dad, please," you whispered, but your voice was drowned out by your own racing thoughts. It suddenly became very clear what his intentions were. You couldn’t just stand and watch. Your body kicked into action, and suddenly you found yourself bolting toward the door.

But before you could escape, William's strong hand gripped your arm, stopping you dead in your tracks.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled, his eyes dark with anger and something else. A deep raw hunger. Lust. You instantly knew there was no escaping the consequences of your actions.

But you were going to try.

You struggled in his grip. “Dad, William, no!” You cried out, as you tried to escape his grip. But his arm circled around you and you heard his breathing heavy and excited in your ear. You felt his chest, hot and hard, against your back. His cock pressed against the small of your back, the pre-cum staining the fabric of your shirt. Run, a voice inside your head screamed. But he was too strong.

Struggling, you felt him drag you back to your bed, so full of childhood memories. Always your personal safe little spot. And now? Now he threw you upon it without ceremony, crawling over you before you had the chance to get up.

You knew what he wanted to do to you. You could see it in those blue eyes, gleaming behind his glasses, pupils diluted with perverse intent. Could you ever look him in the eye again after this?

“Dad, please, think of Mom,” you tried to reason with him. But strong hands pried your legs open without hesitation, palms rough upon your knees, your thighs trembling as you tried to push him away.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice shaky and uncertain. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Surely he wouldn’t pop your cherry? Surely, he’d back down, laugh, and tell you he only had done it all to frighten you?

He leaned backward, trapping you to your bed with only his hips. Rising to his full height, he pushed his glasses back up his nose with a smirk, eyes roaming over your helpless figure underneath him.

“Oh, I think you know what I’m doing,” was all he said before two large fingers hooked around the waistband of your pants, tugging them down along with your panties, just enough to expose your cunt. Your breath halted as you looked at him in fear. He wouldn’t, would he?

“Dad,” you started, voice choked. “This is wrong. You can’t just-”

But you froze when you felt your stepdad’s long cock rub past your entrance, the tip dipping in and stretching your walls wide. He hunched over you, a grin plastered on his face while his eyes glinted. He brought his lips near your ear, hot breath flickering past your skin.

"I’m gonna teach you a lesson,” he murmured. You felt his fingers guide his cock, the fingertips pressing against your labia. Then, without a warning, he pushed himself inside in one firm thrust.

You threw your head back, back arched, and legs spasming. A loud cry was torn from your lips.

That fucking hurt.

Your stepdad was too large to be inserted in one go. Tears brimmed in your eyes while you brought your hands up to grab his shoulders, but he pushed them down and trapped them at either side of you.

“Take it,” you heard your stepdad growl through gritted teeth. “You wanted to tease some poor bloke, didn’t you? Then take what he has to offer you.”

His hips moved harshly, but it was just a few thrusts before he came to a halt. Your pussy throbbed painfully, desperately trying to adjust.

Through the tears, you managed to look up at him. William had raised a brow, looking at you as if he were studying your reactions while his hips gently started to move against yours again. You heard sickening slick sounds coming from where your bodies joined.

Experimentally, he moved his hips, and you arched your back again, fingers curling onto the mattress as you threw your head from side to side.

“Take it out,” you pleaded, “Please, Dad, take it out.” Soft mewls fell from your lips, it was pathetic. But you were in so much pain right now, split upon his cock. It was like he was tearing you apart. “It’s too much.”

You’d fantasized about cocks before, your mind wasn’t that innocent. But you’d never had a real one inside your cunt before and this – your stepdad’s cock – was just too large. The way it stretched your vaginal walls was painful, your pussy throbbing desperately around his shaft to try and adjust. But he kept moving his hips, making it harder to get used to the feel of him.

The head of his cock hit you deep, nudging against a part of you that you didn’t know existed. You shuddered on his shaft, taking deep breaths as your stepfather kept pumping his hips.

“You surprise me,” you heard the roughness in his voice, as if he was thirsting for something. “You're so tight," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "Like fucking a virgin.”

Something in his blue eyes flickered and you bit back another pained gasp. “Fuck, you feel so good."

Another deep thrust moved you up the bed. You tried to get a grip on the sheets, the blankets – just anything, but your dad kept pushing your hands down, pinning them at your sides. Once you relented and left them there, fingers digging into the soft material of your bedding, he finally placed his arms around your head.

“That’s better, sweet girl of mine,” William’s low voice hummed. “You’re starting to adjust to my cock. I can feel it.”

Wet noises confirmed that he was still stretching your cunt, but also, that you were wet enough for him to easily slide in and out of.

“Please,” you begged, voice sounding weak, but you had to try.

Your body trembled, muscles being stretched into positions they had never been stretched before. You felt how your chest was trapped to his own, how it became hard to breathe while his cock still pushed deep inside your sensitive core.

The pain slowly began to ebb away, your legs slowly started to relax now that they got used to being pushed this far aside. Your stepdad was a large man, both in height and width as in girth, and you had to spread your legs really wide for him to fit in between. But you managed.

“I don’t want this, Daddy,” you weakly said. And you felt weak. Perhaps that was the worst of it. Not his large cock splitting you open and tearing you in half. But the fact that you wanted to appear strong, and yet your voice sounded so small and tears were threatening to fall from your eyes.

Your stepdad glanced down at you and gave another thrust. “You don’t want this, sweetheart? You’d think those boys would care if it hurt or not?”

You flinched at the harshness in his voice. As if to punctuate his words, your stepdad moved his hips in a rather sharp thrust, hitting that spot deep inside with such ferocity that it made you flinch in pain. You groaned, gritting your teeth in order not to cry out.

Something in William’s eyes flickered, recognition at what he’d done to you, and then, he did it once more, chuckling as you clearly put in effort to keep from gasping in pain.

“This is how real men fuck. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t send out invitations,” his words were rough and mean, and his cock dipped in even deeper inside of you, stirring your innards, making you see starts. You sincerely regretted ever having even taken such photos, let alone sending them to your stepfather.

His thrusts grew bolder, harsher. His cock was buried to the hilt as he folded you over, drawing your knees up to your chest while his hands slipped under your shirt. You felt rough fingers grasp the soft flesh of your breasts, squeezing them painfully in a tight grip that made it impossible to keep from crying out.

“That’s it, baby girl,” William spat, “When I squeeze you I feel you clench down on my cock.” Another firm squeeze of your breasts and you became aware that he was right. Your pussy clamped down on his cock firmly, as if it wanted him inside. You let out another gasp. A denial might have escaped your lips, but if there had been a quiet ‘no’ then it was denied by your stepdad anyway. He thought he was right, and apparently, he didn’t care a dime about your feelings in any of this. He was just using you for his pleasure now, nothing more.

His hips moved a little slower now while he grunted, his hands stilled on your breasts. “Let’s get rid of that,” you heard him say as he tutted his lips. His fingers grazed at the fabric of your shirt. “I’ve already seen it all on the picture anyway.”

With two strong hands, he tore at the shirt, lifting it over your chest until he left your breasts exposed.

A whistle escaped his teeth.

“Well, would you look at that,” then he leaned over you again, his breath hot on your skin. “They look even better than on the screen.”

And then his mouth was upon them. His lips circled a nipple, sucking and suckling while the other one was assaulted by his thumb. You gasped and arched under his touch, glad that his hips had stilled, but still trapped under his weight – his cock snuggly all the way inside your tiny cunt.

He was working his lips on you, suckling and nibbling on your sensitive nipples until it made you gasp. You felt how your body betrayed you. How pain from the initial intrusion and the hard fuck started to morph into something else.

Your pussy started to pulse around his cock, not in pain or in an attempt to adjust. No, your body was drawing him in, starting to milk him for pleasure. Liquid started gushing down his shaft, easing the way for him as your body started to thrum. Your nerves started to tingle, a hot coil formed in your core. Each pinch, each nibble, each suck and each bite set your body on fire. Your core throbbed.

Your stepdad was really skilled with his mouth. The hairs of his bread tickled your skin and heightened the sensations.

And then he started to move his hips again.

William’s lips left your breasts but his hands lingered. Dark eyes – the blue now a deep black – stared at you through his aviator glasses. His hips moved forcefully against your own, but the pain had now fully morphed into pleasure.

“That slides a lot better now,” your stepdad drily commented, moving his hips expertly against your own while you felt his cockhead bump against something soft deep inside of you. The sensation had you mewling.

“Always knew you were a tease,” his cock thrust deep, tearing another moan from your lips, “from the very start,” thrust, “Just another whore begging to be fucked.” Thrust. “Want to be Daddy’s good girl?” Thrust. “More like Daddy’s good whore.” Thrust. “But you have impressed me, sweetheart.”

A thumb gently brushed past your clavicle and, at feeling the sensation, your eyes looked up to search for his. The sight you met was that of a demon possessed by lust. Darkness shielded his emotions, making him look all the more fearful to you.

“Never thought I’d get to fuck my virgin daughter.”

And with that said, William gritted his teeth and started to pick up the pace. His fingers dug into your hips as he held you in place, his cock repeatedly battering so deep inside of you that you were starting to feel sore. Globs of pre-cum softened your cervix as he pressed forth, the head of his cock hitting the entrance to your womb at a punishing pace, again and again, until you gasped in both pleasure and pain. A perfect combination, for your eyes fell shut as your body worked towards an orgasm.

Your pussy tightened around your stepdad’s cock, your toes curled and your fingers dug into your bed. William’s hands were tight upon your hips, leaving bruises where his fingers dug into your skin as he rutted you like an animal in heat.

And then you came. A blissful feeling. Like a volcano that erupted inside and made you see all the stars in the galaxy. The feeling overwhelmed you. Your entire body shook and trembled, your pussy milked your stepdad’s cock for all you were worth, nearly sending him over the edge. But he had control. With gritted teeth, he worked you through your orgasm until the stars you saw started to disappear and you slowly came down from your high,

You came back to earth again feeling your stepdad’s fingers tightly on your skin, hearing his rough grunts, and feeling the force of his harsh thrusts. He was getting near. Even as inexperienced as you were, you could tell.

Your eyes opened wide. Not only was your pussy overly sensitive right now – your body begging him to stop – but this was also your first time having sex. Ever. And you weren’t on any birth control.

And your stepdad should not come inside of you.

“N-Not inside,” you managed to beg, although it took a lot of you to be able to speak after having reached such bliss only moments before.

For a moment you feared that William hadn’t heard you or wouldn’t listen. But then, after two more firm thrusts, your stepdad withdrew and you let out a loud sigh.

Relieved, you smiled up at him and watched as he sat back on his knees. His glistening erection was an angry red, the head throbbing against his own belly. Slick stuck to his shaft, coating it, creating strings of yellowish white tinted with red that caught to the hairs on his stomach.

William seemed to catch his breath as he ran a hand through his wispy hair.

You wanted to thank him for not coming inside of you, for being considerate, but the moment you parted your lips to speak, he hovered above you again. His lips turned into a devilish grin, spelling doom and confusing you because – what was he up to?

“Daddy hasn’t come yet,” he ominously rasped. You loved the way his voice sounded, so deep and hoarse. It sent another spark of arousal through you. You wondered how he was going to finish, whether he’d come on your stomach or ask you to put your lips around him and swallow his load.

But then you felt his hands on your knees, pushing them apart once more. You reached up a hand, “Dad, no!” but it was too late.

He plunged his cock back in while he hooked a hand underneath your leg, pulling it upward, meeting your hips at a different angle this time as he started thrusting without hesitation.

He curled over you, his cockhead once again beating your cervix, sending a fresh bout of tears to your eyes because it felt so good but you were oh-so-sensitive down there. You gritted your teeth, completely helpless, and left at his mercy as he fucked the living daylights out of your already sore and tired body.

“Didn’t I say I was going to teach you a lesson, pretty girl?” You heard his low voice rasp as your stepdad pressed his forehead against your own. You felt his sweaty skin against yours, felt how your sore pussy clamped down on his cock as if your body wasn’t eager to ever let him go.

“Perhaps Daddy doesn’t want to come outside,” he grunted, his large hand upon your right breast, squeezing it. And despite having already cum, your pussy reacted accordingly and clamped down like a vice. It was becoming hard to breathe now, your body was overstimulated, your core sore. But William wouldn’t stop as he worked himself toward his own bliss.

“If I want to fucking come inside of you, then I will. Part of the lesson, kiddo. I don’t fucking care if you were a virgin ten minutes ago, or if you were saving yourself for some fucking dim-witted boy. You fucking got yours now, and you’d better keep everything that Daddy has to give you. Because… here it comes.”

The last few words were all punctuated by firm thrusts, and then your stepdad groaned and rolled his eyes back as his body stilled. His hands were still firmly upon you, keeping you pinned down, whilst hotness flooded your womb and covered your insides like hot burning liquid.

You let out a silent sob, feeling certain that William held you pressed down to the mattress on purpose, keeping you pinned underneath him until he was done pumping his semen inside of your womb. When he finally retreated, his cock slipping out of you, still half-hard but already softening, you let out a sigh of relief.

Yet, your pussy fluttered around nothing, suddenly feeling empty. You started to feel drowsy, body content after the heavy fucking, heart overruling your mind. You groaned and waited to see your stepdad put himself back inside his pants before you slowly sat up.

It felt awkward and painful between your legs, making it hard to move. A thick trace of cum and blood filled the bed, pooling from your sensitive cunt to the sheets. You looked at it in disdain, wrinkling your nose as you realized that this was all done by your stepfather.

Your stepdad had ruined your cunt, taking your virginity and coming inside unasked.

You glowered angrily at him only to meet his gaze, eyes cold. He took the challenge head-on and set himself down next to you, on the edge of your bed.

“Any boy would have done that,” he said, voice low but calm. His hand hovered in the air between you, almost as if waiting for permission, and when you didn’t recoil he placed it gently on top of your bare thigh.

“I did you a favor. And I suppose, a thank you would be in place.”

Was he serious? You looked at him, core throbbing painfully after the sex. After having fucked you so carelessly, he now expected that you would thank him for it?

But then you saw that darkness in his eyes and knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this one. This was your stepdad, you were living under his roof, eating his food, dancing to his tunes – and you would be for quite a while to come, economic crises made sure of that. It just seemed the music had changed and you were no longer in the children’s disco.

And so you hung your head. A soft whisper fell from your lips, but you could tell he had heard you by the grin that slipped onto his. “Thank you for teaching me a lesson, Daddy.”

His big hand gently squeezed your thigh, skin warm and soft.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” his hand then left your leg until his fingers gently tucked your chin up, carefully making you meet his eyes.

“I just want you to know that although I am not your biological dad, I am your family now. And as your stepdad, I will always be here for you to help you. You need anything from Daddy, just ask. Don’t tease it out of me.”

You almost felt ashamed at this point, and had to remind yourself that you did not send him that picture to tease him. It had truly been an accident. Had he interpreted it the wrong way? Did he think you had wanted him to do this? Was it your fault?

“The world out there’s a nasty place, with nasty, vile men. And what job is it but a Dad’s job to prepare his gorgeous daughter for that world? So that’s what I’m here to do. Help you, guide you, teach you all you need to know.”

It could have been sweet, had his voice not lowered and his intentions not so thin-veiled with lust.

“Just ask. I have many more lessons to teach you.”

Your mouth turned dry at the silent promise that he would fuck you some more – and all the trouble that could come out of it if your mom ever found out.

What else could you say?

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He smiled.

“Any time, darling. Any time.”

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