You Just KNOW They Talking About Anime.

they will not leave me alone

more ancient gods

It's been two months since you appealed to the ancient gods in a last ditch attempt to save your village. Two months where soft rains fall every few days, healing the dried, cracked earth. Two months since most of those gone for battle return, scarred but no longer scared. Two months where game have slowly returned to the lands around the village, and barren plants have begun blooming again. Two months where the only death comes at the end of a long life.

You try to find a new rhythm to your days. Three months ago, you were another member of your people, albeit one with more knowledge of the old ways than was considered necessary. Now, though, the village elders have spoken in hushed terms of elevating you to the position of prophetess or seer, believing you have some direct connection to the four gods who saved them. You do not share their faith, but you still bear the initial marks of all four gods on your body.

You still do not know what it means.

In the meantime, the shrines you asked for have been completed, and you've become their de facto caretaker. You keep the altars clean and say prayers to each god in turn. After the way they've blessed the village, you think it might be good to consult the ancient tomes again; perhaps there are other gods whose aid the village could use If only there was a place to pray to them. If nothing else, you could learn how to better show devotion to the four gods who feel so real to you now, though you struggle to explain why.

A fortnight after the first rains fell, a young mother asked if she could make an offering to Gaz for the health of her new baby. Two days later an old man found you and, hesitantly, asked how he could ask the god of death to guide his wife in the afterlife. Two of the men you'd played with as a child bring seeds as an offering to Tav the night before they're set to till and sow the field. The former leader of your people's warriors brings his best weapon to lay on Jon's altar in thanks for bringing him safely home.

At night your dreams are more vivid. You find yourself in fighting leathers, sword in hand, as Jon teaches you swordplay. The god of death reminds you you gave your life to him, and he does not plan to cut you down so young, urging you to learn Jon's lessons. Tav joins you in Gaz's unwalled tent, dishes spread feet from the fertile fields where now both men use your body for their pleasure.

More than whispers of conversation carry from your dreams. Jon telling you the shrines and worship make their presence in your village, and in your life, stronger. Gaz hinting that dreams will no longer be the only place you see them. The god of death talking about the power of names before giving you the one your people had lost to time: Si. Tav commenting on how you'll glow when he can truly show you how powerful your fertility is.

Everything points to a reality you cannot comprehend. Until one day, half a year after that first night, your village is visited by four large men, strangers to all but you.

main masterlist

hey me thoughts about simon hitting on a stranger somewhere and it works except whenever she comes back out all disheveled and sticky soap thinks it's the perfect time to shoot his shot too (nothing sloppy about those seconds, honey) and ghost has to be like wait that's actually my wife

pt. 2 to this blurb | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

Ref Recs for Whump Writers

Violence: A Writer’s Guide:  This is not about writing technique. It is an introduction to the world of violence. To the parts that people don’t understand. The parts that books and movies get wrong. Not just the mechanics, but how people who live in a violent world think and feel about what they do and what they see done.

Hurting Your Characters: HURTING YOUR CHARACTERS discusses the immediate effect of trauma on the body, its physiologic response, including the types of nerve fibers and the sensations they convey, and how injuries feel to the character. This book also presents a simplified overview of the expected recovery times for the injuries discussed in young, otherwise healthy individuals.

Body Trauma: A writer’s guide to wounds and injuries. Body Trauma explains what happens to body organs and bones maimed by accident or intent and the small window of opportunity for emergency treatment. Research what happens in a hospital operating room and the personnel who initiate treatment. Use these facts to bring added realism to your stories and novels.

10 B.S. Medical Tropes that Need to Die TODAY…and What to Do Instead: Written by a paramedic and writer with a decade of experience, 10 BS Medical Tropes covers exactly that: clichéd and inaccurate tropes that not only ruin books, they have the potential to hurt real people in the real world. 

Maim Your Characters: How Injuries Work in Fiction: Increase Realism. Raise the Stakes. Tell Better Stories. Maim Your Characters is the definitive guide to using wounds and injuries to their greatest effect in your story. Learn not only the six critical parts of an injury plot, but more importantly, how to make sure that the injury you’re inflicting matters. 

Blood on the Page: This handy resource is a must-have guide for writers whose characters live on the edge of danger. If you like easy-to-follow tools, expert opinions from someone with firsthand knowledge, and you don’t mind a bit of fictional bodily harm, then you’ll love Samantha Keel’s invaluable handbook

'I always wanted to fuck him' caption under a picture of a dark room with nothing in it

Simon Riley is the sort of man to only speak through intimacy. And I’m not talking sex; this man wouldn’t even take his shirt off around you until you begged. Not that he was shy or uncomfortable, but simply because his love language is intimacy of a non physical sort. He’d learn to cook your mother’s favorite recipe. Clip a bouquet of wild flowers at the correct angle so they stay fresher for longer. For you. Research your favorite book genres and authors so he could speak with you about them and give you new recommendations. Watch you so closely that he could tell from a flicker in the corner of your mouth and a specific movement of your eyes that you wanted out of a social situation. His devotion would be endless and complete. Get home from deployment and wait around the house like a dog until you got home. Braid your hair when you’re sick and oil your scalp late at night before you showered. Avoid letting himself sleep until the rise and fall of your chest against his arms settled into the pattern of your rest he had meticulously memorized. This man gives everything and then some without asking for a single thing back.

Just thinking about breeding programs between alphas and omegas in which people basically sell their uterus or sperm to have the most attractive/strong/smart kid possible.

And I’m thinking about the person you choose being John Price. You’d seen him one time in the hospital you worked at and immediately went “that’s the father of my child”.

Except he insisted on getting you pregnant the old fashioned way and would only take half the amount you offered him for his services. And as he laid you down in one of those sterile and neutral rooms they used for this sort of thing, his scent hit you full force.

John Price was your mate. And you had picked him out of a damn crowd of people, no scent needed.

The employees had to usher you both out as the planned breeding became a full-blown rut and heat, the alpha insisting on mating you at that very moment.

John Price is older and John Price has spent his entire life serving and giving. It’s only fair he finally take something. Something that was his from the very moment he came into the world.

Bakery/coffee shop au where you have a specific policy of not serving people what they ask for, bht rather what you think they need. p1

The bell chimed, and you glanced up from the counter, offering your usual warm greeting- only to falter for just a second when you saw who had stepped inside.

The man was massive. Easily the tallest person to ever enter your little bakery. He had to duck slightly as he stepped through the door, his broad frame momentarily blocking out the sunlight streaming in from outside. He wore a hood over his head, the fabric casting most of his face in shadow, but his eyes flickered warily across the room, scanning every corner like he was expecting a threat.

He reminded you of the four men who had visited before, so he might be a soldier as well- but right now, standing awkwardly in the middle of your cozy little shop, he just looked… unsure.

Nonetheless, you leaned against the counter and offered a friendly smile. “Welcome in. First time here?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Ja.”

You gestured toward the display case filled with pastries and cakes. “Looking for something sweet? Or just a drink?”

Not like I’ll give you whatever you ask for, anyways.

He shifted slightly, glancing at the menu on the chalkboard behind you. “…Black coffee.”

Always black coffee at the scene of the crime.

You hummed, tilting your head as you studied him. His posture was tense- shoulders squared, back straight, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to relax. The way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides told you he was holding onto more nerves than he was letting on.

“No.” You declared, not bothering to lie.

His eyes snapped back to you. “What?”

You smiled, already turning toward the espresso machine. “You don’t need black coffee.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, cautiously, he asked, “…What do I need?”

“You’ll see!”

He didn’t argue, though you could feel his gaze on you the entire time you worked.

A few minutes later, you set a honey lavender latte and an apple strudel- after some careful consideration and a good, fair bit of squinting at him in thought- in front of him with a very bright smile. “Here you go, sir!”

He blinked at it, and then you. “…This is not coffee.”

“Nope,” you agreed easily, wiping your hands on your apron. “But I think you need something warm. Something sweet.” You shrugged. “Something that’ll make you feel a little more at home here. I have a unique policy, anyways, and I stick by it.”

He stared at the cup for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out and took it, his gloved fingers dwarfing the delicate handle. He lifted it to his lips, taking a small, careful sip.

For a second, there was no reaction.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders relaxed.

You didn’t comment on it. Instead, you just smiled, stepping back behind the counter. “Welcome to my bakery, sir.”

“…Call me König.”

So, what's your favourite scary movie? 👻

hereditary is such an obvious answer because it's basically perfect but. i also love train to busan. perfect zombie movie.