Elphie. Elphie. Pay Attention To Me

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

you meet chloe in cairo. it’s too hot, the streets are too loud, and she talks too much. not to you, at first. you’re just the extra set of hands for a quick recovery job that’s gone sideways more times than it should’ve. you’re supposed to stay quiet, keep your head down, and do what you’re told. chloe doesn’t like people who take up space she didn’t give them. but she notices you.

the first time she actually looks at you— really looks — is after you talk a local dealer down from six thousand to two and a half for a map fragment she’s been trying to get for weeks.

she blinks. “well, i’ll be damned.”

you shrug, lips quirking. “he likes pretty faces.”

“so do i,” she says, and then walks off like she didn’t just throw a grenade and smile at the explosion.

it’s messy with her. always is.

the job stretches on longer than anyone wants to admit. more flights, more trains, more guns. more nights where neither of you sleep, and not just because of the danger. there’s this... buzz, you trade dry remarks, silent glances. she gives you that grin when you’ve got blood on your cheek and your chest is heaving and you both almost died, again.

she doesn’t touch you. not yet. but she wants to. and you feel it. that simmer just under the skin, waiting.

──

she kisses you in istanbul.

you’re in a crumbling hotel room with no lock on the door and only one working lamp. you’re bandaging her arm, a shallow graze, but it looks worse than it is. and she won’t stop fidgeting.

“hold still,” you mutter.

“you’re enjoying this, admit it.”

“you bleed too much.”

she laughs, but it dies off quick. her eyes are on you now, and they’re soft in a way you’ve never seen from her. like she’s thinking about letting you see something she’s spent years hiding under ten layers of sarcasm and steel. then: “come here.” she doesn’t say please. chloe doesn’t beg.

but you go to her anyway.

the kiss is rough. urgent. like she’s afraid if she waits, she’ll talk herself out of it. and maybe she would’ve. but you’re here now. and her hands are on your hips, pulling you in, grounding you both in this flickering, half lit room that smells like dust and gunpowder and something sweeter that neither of you will name.

you don’t sleep that night.

after that, it’s not easier. not with her. she still picks fights for fun, still flirts with danger like it owes her money. but she holds your gaze a second longer. hands linger when they don’t have to.

she lets you see her scared. once. maybe twice.

and when it’s all over, when the artifact’s in a box, the buyer paid off, the trail cold, she stands next to you on a rooftop in athens and says, “i don’t do the whole happily ever after thing.”

you nod. laughing at the comment. “me neither.”

she looks at you. quiet for a long while.

“but... yknow.. i could try.” she says, voice low. you slide your hand into hers. no fairy tale. just this. just her.

lil galentines treat

｡⋆𖦹.✧˚──

the wind in the desert is not quiet. it howls through bone and ruin. it sings of forgotten blood and shattered names. paul has stopped pretending to sleep. the wind keeps him company. so do the ghosts.

he walks the edge of the ridge, cloak dragging behind him like the shadow of a future he no longer wants. fremen eyes watch from the rocks, but they do not follow. they know he walks into something only he can name. he finds feyd there, as he knew he would — standing where the sand meets stone, where the cold creeps up through the soles of their boots like warning. the last harkonnen. the beautiful knife. the mirror with a smirk.

"you’re late," feyd says, though neither of them agreed to meet. paul looks at him, and it feels like looking into the center of a storm.

"or maybe you were early."

feyd snorts, fingers flexing at his sides, like he’s itching for a blade but knows better than to draw.

"maybe we were always here."

──

their first fight ends in silence. not because it isn’t violent. it is. it’s everything. a storm of movement and breathless calculation. sand kicked up in flurries. blades kissing too close to skin. but it ends not with blood, not yet. it ends when feyd’s knife is pressed to paul’s neck, and paul’s hand is buried in feyd's hair, tugging his head back with just enough control to make it dangerous. they’re breathing hard. they’re too close.

"this isn’t how you kill a messiah," paul whispers.

"this isn’t how you fight one," feyd answers, and neither of them move. the blade doesn’t cut. the hand doesn’t release.

──

at night, they fall into the sand like it’s the only place they belong. the fremen sleep in a circle behind them, pretending not to notice. or maybe pretending not to care.

"you think this ends with one of us dead," feyd says, staring up at the stars that don’t blink. "but i think it already ended, long before we met."

paul turns his head. "how poetic of you."

"fuck you."

pause.

"you ever wish you'd never been born into this?"

paul doesn’t answer for a long time.

"every day."

"yeah. me too."

they lie in silence. it stretches between them like a wound.

──

there is blood, eventually. of course there is. you don’t put two blades this close without drawing something red. but it’s not a deathblow. not yet.

feyd bites his lip until it splits, staring down at paul after another fight that ended in stalemate and bruises. "you want me to kill you, don’t you?"

paul says nothing.

feyd drops the knife. it thuds against the sand like a heartbeat. he steps closer. waits for resistance. it doesn’t come.

"you want to see if i’ll be the one to do it. take the crown off your head. end the prophecy. end you."

paul looks up, eyes glowing like he swallowed the sun.

"i want to see if you can stand to look at me and still be human."

feyd flinches.

──

when they kiss, it’s not soft. it’s not gentle. it’s not sweet. it’s a warning. they bite. they bleed. they hold each other like dying men who’ve forgotten how to pray. paul tastes like dust and fear and something ancient. feyd tastes like fury, like burning, like something broken pretending it never was.

they do not speak after. they lie in the silence.

paul’s head rests on feyd’s shoulder. feyd’s fingers twitch against paul’s ribs, like he’s not sure if he wants to hold him or crack him open.

──

"i dreamed of a future where we killed each other," paul says one morning, voice quiet, like confession.

feyd lights a smoke, eyes hooded. "sounds like a happy ending."

"i died with your name in my mouth."

feyd freezes.

he exhales, slow. "was i the one who killed you?"

paul doesn’t answer.

and in that silence, feyd closes the space between them again. not like a lover. like an ending. like a war that forgets it was ever made of men.

a/n: eww i hate this. something about tumblr just makes my writing like twenty times worse. it doesn't help that i'm having the worst hangover of my life while i wrote this..

this is their original dialogue from the script trust

Not done yet but I post for May 9th— May thy 9th chip and shatter ❤️

ʚoɞ

NSFW CONTENT BELOW

he’s such a hard worker. he’s got to get this flavor just right, has to keep making adjustments so you’ll absolutely love it. he’s so focused, and there’s a certain determination to him. his hands were sticky and sugary when he wrapped them around your waist. it’s cute to see him try to be so careful about touching you, trying his best not to get sugar everywhere. he’s got some of it on his apron. it got on your skin too, but you don’t mind.

he pulls away just for a moment, and you’re able to watch his face this time. his face is flushed, sugar and white chocolate staining his lips and face. his lips look so pretty, his cheeks are soft pink, and his eyes are hazy. “gotta get it just right.” he manages to say before he’s diving back in again to get another taste.

your soft thighs jerk against his cheeks, and it doesn’t help that he’s also being so sloppy. the way he’s licking and kissing is rough, like he has no idea the effect he’s having on you. he’s so focused and desperate to get the taste right.

he grips your thighs just slightly tighter, his fingers sinking into the skin hard enough to leave little indents, he seems to be getting into a rhythm, his face pressing between your thighs, his mouth so eager and messy. like he doesn’t know how hard you’re clenching, how you can barely keep your thighs open, or how you’re trying to stop all those pretty sounds from leaving your mouth. a long, shaky exhale drags out of your throat, soft and breathy as you cum. your thighs jerking and your fingers curling into the mess of his hair, gripping the tangled curls without thinking. he pulls away, his cheeks flushed and his face a mess with the sweet combination of sugar and you.

his voice is a soft whine when he speaks. and he’s still gently massaging your legs, just wanting to touch you but also trying not to leave a trail of sugar and chocolate all over you. “good?” was all he asked. the softest little syllable, and he already made it sound so pleading.

a shaky sound came out, "uh-huh", barely more than a breath. he smiles at that, his expression turning sweet and soft the moment you show any signs of approval. he loves you, just so much, and he can’t ever get enough of hearing you say you’re satisfied. he pushes himself up just a little more to rest his head on your stomach, letting the top of his head just barely touch your chest, before he lets out a content sigh.

“yeah?” he asks, but you can hear that it isn’t really a question, he also starts writing down some things in his notebook, writing down certain flavors, how you tasted, to get this chocolate perfect.

ʚoɞ

a/n: this is my first ever time writing x reader smut lmao neverrr thought it would be willy wonka but timothee..... mhm mhm mhm

THE LAST OF US

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

JOEL MILLER

lap's still yours. — fluff, one shot.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

ELLIE WILLIAMS

lines in the snow. – fluff, one shot.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

ABBY ANDERSON

LANDESKOG OH MY GOD I THIKK I JUST BLACKED OUT FROM JOY. IM NAMING MY FUTURE CHILDREN, CATS, EVERYTHING AFTER THIS MAN.

UNCHARTED

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

NATHAN DRAKE

toast kisses — fluff, drabble.

𓂃 ࣪˖༉‧₊˚.

CHLOE FRAZER

don't get attached. — fluff? kinda? one shot.