#// heHEHEHEH IT BEGINS

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: apparently it is easier to push out a new chapter when its a juicy one!!!! sorry for this but did you really think i was done with the angst? oh naur babey we're just setting up the scene i envisioned when i had the original idea <3 strap in babe!

word count: 2.4k

synopsis: A secret you vowed to never reveal gets uncovered and Azriel struggles as all he's known is turned on its head. An unfriendly adversary from the past comes knocking.

CHAPTER SIX :: BETRAYERS

One glimpse at your shelter as he winnows into the forest, the snow crunching loudly underfoot, and Azriel knows it deep in his bones.

Something is wrong.

He stands amongst the pines of the forest behind your shelter and even from the distance, he can sense the change in the air. The wind, wilder than usual, tastes faintly like danger. It's snowing. His shadows wisp about, whispering and twittering, doing nothing to ease the twinge of panic.

There are boards in the back window.

Azriel stalks forward through the snow, his ears keenly sifting through the noises of the forest around him but nothing gives way. Just like he had felt all those days ago, there’s a warped agony that clings to the sides of your shelter.

Last time, there had been blood in the snow. A trail, that led him right to you.

Today, there are only the boards in the windows.

His mind jumps to the other warriors in the camp, wondering if this is their doing— trapping you inside as some sort of sickening test. See if the bastard can fight his way out or starve to death in his own four walls.

Something like pure malice glimmers just beneath his skin, ready to rear up, but—

—But no. As he gets closer, Azriel realises he’s wrong.

This is not the work of the brutes in camp, this is you. The boards have been put up from the inside.

A series of emotions stutter and slam into each other, wrestling with one another in his chest. Confusion shares the top spot with an unwavering concern that seems to grow with every step closer. Boarded up from the inside... what possible reason could warrant you to do this?

Uneasiness coats his every nerve, an uncomfortable prickle rolling along his raised hackles. Something stirs in his chest. Azriel stalks closer to your shelter, snow slushing beneath his boots, torn between calling out and biting his tongue. He goes for the latter.

His shadows glide around him agitatedly, circling his hands where they hover over his weapons. His wings are pulled in tight. He slows as he reaches the front of your shelter.

There's no sound coming from inside. No scent of blood, no crackle of fire. Yet somehow he knows, without question, that you're in there.

As his concern winds down a notch, his rational brain begins to tick. There might be someone else in there with you. As the different scenarios get considered and discarded, Azriel lands on the most likely one. It's a trap.

The reasoning builds up the motive, spinning a story that makes sense. A Shadowsinger, the Spymaster of the Night Court, caught off his guard by using his latest confidant against him.

Azriel turns over the idea slowly and decisively, thinking of Brudam, of Lord Mylind, wondering if they've been buying their time all this while— and he's been too distracted with you to even notice.

Azriel curses himself for being so careless.

There's still no noise from within the shelter.

If it's a trap, it doesn't matter; the only way out is through.

Letting his hand curl around the Truth Teller, Azriel grips it tightly and pretends that the loud thump in his mind isn't the echo from his afraid heart. He can't afford to be afraid — not with what it would mean, not with how it betrays how he feels for you.

Not when it distracts him from doing what is needed from him.

His shadows spiral up around him and Azriel weaves the darkness, folding the fabric of the world til it aligns as he needs, his anger sharpening his resolve. He steps through the rippling darkness and into your boarded-up shelter with one swift motion.

It's dark inside. There are slivers of light that curl around the planks of wood, reaching in the dance upon the floor, distorted by the motion of falling snow. The air is stale, undisturbed.

Azriel's gaze scours the environment for enemies, his grip tight around his knife, prepared to unsheathe it without hesitation. His shadows fly around wildly, whispering the details of the room— each corner empty, except for the one he knows your bed is tucked in. Something loosens in his chest just a fraction.

There's no one else in here but you.

His eyes go right to your bed. It's hard to see within the darkness but your figure is there, hunched up even tighter than the last time he had found you wounded, wings pulled up in an uncomfortable hold around yourself.

As the possibility of a trap tapers away, another scenario creeps in — you've been attacked and holed yourself up before they can finish the job.

Almost as the thought crosses his mind, the scent of blood reaches his senses. Azriel stills, each limb locking up as the information filters through his mind, aided by the murmurs of his shadows. Blood, they chant, new blood.

Not blood from an injury, not from an enemy.

A sickening type of surprise coils up Azriel's spine.

"Y/n?" He dares to speak. Your name comes out like it's completely foreign in his mouth.

There's a stunned web that seems to cling to him, dulling all his usually keen senses, as the pieces of this puzzle whiz around and begin to slot into place. New blood— new blood means— it means—

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds from the darkness in the corner. It's smaller than usual, thick with emotion.

There's the sound of you shifting. Azriel can't move at all. Even his shadows have slowed in their surprise.

With his eyes rapidly adjusting to the dimness, he can just see the features on your face as you untuck it from your curled-up position.

Someone is beating loudly against the walls—or at least it sounds that way with how hard his heart is beating in his chest, valves working in overdrive. Is it his heart? It feels like something else, something deeper.

New blood, new blood, new blood. A thousand different instances burst from his memory, glazed in a new light.

"He tells me that your absences during training have come to be somewhat expected,"—

—"You're smaller than usual Illyrians,”—

—Hands, weathered and much smaller than most males—

—You're small but your wings are still large and beautiful, tucked up neatly behind your back. Most warriors in camp must have at least a head of height on you—

—A Fae with long hair like Cassian's, chopped at the shoulder and scraped back — and a voice softer than most. A Fae with eyes that burn with a promise for retribution, with icy fury like his own.

Each one threatens to send him staggering to his knees. How the Cauldron did he miss it? How could he have missed it? He's the fucking Spymaster of the Night Court. You've been lying to his face from the very beginning and he's believed you hook, line, and sinker.

You're smaller than the males in camp because you aren't one at all.

You're so driven to help the others, to mend the clipped girls because... because...

His hazel eyes catch on your wings, snaked around yourself protectively and Azriel suddenly feels very, very sick.

You seem to realise all of a sudden that he's real and not just some hallucinated fever-dream version of him. Despite the efforts to keep everyone out, he's here, on the inside with you. He knows.

"Azriel," You say his name again, like a plea this time. Wings uncurling a fraction, you make a move to stand but an invisible pain cripples you and he watches as you shudder, a pained whimper leaking out your mouth. An instinct within him roars to rush to your side but his feet are rooted to the floor.

"You..." He begins, his voice far away.

Something is unravelling in his chest with an alarming speed, something growing and churning, fiery hot. It feels like dread—panicky, horrified fear boiling in his stomach. He doesn't realise that it isn't his own.

"You're not a male."

His words look like they cause you more pain, agony shifting across your features, and Azriel wishes he could take them back the moment they leave his lips. But he's not wrong.

Even from across the room, he can see the quiver in your bottom lip. You're frozen in fear, he realises.

Tentatively, you shake your head. "I'm- I'm not."

You're not. Perhaps, he was wrong about you and you're not some beaten-down warrior, striving for justice against the tides that try to hold you back. Maybe you're a snake in the grass, hiding yourself, cocooning in a lie. You've been lying since the first moment you met him.

Azriel can't tell why it hurts so much in his chest, why it feels so close to betrayal, why it feels like his heart is bleeding. Who are you really?

"I—" Your words get cut off with another wince as you slump over, your cycle ravaging your body with pain. "Azriel, wait—"

He's taken a step back without even realising.

Who are you? Stranger, ally, friend; all the titles you've earned feel like they're getting stripped back forcibly and his heart warbles agonisingly in response. His shadows have picked up speed, darting around him. His wings have risen an inch, flared a little wider.

"Please," You gasp, trying to shuffle forward again but halted by the waves of pain. One of your hands grips around your midriff tightly and there's a sheen on your face that tells him you're crying. He's never seen you cry before.

Who are you? Is your name even your real name? Azriel doesn't know where the hurt is coming from, why it's so strong— except he thinks he does.

He's known from that first week with you. Known from the first time he laid eyes on your face and his very soul seemed to call out in response. He's known and he's been ignoring it all this time. His mate.

"You— you have to understand," You're still grasping at words desperately, even as you give up trying to move through your afflicted torment. Azriel takes another step back. What is he doing? "Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings."

Choked sobs begin to claw their way up your throat and Azriel feels the thickness in his own throat, connected from the inside. You're connected. The pounding on the door, on his chest, in his heart, is the only thing he can focus on, getting louder and louder. Bile threatens at his throat.

He can't be here.

"I just- just wanted to keep—" The words keep coming, even as he steps back once more, shadows swirling. Words lurch up his throat, questions, explanations, accusations. None of them escape. His mouth is dry.

His wings rustle as he tucks them in and forces his gaze down to stare at the floorboards. He's been here, lived here, in your lie for how many months? His mate, a liar.

He shifts the space between inside and elsewhere, scrunching the fabric so it aligns with somewhere, anywhere he can think of.

"P-Please, you have to understand—Azriel!"

Your call echoes as he steps through his magic, letting it carry him away from your shelter, from your agony that he can feel from the inside, from the lie he's been fed.

He lands on a hilltop and when he opens his eyes, he's looking at a familiar cabin. His shadows move about almost limply, his magic and siphons depleted from overuse in such a short time. He can feel the chill of snow on the tips of his wings which drag behind him.

He's...drained. Stunned.

And where he's always dreamed of a golden thread, a lover's tug, rooted deep in his being that connects him to his mate... there is only a pull of utter misery.

—

You had thought of this before; what it might be like to have him find out.

The trust severed. Your friend, the only one you've ever truly had, lost to your betrayal. The first couple weeks in his company as you learnt slowly to let your guard down had been the first times in decades you had been freed from night terrors.

You had thought of it then, during one of those nights—you did not want to lose him in any way.

The cost was too high, the sheer magnitude of your secret that you never intended on him finding out. You had promised yourself you couldn't, you wouldn't tell him, no matter how much you yearned to.

You wonder now if you would have been better off if you'd never met him at all.

Never trusted him, never took his hand, and stood by his side to learn how to fight. No learning how to trust after years of desolate solitude, just to have it ripped from you. No shared smiles in the dim light of the evening, glancing away when you're caught looking for too long.

No hurt, no pain, no replaying the look on his face as he uttered the secret you had kept hidden for nearly three decades.

The burning spasms of your cycle seem almost dull compared to the ache in your heart. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. You feel like you're burning up from the inside, like there's a hurricane of regret building in your chest and its' howl is as torturous as it is loud.

Time passes. Outside, the snow turns to heavy rain.

The painful throbs that wrack your body ebb and flow but the heaviness in your heart never seems to fade. You can't decide between being angry at Azriel or at yourself.

How could he be so... so unfeeling? So merciless, not giving you even a moment to truly explain?

There had been a time where you thought when he looked at you, he saw beyond the surface; more than a mutt, more than just another bastard. You half hoped he saw through your facade and didn't care anyway.

You're a fool for that, you realise now.

Your consciousness wanes as you burrow as deep as you can into your blankets, wanting them to swallow you whole, wrapped in half-hearted warmth and ribbons of pain. He's never coming back, you realise. The tears start up all over again, your heart sobbing out for a piece of it that's missing. He's never coming back.

You know that for sure— so when there's a slushing of feet through the snow and a pounding knock on your door, your hackles rise in pure fright. Your wings tuck around yourself a little tighter, right as another spasm of agony rocks through your bones. You cry out weakly, teeth gritted tightly.

There's someone at the door who's come sniffing for a fight. It's not Azriel.

[NEXT PART: MATES]

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs

[skitskatdacat63]

2023 Hungarian Grand Prix - Fernando Alonso

[chibishortdeath]

I doodled this when I was replaying the game once. There really isn’t enough humor (memes? Shitposting? Idk what the correct word is for it, but all of those) for the older games, which is a damn shame since they have a lot of opportunities for it.

[morningstargirl666]

My WIP is staring at me from behind a blank doc page, it's cursor blinking at me, and yet...

Somehow I'm still planning out a plot for a spin-off of TBBW.

[ofcircusesandhives]

-....error.....error....rerouting, rerouting

...

...

...

Clink

".....Now where did you go, little one....?"

".......and who might you all be?"

Begin Vol 1.

[squiglluwu]

Reblog to monch on the person you rebloged it from >:)

[badlydrawnfishbastard]

Hello internet blog site, I was brutally bullied by a twwig to make an account on here. I do not wwant to be here in the slightest

[finalgirlmalarkey]

with the old breed paperback is MINE and she's beautiful. by the way

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

MAC OHHH MY FUCKING GOD. ONE OF THE EPISODES OF A SHOW EVER HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO BE NORMAL AFTER THIS???? HOW???? how long is he going to be FUCKING DEAD FOR!!!! the ashe & mark argument that i felt deep within my soul & miserable on behalf of both parties about them!!! dakotaisms!!! the fucking like. genre conflict of their sillygoofy teen titans shenanigans with a real world where there r men with guns who will simply kill you!! THEYRE WEEKENDING AT BERNIES WILLIAM WISPS PURPLE MORPH SUIT COVERED CORPSE. kicking down your door with a loud bang & then just standing there wild eyed kind of shaking and trembling like a chihuahua

DUUUUDE DUDE DUDE DUDE HEAH. FUCK. s1e19 definitely one of my favorites of all time. i listened to that one during the back half of my shift this afternoon and got to the ashe/mark argument just as i was starting pm checks.... standing in the cramped laundry room in the basement washing my filter socks like

i think about them so much dude. AND THEYRE BOTH RIGHT. WHICH MAKES IT HURT MORE. LIKE. BOTH THEIR SIDES ARE SO REAL. i cannot wait for u to learn more about them pleaseeeee i need 2 talk winters family analysis with you when you get to . certain parts. season 2 is gonna fucking wreck u i know it.

BUT. THEY BALANCE IT OUT WITH THE SILLIES SO VERY FUCKING WELL. GOD. good fucking show dude. good fucking show !!!!!! williams ghost throwing ice cubes at mark while his fucking. rotting corpse sits in the bathtub!!! what thefuck man

[b0kksu-gone]

       The palatable taste of limbo, the body is not yet ready, like an offering that must be made there he remains in a state of stasis. A pale visage, merely but a wisp that moves about && there are times the lingering of a gaze can be seen, perfect blue - it’s hard to distinguish from the dreaminess of the clear skies. There’s an ungodly sweetness in front of him, sparkling gaze with a warm devilish smile, “You don’t have to scream to speak with me” boyish, bubblegum pink lips glossed && stained from strawberry syrup - his favorite. In every life, like the last, some vices were purely innocent, torment or remembrance may be his wicked indulgence.

     A form that changes, in vivid white, robes of teal with dragonflies embellished cloak his effigy, though he sits there, modern in style. Cropped hair, cherry red glasses, long legs crossed && gold upon elongated digits, painted pastel blue - gaudy, old, decadently rich. “How many times does this make it now?, @killerhubby” he scoops a large bite of the vanilla ice cream, licking the tip of his thumb, one eye remains closed && the rest manifest to watch the other - six in total, all wishing to know the truth, deception was never an option. “Old friend” the lilt in his voice becomes sharper, stern, a touch that was void of the sun && cool against the flesh, familiar with the scent of ginger && lychee, familiar like an embrace from one that no longer existed.

          “It’s not fair, you’re always one step ahead of me, born again && without a pulse. You shouldn’t meet old souls in places like this, didn’t I tell you before?”  

[alex-dontknow]

Since we have a couple musix stickfigures in Havoc and Homework and some have ties to the Deadly Musix (including Faraday) I propose another AU:

Havoc and Hurt.

The alternative plot?

The Deadly Musix find a way into their dimension.

[saga-project]

He slept. And dreamed.

The whispering in his head propelled him forward. Told him to keep going. To find their target. To welcome the target into their loving embrace, so that they might be able to wake him from the terrible dream they had all found themselves a part of. That all Saga had to do was find him, and then they could fix things. That they knew he was tired. That he could rest.

A twig snapped under his bare feet, but he barely registered the pain. He simply cocked his head, listening for the sound of frantic footsteps, grinning in satisfaction as he treaded onward.

And all the while, blossoms danced in the corners of his vision.

[otaku553]

Fire (Part 1)

<- (PREV) (NEXT) ->

(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

When twin telepathy begins to fail them :)

Fire is the combustion, while flames are the visible portion of a fire. It's still a continuation on the last few chapters but kind of separate so these chapters get their own name. As it stands this part will most likely be 4 chapters long!

Thanks for bearing with the long hiatus! Sorry again about that, internship started getting busy and then I got really into nine sols (you should play it) and then I just couldn't find the time to sit down and work on this. Super excited for yall to see the rest of what's planned for this arc though hehehehehe

[blessedbyahuntress]

Warrior of the Sun and Moon

Chapter One: The Blessing of the Sun

Prev/Next

A/N: HEHEHEHEHE (Ya that's all I got [I'm high on caffeine, if you can't tell])

Warnings: Handsome immortal alert! Handsome immortal alert!

Word count: 850

When you were nine, you snuck out of your room for the first time. You’d been ordered to stay in the chamber under the watchful eye of your servant, but you felt jittery and restless.

You needed to get out of the palace, abandon these stone walls for a little while.

The afternoon sun shone through the beautiful stained glass windows as you kept your head down, back pressed against the wall. If what Telemachus had accidentally told you was true… 

There it was. Your hand wrapped around a lever, the metal cold on the palm of your hand. You pulled, a harsh jerk of the wrist. There was a loud scraping sound of stone grinding against stone, and you cursed. Your servant would find you soon if you weren’t fast enough.

You turned, slipping into the secret passage that had opened next to you. 

The darkness that engulfed you made you nervously drum your fingers on your leg, nails skimming over the hunting knife that was hidden in the folds of your dress- the dagger you’d stolen from your older brother the time Telemachus had allowed you into his room.

You swatted away a cobweb that was trying to get entangled in your hair. Your steps became faster, more determined to get out of this awful space.

A breath of fresh air hit you in the face, the wind running its chilly fingers through your locks, tugging at your hair playfully. 

You took another step forward, and suddenly you were falling, sun blinding your eyes as they stretched wide in panic. You landed on your back, all of the breath knocked out of you.

“Holy-”

Someone above you tsks. “Is it really appropriate for such a young lady like you to be cursing?”

You jolt up, banging your head against someone else’s forehead. You lay back down with a groan. “Who the hell are you?”

“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question, princess.”

You cross your arms over your chest, head still pounding. “Mine seems more important,” you argue. “Who are you?”

You feel a hand rest gently on your forehead, and the ache begins to dissipate. 

The person chuckles lightly. “Well,” he said- you figured it was male, though he spoke in more of a sing-song. “Maybe you should open your eyes before asking such things.”

You frown, earning another laugh from the unknown person. Slowly you blink, your eyes adjusting to the light. Standing above you was the tallest man you’d ever seen. He was bathed  with a golden glow, bright blue eyes gazing into your own. A laurel wreath shone atop his head, perfectly tan arms crossed over his muscular chest.

Somehow you knew this was a god, though it wasn’t his appearance that gave him away- rather, it was his presence. 

“Apollo?” You whispered softly, as if you believed if you stirred the air too much, it would scare the god of the sun away. 

The addressed deity threw his head back, a booming laugh escaping his lips. “Yes, that is I, little mortal.” 

You stood, dusting off your dress. As quickly as you rose, you dropped into a grand curtsy. “Lord Apollo, to what do I owe the honour?” 

“You are smarter than you look.” You weren’t sure whether to be proud or offended by his words as he circled you, studying you as a king observes his prize bull. “Tell me, little mortal, how did you know that I am Apollo?”

You tilt your head. “You feel like the sun,” you stated bluntly.

That got him to chuckle again. He paused his pacing to look you in the eye. “I suppose. But I have come to answer your prayer.”

You blinked. “What prayer?”

Apollo furrowed his perfect brow. “What do you mean, ‘what prayer’?” He questioned. “Y’know? That prayer that you sent me when you were two, wishing you could be like your father, the mighty Odysseus?”

“Did I?” You try to remember what he was referring to, but you come up empty. “Sorry, but I don’t think I even knew you existed at such a young age.”

“Ah.” Apollo waves this off. “It doesn’t matter whether you remember it or not, for I am here to make your dreams come true.”

“Uhm,” you said. “No offense, Lord Apollo, but how…” You trailed off as the god held up a golden bow, fitted perfectly for the palms of your hands to grip. 

You reached out to touch it, mesmerized by the curve of the limbs and the string that seemed to change colors in the sunlight. Apollo held it closer, as if urging you to take it. You didn’t need any further encouragement, small fingers wrapping around the weapon. 

As you grasped the bow, a shimmering belt appeared on your waist, a quiver full of arrows attached. You gasped, running your fingers up and down your new accessory. 

When you looked up, mouth opening to speak, you met Apollo’s shining blue eyes. “Thank you,” you murmured, tone filled with emotion and gratitude. 

“Anytime, Y/N,” the immortal said, shooting you a wink as he faded away. 

“Anytime.”

Taglist: @barrythestrawberry041 @shapter-draws @sunshinewhosketches @myriad-of-passionate-pettiness @shroombloom248 @my-gods-i-read-too-many-books @keikeiluvyou @tati-the-fangirl @bookmuncherss @sabrina-senpai @artemis-andrea @sunshinedaisy21

[bunnyinvanilla]

okokok new idea 🤭

ovulating around John- you’re too nervous to bring it up but he KNOWS (or at least he knows something is eating away at you)

i’ll go crawl back in my hole now hehehehehe

he’s so perceptive he can read you off with a single glance, and don’t be surprised if he mentally memorizes your period cycle, he’s a man of habit, like a big, brown mountain bear… ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

🍥 | warnings: sugar saddy!price x sugar baby fem!reader, laaarge age gap, price is in his 40s and reader is 21, reader is soft and feminine n sweet and price is like the hunter from snowhite, ehehe

it’s a lot of things — the new cologne he’s been wearing, that gorgeous watch around his thick, muscular wrist that makes you literally go insane, when he sits and parts his thighs widely, smoking his cigars, when he bucks his hips upwards, when he tilts his head and twitches his mustache, when he calls you princess, angel, babydoll…

well it’s basically everything he does that has been making you heat up — you’re ovulating and it seems like every single thing captain john price does makes your body go up in flames, mind sink into sub space.

poor bunny you’re in heat :(

he doesn’t do that on purpose, he always wraps his arm around your waist when walking past you, he always calls you good girl the entire day, so what’s wrong now? you try to ignore the feeling, the fire that blooms in your belly, that twists every time you hear his deep, low, rough voice.

you want to stay home all day long and let him have his way with you, but you’re working, squeezing your thighs together when he walks by — and it makes you moody, you feel bad, gosh why is your mind thinking about him dominating you so roughly, harshly, pounding into you in the meanest way ever and manhandling you like a rag doll? It’s embarrassing :(

”are you alright, doll?”

you get startled, almost jump when you hear his voice, cheeks burning bright practically on flames, goosebumps sparking down all over your bare legs. “mmhm, yes, everything’s fine sir” you chirp almost too quickly for his liking.

he raises his brow up, watching the way you begin to rub the tablecloth faster against the bar’s countertop, noticing how you seem to try and stay as distant from him as possible.

and then it hits him — you were on your period just a few days ago, which means…

he starts walking closer to you, until he stops to stand right behind you. He places both hands on the table surface, caging you between his large, muscular body and the countertop — stretching his arms on both side, he leans his head over your ear, his hot breath making you freeze your rubbing motion. Your eyes fall on the side, catching that darn watch on his wrist that has you hyperventilating and nearly collapsing.

“if you want something, doll” he punctuates the word something with a slight, imperceptible buck of his hips, pressing himself against your lower back. “you just have to ask nicely, love, need to use big girl words, mmh?”

you’re overheating, the temperature of the bar has dramatically increased, and you just hope this cycle ends soon. oh, girlhood..

“you’re mean sir..” you whisper, referring to the fact he knows you’re too shy to ask for basically any thing, wether it’s something you like, a cup of water or even a sense of relief.

“im not mean, sweetheart, im simply still training you, need to learn how to ask for something without whining or begging daddy with your eyes. Use your words, and then daddy will give you whatever you want, deal?”

[starrrbitz]

Boop :]

- Luma

The boop button has returned...

UTDR fans do your worst to me lmao, and if I boop you back, it will be from my general blog @starrrbitz , but I'm mainly using this blog for booping.

My ask box will also open for trick or treating! Have fun!

* FILE SAVED

- Luma