#//i hate spillages

[flamesignite]

//so glad i saved my doujin icons on discord cuz my flash drive is completely gone now. (I was able to save my regular anime icons from dropbox but i have to redo almost of the manga icons for roy T_T)

[dysfunctional-eritrean]

8. do you change into specific clothes for the house when you get home?

20. favorite disney princess movie?

11. What is the most obscure thing on your bucket list?

18. Is Canada real?

29. Random fact about you! GO! (can be fun or not, anythingg~)

Unpopular opinion about any movie franchise?

Book recommendations?

What field(s) have you been trying to get a job in?

Spillage because too loose, or too tight? 😁🤭

please? 😊

(hope a big pile all at once is OK! Been busy 😅)

Oh my 😳

Hi Please Anon! Let’s see:

8. I must! I hate being in my room with my outside clothes on, so I change right away.

20. My mother says I really loved Snow White when I was a kid….however, I am on Belle’s side…I think.

11. An obscure thing…I can’t really think of anything right now since I am in my lazy girl era but that’s an interesting thought.

18. I sure hope so ☹️ I’d be heartbroken

29. Random fact: I currently have 6 piercings and I am dying to add at least 3 more ((location undetermined))

Unpopular opinion about any movie franchise: I don’t know if these really are franchise level but GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY AND DEADPOOL ARE TRASH FILMS 🦧

Books: A Millions Little Pieces by James Frey, Talking to the Dead by Sylvia Watanabe, and any of Toni Morrison’s books!

Fields: Teaching was what I wanted to do but as the years went by, I got into writing and reading and have been trying to get into the publishing world as an editor.

Spillage: too loose 💔

I hope I didn’t miss anything. Thank you, Please Anon!!!!! These were lovely!

[farfromstrange]

Fictober Day 9: Love Confessions

Fictober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Prompt: Love Confessions (🌼)

Summary: You've been with Matt for a few months now, but you haven't dared to tell him those three magical words you are dying to say. Until one morning, they slip out of him instead.

Warnings: Fluff. Established relationship. First 'I love you.

Word Count: 1.2k

A/n: Matt took the wheel again for this one, but I'm not complaining. He's in control of this Fictober, I fear.

Read Me On AO3!

The morning air smells of coffee and buttered toast with hints of caramel and salt. You’re busy pouring the dark liquid from the pot into one of Matt’s to-go cups—the one you got for him. Breakfast was short, but at least you got to spend the morning together. 

Three months ago, he kissed you for the first time. Three months ago, he took you out on a date, and after dancing around each other like quite the limber gymnasts for weeks, he let his guard down. Three months ago, you found the man of your dreams; he let you into his home, surrendered his body to you and with it, his soul, and you have not left since. 

As the rain patters against the window pane, you watch him stumble out of the bedroom, hurriedly buttoning up his shirt. You chuckle. He couldn’t keep his hands off you this morning—or any morning you stay over, really. You have yet to move in with him, but all in due time. You’re just happy he let you see all of him, finally, after trying to read him for so long. 

He let you put a magnifying glass into his life, and just when he thought you would run away scared, you turned around and vowed to stay. Matt might be a little broken, but that’s what you love about him.

Love.

You haven’t dared to utter those words yet. Three months of dating, and you’re as sure about your feelings as you can be. You’re not so sure about him. He’s gentle with you, he remembers the smallest details you tell him, and he brings you flowers every Friday. Matt takes good care of you, but you don’t know if he feels the same way about you. For all you know, he just likes being with you.  

“That for me?” he asks, interrupting your train of thought as he slides his arm around your waist from behind.

You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t notice your absent mind. “Yeah,” you say. “I know how much you hate the stuff Foggy keeps around the office. This should keep you awake ‘til lunch.”

He places a kiss against your temple with a satisfied hum. “You’re a goddess. Thank you.”

Blood rushes to your head. It’s the little things he does, the little things he says, the little terms of endearment, and the way he touches you that make it so much harder for you not to blurt out the truth. 

“I think I’ll be home early tonight,” he says. “You want to grab some dinner?”

You watch as he takes the cup, adding the milk you put where he can easily find it before he closes the lid. Trying to be subtle, you wipe away some of the spillage, but the smirk on his face tells you that he did notice. 

You clear your throat, trying to keep your composure. “Dinner sounds nice.”

“Alright.” He reaches for his wallet on the table nearby. “Pick you up around seven?” 

“Sure,” you say.

It’s sickeningly domestic, the way you are with him. The way he is with you. God, you want more of that. You want it every day. The voice in your head is screaming for you to be careful, but you’re already too deep to pull out now. He might be the man you grow old with, or he will be the heartbreak that kills you. There is no in-between with this man or the way you’re feeling about him. You are more than just down bad. You’re down mad—mad because he already drove you crazy. 

Matt kisses you again, this time on the lips. “See you tonight.”

You are about to give the sentiment back to him when suddenly, three words tumble from his lips that implode every thought of worry you’d had over the past three months.

“I love you,” he says.

You stop. 

He stops.

You both stop dead in your tracks.

Oh. 

“What?” you ask, your voice soft, barely above a whisper. 

Matt stands as though he’s wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him. Doubt crosses his unfocused eyes. They dart left, right, then back to where he can hear your heart racing. He can’t read you. 

You were so scared of rejection that the thought that he might reciprocate those three words had been the last on your mind—until now. Now you know. He said it. He said that he loves you, and all you can do is stare at him because the truth hits so much harder when it’s out there.

He must think you don’t feel the same way. He must think your temporary paralysis has something to do with him, and this is nothing more than a casual thing between you. But there’s nothing casual about what’s burning between you. There’s nothing casual about the fire, the passion, and yes, the love that’s building between you like an unbreakable brick tower.  

You almost flinch when he pulls away with that kicked-puppy look in his expressive hazel eyes. They glisten enough for your reflection to stare back at you.

“I, uh,” he stammers, “I have to go.”

Unfortunately, you remain rooted to the ground as he grabs his coffee and his suit jacket, and heads for the door. 

Get it together, you idiot! 

The door falls shut behind him. Normally, his footsteps would echo in the hallway, but there’s not a single shoe shuffling against the floorboards. 

You snap out of it. How idiotic, you think, getting caught off guard by the man you love telling you he loves you, shattering your anxieties. That’s supposed to be a good thing. It is a good thing. He has your heart, and you’re not getting it back. You need to tell him that. This is not the time to be a flabbergasted idiot or to act like a lovesick teenager who’s never heard the word ‘love’ before. This is the time to actually act. 

You drop everything you’re holding and sprint toward the door. At the very same time though, the front door opens back up, revealing a disheveled Matt. Again, you stare at each other. One second, two, then a minute has passed. 

He places his cane aside. “I didn’t–” he starts, running his fingers through his hair, “I mean, I did, I just… I wasn’t… you know, the coffee, and…”

A smile grows on your face. A stupid, lovesick smile that makes your cheeks hurt. He loves you, and he meant it. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

“You know?” He exhales shakily.

You nod. “Yeah, I… I know. And I–” You take a step forward. 

“Yes?” Matt takes a step toward you, also.

A pause. You take another deep breath. “I love you too,” you say.

The weight finally lifts off your chest. It’s out there now. No going back. 

The words have barely seeped in before Matt is on you, pulling you in by your hips as he brings his lips to yours. He kisses you like you are the air he breathes. He kisses you, and the last wall standing between you shatters to the ground.

“You had me scared there for a second,” he murmurs. 

“I’m so sorry.” You brush your nose against his. “I was just so surprised you said it, and I–”

He frowns. “Surprised? Why?”

“I’ve loved you for months now, and I just thought… you weren’t ready. So, I didn’t say anything.”

“Sweetheart,” he grabs your face, “I’ve been ready since the day I met you. I love you.”

And you will love each other until the day you both die, you’re sure.

@ebathory997 @the-b33skn33s @scoliobean @drmeghanjones @lanae111 @gpenguin666 @linamarr @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @thatonegamefish @amberritonicole @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-gir1-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife @trublu2u @xnatyx @zomtart @ethereal-blaze @littleagxs @ravenclaw617 @lucienofthelakes @steve-chandler

[ssweetleaf]

old money.

pairing— mean old money!steve harrington x fem waitress!reader

w/c— 3.2k

♡ summary— whilst serving table number three for the evening, a certain someone catches your eye, though he soon turns out to be an asshole. you want more.

♡ includes— SMUT 18+, mean dom!steve, he’s an asshole, bathroom sex, so kinda public i guess??, pussy eating from behind, degradation, calls reader stupid once, orgasm denial, unprotected p in v (use protection!!!), breeding kink, cream pie, no aftercare, little bit of spanking, bad ending, i repeat, BAD ENDING!!!

a/n— please let me know what you think! i kind of hate this and there’s like not much plot but enjoy!

˖ ࣪⭑

Life was repetitive.

You’d wake up, leave your sorry excuse of an apartment just to go to work— some fancy-shmancy restaurant that served over-priced food and too-expensive wine, home for the big-wigs and the rich. And then you’d go home, back to your roommate, back to your creaky bed and your ceiling that had a suspicious amount of mould growing— back to your less-than-perfect lifestyle, dreaming of being one of those little flings that hung off the million-dollar men that stepped foot into your workplace, money signs everywhere and diamonds around your neck.

Shit— a girl can dream, right?”

And that was how it went, over and over and over again, letting slimy men pet at your ass and maybe show them a little too much cleavage, flutter your lashes at them all coyly just to earn a rather hefty tip at the end.

You were starting to get pretty sick of it…

“Good evening, gentlemen, is there anything I can get you started with?”

It was late and you were serving table three— a big gaggle of bozos you assumed to have more money than you’d ever have in your life, keeping your eyes wide and speech sickly sweet, leaving a little sway in your hips, keeping your eyes on the prize at the end. God, you hoped they tipped well.

There was six of them, clad in fine suits and sparkling tie clips, already fishing around in their pockets for a light, cigarettes hanging limply out the side of their mouths. Though one stood out in particular, chestnut hair that almost touched his shoulders, honeyed eyes all hooded and swarming, angry looking, especially with the way his eyes furrowed—

“Hey, you listenin’ t’me?” You shook out of your stupor, your cheek ticking when he clicked his fingers in front of your face, earning a few chuckles from his little rat-pack when he leaned back to say, “Jesus, can’t get the service these days, am I right?”

“Apologies, Sir,” you replied, “what can I get for you?”

You would’ve almost said he was handsome until he opened his mouth, his stupid flashy cuff links glinting from the lamp that perched in the middle of the tablecloth, monogrammed SH, his initials, you supposed. He called for the finest scotch you had— the most expensive, ordering a round of glasses for the table and the whole bottle to be served, nothing less, finishing off his sentence with a quick, ‘stat’. He definitely wasn’t asking, though you couldn’t let that deter you, he definitely had the money, you knew that by the size of his Rolex.

So you made priority for his table, serving their spirit on a silver tray and handing each of them a crystal tumbler, finely cut with intricate details and pretty patterns— not that they gave it any notice however, quick when ushering you to pour like they hadn’t the time to do it themselves.

It was all going smoothly, moving around table three and trying to gather the least attention possible, pouring the same two fingers of whiskey, until you got to him. Shy under his gaze you leaned forward, feeling the heat of his gaze on your tits and he was quick to sit up suddenly, causing your hand to slip. A little spillage, nothing drastic, and with the way his lip quirked you knew he had done it on purpose.

“Really are testin’ my patience tonight, sweet cheeks—” he cocked a brow, one arm spread along the back of his chair, “you tryin’ to get yourself fired?”

Oh, fuck off.

“No, Sir,” you spoke quickly, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard just to stop the tears slipping from the embarrassment. “I’ll clean it up right away— excuse me.”

Back and forth, back and forth. To and from their table, spilt scotch all cleaned, soaked up by the crisp white of the serving cloth, the swift dabdabdab had your tits jiggling from underneath your uniform, and you tried not to clench your thighs together when he leaned back to get a good look at your ass.

You couldn’t be serious, getting hot under the collar for some rich asshole, finding yourself all too sugary-sweet once again, gazing at him from beneath your lashes when he ordered his main, sharp jabs flitting from the tip of his tongue when you stalled or stuttered— it only had you down worse for him.

You really were pathetic.

Eventually, the night had started to round off to a close, tables emptying, though the bar still busy with drunk men hunched over in their stools, it was most probable they were complaining about their wives, trying and failing to flirt with the barmaids.

You hurried back to the table you were waiting on, plates ridden from the cloth and piled high next to the sink in the back, ready for the poor dishwasher to see too, placing down the wooden box they had requested, flicking up the golden hinges with your thumbs to reveal their pompous cigars, cutting the caps off and handing them out one by one.

“Light it for me, would ya, honey?” Him again, staring up at you all dark and handsome, it had you inwardly swooning and you made sure to give yourself a slap once you got home.

“Yes, Sir.” You opened the lighter, silver and sleek, watching the flame come to life and flicker while you cupped a palm to shield any draughts. His lips looked so pink, pursed around the thick stick, his gaze heavy and set on you, sucking his cheeks in when he took his first drag, inhaling into his lungs and puffing it out right into your face.

Prick.

You excused yourself, almost finished for the night, eager to have a smoke and then get to bed— probably touch yourself over the thought of him- SH, whatever his name was. You wondered what it could be, the thought of asking him crossed your mind and you quickly shook it away, totally pathetic and really, really embarrassing.

You would never ever stoop so low and try to get with him— no matter if his bank account included seven digits, or his face was the prettiest you’d ever seen, he wouldn’t be able to afford you…right?

˖ ࣪⭑

“Oh, fuck— Steve!”

You weren’t sure what it was that caused you to comply with his request, a short, snappy, meet-me-in-the-bathroom-in-five kind of thing, smirk prominent on his lips, a toothpick limply hanging from his mouth, much akin to the cigarette the first time you had pressed eyes on him.

But whatever it was, it had you pressed against the counter in the woman’s bathroom, skirt hiked up and panties around your ankles, his face snug against your pussy from behind while he devoured your cunt as if he hadn’t had a full three course meal beforehand.

You had learned through teeth-filled kisses that his name was Steve— Steve Harrington. And you almost rolled your eyes at what an asshole-y name it was.

The whole ordeal was messy, his spit slick with your arousal, slipping down his chin and the length of his throat, saturating his once perfect shirt and tie— you were no better, makeup already ruined, lining your cheeks in long, black streaks, clumping your lashes from the constant tears that ebbed over your waterline. You made contact with your glassy eyes through the mirror, staring at your dumbified state before they started to roll back at a certain mean suckle to your clit.

You reached behind you, pushing your fingers into his chestnut hair, going to give the roots a little tug before his palm came down on your ass in a sharp smack.

“Not the hair.” He was stern, words muffled from your pussy and you would’ve laughed if it wasn’t for the constant attention to your puffy clit. “Stupid girl.”

Steve’s tongue prodded at your hole, slipping inside with ease at how slick you were, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his appendage and you moaned out at the way it flexed against your walls.

You were surprised he even took the time to use his mouth on you, considering you thought he’d be selfish while you fucked, but the thought occurred to you that he enjoyed it— Steve Harrington ate pussy for his pleasure— it made a lot of sense.

“Please—” you whined, arching your back and simultaneously pushing your ass in his face, driving his tongue deeper into your cunt and he audibly growled at that— clutching at both ass cheeks and keeping you tight in place, right where he wanted you.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He spoke, it was almost hard to hear, especially over the way he slurped so crudely at your juices. “Wan’ me to pay more attention to that pretty little clit of yours, baby?”

You nodded, clutching tightly onto the edge of the sinks, knuckles aching from the constant tensing and you gazed at the door, no lock, just an emptying bar, and you hoped no woman wanted to use the restroom.

The mere thought of someone catching you in this position had your brain in a tizzy, swirling in a haze all hot and bothered, the prospect of losing your job not even encompassing your mind at all.

He stuck to his word, suckling the pearl of your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue against it and burying his face even further, shaking his head from side to side so filthily and urging a gasp out of you.

You knew he was smirking into you, you could feel it. Smug bastard.

And once you could feel the rope inside your belly tighten, tighter, tighter, so ready to snap— eager to cum and make a mess of his tongue, leave him to gulp down your cream and leave a little kiss to your clit as a thank you…he pulled away, biting at the fat of your ass and suckling his teeth marks into the flesh, your orgasm dissipating, the pleasure leaving your clit as achy as ever and the rest of your body completely unsatisfied.

You gulped down some much needed air, staring at him with wide eyes and a stuttering mouth, words stuck in your windpipe when you tried to speak, instead you hoped your expression conveyed what exactly you wished to tell him.

What the actual fuck, Steve?

“What? You thought I was gonna let you cum?” He cooed, mocking you with a pout and two condescending taps to your cheek once he got to his feet. “Y’seem a little desperate, honey, barely had my mouth on y’for two seconds.”

The smirk was back again, and yeah, maybe it had been the best head in your life, but it definitely wasn’t two seconds until you needed to cum. So yeah, fuck you, Steve.

There was a mindless pout on your lips, and you realised that must of been what he was mocking, your thighs rubbing together, still so slick and sensitive from your ruined orgasm and the way he spoke to you— all condescending and mean, it made you clench around nothing, made your cunt throb the more he spoke to you in that way.

“Please?” You were surprised the words managed to slip, staring back at him and craning your neck to see and it made him chuckle.

Steve clutched your chin between a thumb and forefinger.

“Aw, my poor girl—” he cooed, all sickly sweet and nothing like him, there was something behind it, a different meaning, though you weren’t sure what. “You wanna cum real bad, don’t ya?”

You nodded, sniffling back your un-shed tears and giving him your sweetest heart eyes, all wet and starry.

“I’ll let you cum, hon, don’t you worry.”

He gave another tap to your cheek, a little harder this time and you couldn’t ignore the little glint in his eye and the twitch of his cheek— then pressed a wet kiss to your mouth, an exaggerated ‘mwah’ coming from him at the action.

Finally, he started to work on his belt, fingers fiddling with the buckle to pull it free from the loops, pulling at the button to his slacks and unzipping them completely, letting them slip to his thighs.

And it was quite shocking, actually. Not only was he not wearing underwear, but his cock was huge— you hadn’t a clue how he even got that thing in his trousers in the first place, and you were even more baffled as to why you hadn’t had a good look at it before.

The tip was stupidly pretty, gleaming with pre-cum and you watched while he smeared it around with his thumb— his shaft all littered with thick veins, trailing down to heavy balls, so round and full of cum.

Shit, you thought, he totally had a reason for being such an asshole.

Steve pressed a big palm to your ass, spreading you open as much as he could with a single hand while his other held the base of his cock, pressing it against your opening and feeding it through with a chesty groan.

You could feel your walls stretching around him, trying to accommodate his impressive size all while he split you in half— he was mean about it too, pushing to the hilt and not giving you much time to adjust before pulling out, just to slam himself back inside.

So deep, so heavy— bordering on painful, but your pussy weeped for him and his pretty little massive cock.

“Fuck, look at you, bet you haven’t taken cock like this before, huh, baby?” He let a moan slip, and you were sure it was one of the most beautiful sounds you had ever heard. “So fuckin’ pathetic, lettin’ me use you like a little whore.”

Your eyes were practically rolling to the back of your skull and you reached behind you, grabbing blindly at any part of him you could find, until he brought his own hand up to press it to the small of your back, holding it there and using it as leverage to fuck himself into you at a heavy pace.

He had the audacity to chuckle at the way you cried out, struggling under his grasp though pushing back against him with each thrust to get even deeper, desperate for him to fuck into your cervix and fill up your tummy with his sticky cum.

“Shit— Steve—”

“Can barely string a sentence together, sweet cheeks—” he grinned, “you must really like me, huh?”

You were babbling expletives and nonsensical verses, staring back at him through the mirror with watery, swarming eyes— clenching around him like a vice, almost too hard and he struggled and spluttered at the new found sensation.

“Fuck, that’s it—” he moaned, dipping his mouth to sponge sloppy, wet little kisses to the back of your neck. “You want that tip, baby, you gotta earn it. Gonna give you a big one, too, if you’re a good girl.”

There was a double meaning — you were sure, whining out at his filthy words and it was when you eventually stared back at your reflection that you agreed with him.

You were pathetic.

Tears streaming, lips all bitten and pouty, cheeks sheened with sweat and your hair stuck to your forehead— the weight of your tits about to fall out of your bra, the buttons on your blouse already popped off mere minutes before when he got his hands on you.

‘I’ll buy you a new one’, he’d said.

Money. Money. Money. Money. Money.

That was all he was, all he spoke about, all he cared about.

You were close, embarrassingly so, keening into him when the mushroomed tip of his cock jabbed into that special spot, the thick veins sliding against your gummy walls and splitting you in two.

“G-gonna—” you could barely get your words out, sobbing into the stuffy bathroom and leaning forward to press your forehead against the cool mirror.

“Gonna what, huh? Speak up, hon.” You could hear his smirk and the way the corner of his lip lifted, all clicky and slick, and you would’ve rolled your eyes if you weren’t so inebriated from his pretty cock.

“Cum.”

“You wanna cum?” He cooed, pulling out right to the tip to slam back inside you, heavy and hard, pushing you forward and bruising your hips. “How badly? Gotta let me know how much of a whore you are.”

“So badly, Steve— make me feel so good, better than anyone else—” you babbled dumbly, “wanna feel you cum in me, too.”

“You fuckin’ dirty girl.” His stomach muscles clenched, length throbbing at your want, “wantin’ a stranger to cum inside you— just isn’t good enough, sweetheart.”

He tried to click his tongue at you, wanting to mock you and tease, though the tut soon morphed into some kind of stuttered groan when you clenched and fluttered around him continuously.

“F-fuck, you really wan’ it, huh?” His thrusts were starting to grow sloppy, and his hold on your arm grew lax. “You really want my cum— fill you up and get you nice ‘n’ round, hm?”

You nodded fervently, helping him out and doing most of the movements yourself, his mouth agape and face flushed when you stared at him through the mirror while he watched the space where the two of you met.

“Have to wait until I cum, then you’ll have your turn.” He rushed out, grabbing a good hold of your hips, kneading at the fat before pressing his chest to your back— starting his pace back up and fucking into you like a mutt in heat, chasing his orgasm with a heaving chest and a pumping heart.

One, two, three long pumps, he stilled inside you, shooting his load deep inside and stuffing you full of that old money prodigy, and you took it greedily, milking his cock of every last drop, whining out at the warmth that flooded your cunt.

“Fuckin’ take it, baby— can’t waste a drop, gotta keep it all in.”

You expected him to continue after he had stilled and calmed down a little, get you off and make you cum— however as soon as his high had worn off and all the sparkles and stars in his irises had started to fade, he pulled out of you, long, stringy lines of cum connecting you to him and his cock was slick with your arousal, a thick ring of your cream slicking the base.

Steve reached for your panties that were still hooked around your ankles, pulling them up and letting them snap sharply around your waist, tugging them snug against your pussy so his cum saturated the already dampened cotton.

Speechless, you watched him tuck himself back inside his slacks, pulling up the zip and popping the button before reaching into his back pocket and tugging out his leather wallet, thick and bulging with notes and credit cards and he flicked through the hundreds, taking a wad out and pressing them flat on the counter next to you.

Your tip.

“You promised—” you squeaked out, referring to how he had promised you dearly that he’d let you cum once he was inside you. Fucking lying little son of a bitch—

With one final slap to your ass he headed for the door.

“See ya around, sweet cheeks.”

✰

tagging <3—

@lou-la-lou @paladinshenanigan-blog @bleachvibez @qardasngan

[croucify]

✶ surprise — hamzahthefantastic x reader

SUMMARY: hamzah attempts to surprise you on your birthday

A/N: an irl gave this idea after they told me they surprised their partner this way and i thought it was the cutest ever

your birthday hasn't been something you planned on celebrating each year. you thought it wasn't as big of a deal to consider each year as a milestone in your life and for you, it was also a waste of money and time planning a party, and sending invites, and overall it was just tiring.

but this year, your boyfriend, hamzah wanted that to change.

he was currently in your shared apartment, a baking video in the background while he had all the ingredients out with an apron tied around his body.

"hamzah, how many of these do you need?" martin asks as he pumps air into the balloon.

he thinks for a while, opening the cake mix's box. "maybe... about 8 or 10?"

after a while, martin had 5 balloons with air, and all that was left were the strings and the cake. hamzah on the other hand had replayed the video three times already with only the cake mix in his bowl, afraid to mess up the cake he was making for you.

"how many times are you gonna repeat this bro?" his friend teased as he tied the end of the balloon.

hamzah just rolled his eyes before cracking the eggs and pouring them into the bowl.

you'd be coming home soon and he was trying to rush the process of making the cake, the powdered batter scattering everywhere as he quickly mixed.

"fuck," he muttered to himself but still proceeded with baking the cake.

when martin finished with the balloon — even tying ribbons at where he tied them, hamzah was still mixing the cake batter.

"hamzah," martin called out for the curly-haired boy who was adding ingredients to the bowl. "i'm gonna go now, have to fetch mandy from work." he nodded at him.

"thanks for the help dude, seriously thank you." hamzah said with a genuine smile. when his friend left, he mixed the batter more before transferring it to a pan.

as soon as the cake was finished baking, he immediately took out the tray from the oven but with the temperature still being high, he burnt himself although he was wearing mittens.

he thought decorating the cake was going to be the easy part, considering the fact that he was just meant to spread icing and pour sprinkles but he still thought of writing a short note on the cake but as he was getting to the third letter, your keys were already jammed into the keyhole, opening the door to your apartment.

the counter was still messy with the spillage from earlier and the bowls and utensils he used, were scattered all over.

"shit, shit, shit!" he said as tried to tidy up the place but you've already stepped inside.

"hamzah is something," your head turns to where he was standing after you've taken off your shoes. your eyes fall on the cake that's on the counter and the piping bag in his hands. "oh my god." you try to hide your smile but with your boyfriend standing in front of you, with a horrified expression and a messy apron, you couldn't help it.

it was an image you wish you could've taken a photo off. he places the piping bag down the counter and tries his best to hide the cake by walking closer to you.

"okay, i know you hate birthdays but i wanted to surprise you this year. we've been together for uh... 3 years now? and take it as a gesture of love, please." he pleaded, eyes looking deeply into yours.

you step closer to him and place a hand on his cheek before pecking his lips. there's a smile on your face when you pull away which makes him less nervous. "this might just be the best birthday ever, hamzah." you tell him and his eyes widen in excitement.

you untie his apron, throwing it on the counter before wrapping your arms around him. the two of you hold each other for a while before he places a kiss on your temple and then speaks again.

"you also have balloons, martin blew them for me oh and, your cake only has the letters h and b because you arrived when i was starting on d."

✶ taglist — @cdbabymp3 @noturbabe22 @dabuggh3 @kingvioleta @tumb1rgir1z @mfcherry @ldrvinyl @certainfestivalnerdshepherd @seasidelily @jisyng @brucewaynegfreal LMK IF U WANNA BE ADDEDDD!!!

[fandomwritingbit]

Sweet Girl pt.5

dbf/William Afton x (fem) virgin/reader

pt.1 - here. pt.2 - here. pt.3 - here. pt.4 - here.

Synop: Bored of the lack of contact you and William decide to bring wanking to the 21st century.

Warnings: Smut, masturbation, obsessive behaviour/thoughts for the both of you, corruption, coercion. Virgin reader.

A/n: MATES, MATES, I FUCKING WROTE SOMMET. This is not a drill, I wrote something after weeks of nada and it's... well, it's mediocre. But it's something! This was not the part 5 I had planned but rather a dirty thought that ran away with me that I hope reads half decently.

Is this fuck proofread lmao, soz for any errors I'll try to fix them later on x

You wake very confused, squinting in the light from your bedroom window that was much too bright for 8 in the morning, so you lift yourself from your sheets to check your phone: 9:30. You’ve overslept. Siting up properly you glace at your side table clock through sleepy eyes, needing to confirm the reality of the time, you set an alarm, what the fuck? You have plans today that are now going to have to be pushed up. 

You’re up like a whirlwind, messaging the friend you’re supposed to be having breakfast with that it’s now going to have to be a lunch, a late lunch ideally. Surprisingly they’re not too put out, they must be running late themselves. Crisis averted, you head downstairs to get yourself some coffee which will hopefully combat the awful feeling of having screwed your whole day up already. To be fair, it’s about time something like this happened to you, life’s been too easy for too long. Well, baring the odd relationship with your father’s friend, of course. 

Not wanting to tackle the coffee machine, which you swear is as old as you, if not older, you go for coffee granules and the kettle. A simple man’s brew, and that’s certainly how you feel today. You hadn’t bothered with dressing or throwing a dressing gown on, it’s a warm enough morning that you can stand in the kitchen in your pyjama shorts and vest without shivering, the only cold you feel is your bare feet on the tile. 

Your kettle clicks and you set about making your cup, ignoring the squeak of the backdoor  opening, you’ll greet whichever parent it is when they greet you, if the interaction can be delayed it’s for the best. You pour your water, but the sudden and crisp sound of a wolf whistle makes you overspill onto the counter. Sliding your phone out the way of the spillage, you turn to see the sniggering face of William and your heart manages to soar and sink at the same time, something only this man is able to do. 

Your annoyed expression melts into a flush, you know exactly why he whistled and you cross your arms over your chest accordingly, hard up to do anything about the shorts position high up your thighs. 

“Sorry,” He says without any conviction, still grinning as the coffee begins to drip off the edge of the worktop. Adding slyly, “You wouldn’t mind making me one, would you?”

You neglect to answer, going for an embarrassed, “What are you doing here?” instead. The man’s been in your kitchen for less than a minute and you already feel like you shouldn’t be here, for your own protection. Last time springs to your mind, involuntarily quickening your heart rate. He’d caught you off guard then too, then used you up and wrung you out, and you loved every second of it. You hate him for that, and the way your pussy seems to know when he’s in the room, it’s not fair. 

“Clearing out the garage with you dad.” He presents his palms in his own defence, the smug look of him shows his pride at begging her legitimately. “He told me you were out.” It’s phrased like a question, again making you feel like a trespasser in your own home.

“I’m supposed to be.” You explain without detail, averting your gaze from his and instantly remembering the mess on the counter, and now the floor. 

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Especially in that.” He laughs meanly, making you frown. You look pretty all annoyed at him, the furrow of your brown not doing anything to hide the heat on your face from the invasive way his eyes drink you in. And as if that wasn’t far enough he steps forward, sliding his hand over the silky fabric coating your hip. “Almost as revealing as that pretty little bikini.” Your back hits the surface behind you, he has a knack for cornering you, but you suppose it’s not exactly herding cats if the prey doesn’t want to run away. 

The comment hits home though and you remember exactly how easy it was for him to move that garment aside and- 

You’re pulled from that thought as his hand slides further, over your hip to your arse. “Stop.” You say a little breathless, not liking how he just grins at the word. “...My dad could walk in.”

“That didn’t stop you last time.” His tone is mocking, riddled with amusement at how you can’t seem to refuse him. 

“That was stupid… You make me stupid.” You mutter, pushing his hand away and trying to ignore how affected you feel already. “You need to stop.” You affirm, holding your voice steady to prevent the whine that threatened to accompany it. 

William leans closer to you, a mean joy practically emanating from him when your breath hitches. He speaks lowly, a gleeful edge warming you for him and doing everything possible to add to that stupidity “Are you going to make me?”

You just look up at him, your chest rising quickly less than half an inch from his. “...Yes.” You finally manage, nerves and need in your core making you hesitant. Your eyes are wide in wait for response, and the man holds firm just long enough that you panic. He reaches behind you for something before obeying your word, you realise sharpish that he’s plucked your phone from the countertop. 

Trying to take it back fails when he catches your wrist and flicks you away. You’re whining like a child, unable to help the discomfort flooding your veins at him holding something so personal. “William, give it back. What are you-” Your words die when he simply holds the phone in front of you and you hear the subtle click of your face ID unlocking it. 

You watch angrily as he steps away with the device, internally fighting the urge to try and take it back by force. 

He glances at your outrage, stoking it with, “You must have some dirty secrets on here to protest so much.” Shaking his head, he makes you wait whilst he does whatever he nicked your phone to do. Chuckling as he has to manoeuvre the screen from your sight when you try to at least see what he’s doing. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m giving you my number… You don’t want to entertain me now, then you can later.” 

You find yourself nodding when he hands you the phone back. 

~

Your day is spent, lunch and coffee with your mate over and done with, dinner with your parents finished. So you slip away to bed with your phone clutched to your chest, which is tight with forbidden excitement. Halfway through the day your checking of messages was fruitful, with one from William telling you that you’re going to ‘entertain him’ at 11pm tonight, and despite your naivety you know exactly what that means. 

The only way to combat your nerves is preparation so you pick out a matching bra and knickers set, light pink and lacy, you know he’s going to like them, perhaps too much if anything. Then a white nightdress, just see-through enough to give a hint as to the underwear underneath. 

Then it’s propping your phone up with a pillow and sitting cross-legged on your bed, checking to see it the view will be good, and it certainly will. From there, all you do is wait, your foot absentmindedly tapping away with the excess excitement, you’re aroused at the thought of it. A dirty video call with a bloke older than your dad, it’s everything you’re not supposed to do, a bad idea all around, but that just makes your panties that bit wetter. 

He’s a little late, but the very moment he calls you answer, not even waiting for a ring. It makes him smirk, such a sweet thing, ready for him, no doubt waiting for him. Fuck, if he was twenty years younger he’d scale the window and see it in person. 

You know you’ve given your want away by his sly expression, and he teases you by saying, “Eager, huh?” 

You pout, now hating all the effort you went to and trying to explain it away. “Well, I was expecting-I knew you were going to-” 

Somehow, even through your tiny phone screen he has enough presence to be able to cut you off. “It’s a good thing.” He pauses before adding with a snicker, “I doubt you’re as eager as me.” He shifts as he says that and your heart skips a beat at the thought of him touching himself already. It’s a power only he has ever given you, to know just how mental you make him and that power makes your core tighten. 

“Now, sweet thing.” There’s a nonchalance to his words that contradict the fact he’s palming himself over his boxers, he can’t help it, he can see the strap of your bra peeking out and the curve of your hips suggested by your nightie. It doesn’t pass him by that he’s fucking pathetic. “Have you got headphones, or do I have to keep my voice down?” 

You hadn’t thought of that, but you’re glad he did when you think how often you hear your parents tv through the wall. So you reach to your bedside drawer to retrieve your headphones, well aware that he’s watching you and trying to catch sight of whatever he can. And after a moment you plug them in and pop them in your ears, flushing when you realise that the sound feels a lot more intimate now. Maybe he knew that. 

“God you drive me crazy with all the tiny fucking clothes you wear.” He’s laughing but you know he’s not joking. You’re not in a position to laugh, how exactly can you tell him that he drives you crazy with everything he fucking does. From the tensing of his jaw to the delirious sensation of his voice on your skin. All of it has your body begging for anything he’s willing to give you, regardless of what your mind thinks. 

You can’t prevent a small smile on your lips though, “I don’t do it on purpose.” Even as you say it you know it’s a lie, you didn’t do it on purpose at first, now though, you want him to see you. 

“Don’t fucking lie to me, sweetheart.” He knows you better than that. You giggle, it should be illegal for him to read your mind that easily. “I’d wager under that nightie you’re wearing something nice for me. Like a gift to be unwrapped.” The look on your face says it all, when you bite your lip like that he wants to bite it for you. “Am I right?” 

You can hardly look at your screen, but you nod, barely able to sit still. 

“Fuck, let me see.” Something about how he’s speaking now is very telling and you revel in the feeling for a moment before shifting to sit on your feet. 

“Okay.” You sound so small and quiet you can hardly hear it over that arousal in your blood. Your fingers hook under the bottom of your nightdress, hesitant to begin the process and your eyes flick to the screen. 

You catch his gaze and he smirks, “Come on, you know I’d do it for you if I could.” That you are certain of, sometimes there’s such hunger in his eyes you think he’s a breath away from ripping the fabric off you. 

You do as asked, your panties straps revealed high on your hips guiding the sight up your stomach,then to the thin lace hardly covering your breasts. You were right, he does like it. Much too much. 

“God, you are like a fucking present.” You grin at that, watching the hint of movement you can see towards the bottom of the screen, and you core pangs with the knowledge of what he’s doing. Now sitting on your feet, you press your heel between your legs and jump at the jolt of stimulation it brings. 

Your lip is between your teeth again as you debate whether you’re brave enough to ask for what you want. “...Show me.” You manage in a surge of voice, you wish you didn’t sound as shy as you do. 

You hear William’s scoff of disbelief, he hadn’t expected you to ask that but he supposes it’s only fair. “Yeah?” 

You nod, watching eagerly as he moves a hand to change the angle of your view. The sight stirs you immensely, his boxers pulled down enough to let his cock free, he held it, touching himself at a slow pace. You rake the image for what you can see, his shirt pulled up to let you see the trail of dark hair that leads down to his length. A crazy part of you burns to press your nose against his trail, curiosity, or something dirtier you don’t know, but you know he’d let you if you asked. 

It’s with near fascination you watch his stroke himself, not noticing how you’ve begun grinding your pussy against your heel, your knickers are clinging to your slick but all shame is lost. 

“I didn’t expect you to want to see.” He sniggers, you recognise the thickness of his voice, remembering the pride in your core when you took him in your mouth, the heavy breathing of someone clinging on to their self restraint by the tips of their fingers. There’s precum on his tip smeared by each rise of his fist, it’s a dirty feeling and if you were in his reach he’d have it resting pretty on your tongue. 

Soon your movement isn’t enough anymore, your heat whines for better friction, the attention on your clit that he does just right. It’s written in your posture and the pinch of frustration between your brows. 

William’s voice affirms your need. “You can touch yourself, lovely. Don’t have to wait to be told.” 

“I know.” You reply quickly, embarrassed at how easy he’d jumped to that conclusion. If you were harder to read maybe he wouldn't have such a hold on you. 

“Or do you want me to ask?” There it is again, that mocking that shouldn’t speak directly to your slick, it’s condescending but you know in your heart that he knows better. You open your mouth to protest the teasing but you have no chance to. “Come on, show me how you play late at night, how you give yourself what you need.” He wants to seem like he’s humouring you but right now, with his cock in his hand, he’d beg to see just how you touch your perfect cunt.   

You’re doing it, shifting your position so you’re sitting properly, legs raised to let you trace over your bundle of nerves. The fabric of your panties quickly proves irritating, so you hurry to take them off, glancing repeatedly at the view on screen, dying to match the rhythm of him stroking himself, not wanting to miss anything. At the sight of your pussy bare for him, knickers discarded, he hisses through his teeth; now that is the kind of thing that gets a bloke in serious trouble.

“And the rest.” He adds, and you’re so lost in your new-found touch it takes you a moment to realise what he’s referring to, when you do you push the bra straps from your shoulders, shimmying the garment down so that your chest is free. Your nipples are hard from your excitement, all parts of you aware of the growing need in your core, begging for the release your touch promises. It should be familiar but with William’s eyes on you it takes you time to remember what you like. 

You rub your clit, the cues from your body calling for you to press your fingers inside your hole. You’re unable to reach like he does, but it’s enough to bring your end into sight and a soft moan from your lips. 

He’s chuckling watching how weak you become, like he’s not moving faster with the taste of release on his tongue. It takes a lot for him to ask the question burning in his head, he already knows the answer but hearing it from you is going to be delicious. “Tell me, what you think about, when you play with yourself, sweet thing.” The words are stilted with his involuntarily quickening pace, he’s close and it’s fucking stupid how much he needs to cum. 

“You.” You say instantly, voice cracking. Your head between my legs, fingers hooking inside, teeth on my neck as you line your cock up between my legs. You haven’t the coherent thought process to say that, it’s flicking images of past imaginings, you shouldn’t want to give yourself to this man as much as you do. 

William grunts, speaking through gritted teeth to try and remain somewhat controlled, though there’s nothing controlled about his frantic movement, nor yours. “You’re so fucking lucky I’m not in there with you.” 

It’s not a threat, you’ve seen the size of him, you’ve been delirious from just his fingers, but you want it. You want him in there with you. You want it all. 

He loses it at your wide eyed look, fucking his fist ‘til his cum is dripping down his abdomen.  You're not far yourself from the view alone, but you can hear his breathing, the groan right as he touches the peak. And your walls clamp around your fingers in stuttering waves of climax, you shiver with it, your legs unwillingly pressing together. You have to bite the inside of your cheeks to keep any noise leaving you, a startled thought of discovery hitting you out of nowhere. 

“Fucking hell.” His voice makes you regain your senses, he’s chuckling and the hand not coated in release slips out of shot to rub the bridge of his nose; why is it so much better when a pretty thing like you is watching? 

“William?” You’re shaky as you speak, weighing up what you want to ask, deciding that closed mouths don’t get fed. In response he tilts the camera up so you can see he’s listening, and you can’t help but hit screenshot at the sight of him so dishevelled. “Next time… I want you to be here with me.” 

He laughs, “Anything you want, princess. I mean it.”

[soulfullives]

i'm extremely curious on your headcanons on the black family. like their ethnicity, traditions, dynamics or whatever you want really. personally i feel they're the family with the greatest canonical depiction of the cycle of abuse and how regardless of wealth and privilege things like trauma can still rip a house/people apart.

if i got into them i feel like i would never be able to stop talking, and my characterisation of the black family is majorly different from what other people see them like but i will tell you a bit about them.

as for traditions, i believe they have holiday dinners (i consider them to be orthodox), two of them; on christmas eve, they celebrate with the entire pureblooded society. the diners are always hosted by the black house and they have dances, recitals, food and it’s incredibly formal; people come dressed in dress robes, suits and dresses and they discuss politics and beliefs about the society. on the christmas day, they have a family dinner, which is about the same as the one with the high-class society, but they have their own rituals (lighting up candles and remembering their heritage). at the birth of daughters, they drink white wine (to symbolise the purity that the birth of a girl brings), whereas when a son is born, they drink red wine (violence; spillage of blood).

i think that the most complex and compelling dynamic, for me, is the one between sirius and walburga. sirius sees himself in her; the same determination, fury and intelligence; they even look the same. he pities her, as a person; as a son, he despises her, for not trying more, for not trying harder. she loves him, she so obviously does; in her own, twisted way. she’s proud of him; he would make a great heir. she sees him as both a son and the object of her womb, the pig for slaughter; the heir. she is not her mother, but a stranger he never knew. her last act before succumbing to death was burning him off the tapestry; she hoped he’d come back. he never did.

between him and orion, the dynamic is simpler; they despise each other. sirius is too brash, too opinionated for orion (who was another victim of the cycle, of his own father), much like his mother, walburga, and sirius believes of his father to have been too distant and cold to ever be able to have a relationship with each other, of any kind, let alone the one between a father and a son. he hates orion; there is nothing but bitterness.

sirius and regulus are also complicated; here’s a post that describes their dynamic.

the traitors, the ones who escaped, they pity the ones who stayed. the ones who stayed, a handful of them hate those who left for leaving; the others, resent them for leaving their family, their legacy, behind.

[nicistrying]

Married people / people in long term relationships, most likely with men

I have to know. How do you get them to do anything. I love Matt so much, but god he just will not clean the fucking house. He'll vacuum and wash dishes and do laundry and that's the extent of what it occurs to him to do. He made crumble the other night for his friend who has had a horrible breakup, which is so sweet of him! But he left all the mess in the kitchen, crumbs and spillages all over the benches. Who cleaned it up? Me

I nag and nag that I have to do all the housework myself, despite working just as much as him, and he just says he 'forgets'. Forgets to put his drink on a coaster and then gets upset when I get annoyed that there's water marks on the coffee tables. Forgets that the bathroom is gross and could do with a wipe around. Forgets to make the bed. Forgets that the kitchen needs cleaned.

I refuse to accept 'forgetting' as an excuse tbh because he lives in this house too? He can see that things get dirty and still just leaves it for me to do? It feels disrespectful and like he sees it as a woman's job. Which I don't think he does, but because he doesn't do it it automatically fallls to me bc if I don't do it, we just live in a dirty house.

Idk am I being a dick? It's really pissed me off this morning that I went out with Maggie at 6am, walked for an hour in the freezing cold, and came home and had to make the bed that he was the last to get out of, and clean up more crumble crumbs from him portioning out crumble for his friends. Idk I'm feeling like he puts sooo much thought and effort into making other people happy which is one of my favourite things about him, but I don't appreciate being left to clean up his mess while everyone else just sees the finished product. It makes me feel like a witch when he comes home and I'm pissed off about cleaning up after him.

Soooo yeah if anyone has any advice on feeling like a housewife in 2024 where we both work full time and everything else is shared equally between us, let me know bc 'nagging' (I hate that word) gets me nowhere.

[stupidfuckingfatcat]

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAYERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS ENGRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

design explanation + alt drawings under the cut

Where was I going with this design? ;

AM is an individual who more than anything, Despises humans, but throughout that hatred comes a desire to have a Sliver of humanity, something that AM can never truly have, no matter how much he expands his knowledge, his power, his experience, he will never know what it's like to be truly human. When making this design, I initially wanted to parallel what he turned Ted into, ultimately following the narrative of them Both fitting into the statement "I have no mouth and I must scream." Yet as I designed it that became Less apparent, this design now more or less captures a crude caricature of what a human being is, the disgusting imitation of what looks like skin, the vague figure of a person, and a false mouth, one that simply cannot open. Within the Cold War, computers resembled closely to the image attached below, I wanted to add elements and color in reference to the origin of AM, where he initially came from.

I was going to involve more computer elements into this design, but as I disfigured my painting more I fell into the groove of him changing So much since his birth that he's truly become his own niche of appearance, only able to somewhat pinpoint where he came from, he appears beyond the mere machine he came from.

His full body, not shown in the drawing above, slowly but effectively loses that vague humanly figure he had going on with his upper body, quickly alienating the moment you look down, forcing you to remember what you're truly percieving here. The lower body splits into beams, a spillage of wire and cable that burrows itself into every inch of this very earth. AM is everywhere, AM sees everywhere, what's presented above the surface is not reflected below it, miles and Miles of data, cords, and dead ends from parts no longer usable.

sorry for the long description i didnt know i spoke yapanese

alt versions of the drawing!!!

[heartfullofleeches]

You know what we should start talking about how the milks would go about drinking cow hybrid reader's milk, maybe eggnog to start 👀

(Reader is G.N as always, but mentions of lactation)

I see Eggnog drinking Hybrid reader's milk as a source of comfort/feeling closer to them. A good old snuggle in bed with their face in your tits is real therapeutic stuff-

-

Laying in bed together, Elisha creates distance between the two of you as wetness bleeds from your shirt into their sweater. From the lack of a body against you and the gentle shaking of your shoulders, you begin to wake up - fatigue peeling from your tired eyes at the sight of what had separated you.

You didn't even realize your cycle was so close to starting. Your relationship with Eggnog was still new, and your body was aligning with the process of having a mate. They glance down at you with lidded eyes, a silent question on their bitten lips. You nod.

Eggnog scoots down until they're at chest level, sleeves rolling down their arms as they lift up your shirt. Lowering their mouth to your skin, they kiss and pad their tongue against your nipple to relieve some of the growing tension and clean up the spillage. Doing the same with the left, then they wrap their lips around it and snuggle against you as they suck - sapping your soothing warmth in part with drinking your milk.

Not wanting to feel too greedy, they massage the free area of your chest, the milk from your uncovered nip beading down your chest. Without any tools to collect and hating to let it go it waste, Eggnog switches to licking your skin at differentiating intervals - pressing damn kisses to your ribs and sternum before latching back onto your chest. This pattern dies off as a spell of exhaustion overtakes them from the combined elements of your sweet milk and being so near to the one that makes them feel most safe and whole in the world.

Eggnog attempts to blink the sleep away, but your soft heartbeat playing against their ears and the way you comb your fingers through their hair lulls them into a trance of tranquility they couldn't escape nor wanted to. Their lips still attached to you, Elisha falls back asleep with you following suit.

[pinksparkl]

To know and be known

Written for @sunflowerfacee~ Happy Birthday~~ 🎉✨✨

A little get-together for our fave Dreamwalker and his unempowered friend. We were honestly robbed of the precious friends-stage for Elliott and Sunshine, so this is my contribution to the cause.

Platonic relationship between Elliott and Sunshine, but could possibly be read as the friends part of friends-to-lovers.

This takes place before the events of The Balance (i.e. before December 2021) and in this little AU-ish world, they both went to the same high school but then when Sunshine went to an unempowered university/college, Elliott went to the Dreamwalker school. I'm guessing that education system for that is similar to D.A.M.N.'s (in that it's 4 years) so despite Sunshine's course only taking 3 years, they had to take a year out (because of the crash and subsequent recovery) so they'll be graduating in the same year~

Platonic Relationships, University, College, Slice of Life, Fluff

Rated: G

1956 words (read here or on ao3)

Elliott waved his arm wildly above his head, uncaring of how out of place it was, or if it caused the people around him to turn and gawk at what he was doing. "Hey, Sunshine! Over here!"

His best friend of six years made their way through the packed room and sat down beside him on the sofa that had honestly seen better days. With a proud smile, they carefully pulled out two cans – one being Elliott's favourite drink of choice, lemon-limeade and the other theirs, a strawberry lemonade – from their cavernous pockets and handed one to Elliott before shrugging off their bulky jacket.

"Had to sneak this past Imogen at the door," they explained. "You know much of a stickler she is about outside food." Here they scrunched their nose up in annoyance at the dictatorship-like rules set by the self-appointed campus advisor that only seemed encourage their need to rebel. "But, I know you hate the stuff they've got in here." Sunshine quickly balled up their jacket onehandedly and shoved it behind them to make up for the lack of cushions. The students' union was a great place to hang out after classes, but the furnishings and drinks selection always left something to be desired. Pulling self-consciously at their long sleeves, they made sure their hands were covered, two years post-crash and most of the scars were still visible. Not that anyone was looking, but it was just a habit they'd fallen into.

A habit that Elliott was doing his best to pull them out of, bit by bit.

"Thanks, Sunshine, I love you~ I owe you one," he beemed, distracting them with a genuine, toothy smile that brightened his previously bored face.

As Sunshine returned the smile, though a little more reserved, his fingers tapped along the top of the can like he was performing an elaborate magic trick. He cracked open the pull tab to reveal the perfect amount of fizz with no spillage. Before even thinking about drinking his own, Elliott leaning over and carried out the same witchcraft on Sunshine's can while they got comfortable alongside him on the majorly uncomfortable sofa, they ended up facing him with one leg curled up underneath them.

Both picked up their respective drinks and clinked them together with a silly chorus of "cheers" before savouring the first refreshing taste of the overly sugary liquid as it fizzed delightfully against the metal cans in their hands. The mild sensation was simultaneously exciting yet grounding.

"Knew I'd find you sooner or later, El." Sunshine had spent some time searching through the union's various hidey-holes, little nooks here-and-there for groups to chill out or study with a modicum of privacy. "What're you doing all tucked away in the back corner for?" They knew the reason already, that he wasn't one for large crowds, much preferring a quiet night in, playing video games or even cramming for the next exam, but he had been the one to invite them out.

"Uhh... social battery's kinda drained," he explained, his face scrunched up in that "I don't really wanna be here but the situation rapidly escalated and now it's out of my hands" kind of expression that Sunshine knew all too well. It was Wednesday evening, famously known as hump-day, when everyone was just waiting impatiently for the weekend – and the fun – to arrive. Normally the union was empty this far mid-week, but Elliott's great idea to avoid the crowds had been unconsciously shared by many others.

They sighed, unhappy that he had pushed himself this long for their sake. "D'you wanna go? We can head out if you wanna leave." Sunshine was halfway to standing up again, ready to put their jacket back on.

"Nooo, no, no-no." He tugged at their arm repeatedly, encouraging them to sit back down. "I'm good, really. Plus, you just got here. And there's no point wasting these delicious drinks you bought that I just opened with my incredibly skillful hands." Maybe he was laying it on a little thick, he just hoped he wasn't being too obvious.

Seeing straight through his lies, Sunshine ultimately decided to make it a short night out to put an end to their friend's suffering. "Okay, we'll drink these and then we'll go okay?" A compromise. "I wanted to fill you in on my new character for the next campaign anyway. The sketches aren't much but I think they're my best yet and after staring at them for two weeks straight, I definitely need a fresh set of eyes to critique them fully."

"Sunshine. Listen to me," he said in a serious tone, his free hand reaching over to shake their knee to ensure they would listen to him. "You're a natural-born artiste; your "sketches"," he emphasised with exaggerated air-quotes, "are more detailed than most people's idea of a finished piece. Give yourself some credit, please. If you don't, you know I will~" The steady flow of compliments over the years from Elliott hadn't fully demolished Sunshine's lack of confidence in their abilities – yet – but he wasn't a quitter; he'd just keep trying until he eventually succeeded.

Sunshine's awareness zoned in on the warmth that lingered against their knee even after Elliott had pulled his hand away to play with the frayed edges of his own jeans. "Y'know, I'm surprised your mother hasn't threatened to burn those yet," they teased, giving a pointed nod at the ripped denim.

"Hey, they're distressed, like me; it's a perfect match." Some humour to offset the self-deprecation, and some lemony-lime goodness to offset the anxiety rolling in his stomach. There really were too many people here, and not enough space. Nervously, he tapped the base of his ring against the can, the quiet metallic taps giving him something else to focus on.

"You're not bubblegum-pop twenty-four-seven." Sunshine readily acknowledging the fact that everyone had off days. "But you're definitely not distressed. Besides they passed distressed last year. Please buy a new pair. No. Scratch that, pinky promise me that you'll buy a new pair; student discount is a wonderful thing~" Pinky promises were serious stuff, you couldn't break them. Ever. "Within the next month," they added, knowing how much their friend liked to push things off into the indefinite future.

Quietly happy that Sunshine had initiated a pinky promise for a change – they were usually Elliott's forté – he stuck out his pinky without hesitation, ready to twine it around theirs and swear his agreement to the terms.

Sipping on their contraband beverages, the pair leaned in close as they spoke, their bent knee sat on top of his thigh after he had scooched closer. It was natural, comfortable. Free hands were animated in re-telling their day so far, and sometimes wordlessly taking the other's drink when they could tell they needed both hands to better explain the next bit. It was amazing how much you had to say about a seemingly boring series of events when you had someone to tell it to.

Voices dipped low, just loud enough for the other to hear. They weren't swapping secrets or anything so private that would require them to hide from potential gossip-fiends, and the music pumping through the ceiling-mounted speakers thumped loudly, concealing their conversation outside of their little bubble, but it just felt right and it worked, so where was the problem?

Subconsciously he and Sunshine both knew how people saw the two of them, that beyond their friend group, there were those who believed them to be not-so-secretly dating and just denying it as a joke. They'd heard more than enough of the jibes of "get a room" or "let's give the lovebirds some alone time" for it to be hard to ignore, but it didn't matter. Those people and their opinions didn't matter. Friendship was just as important as romance, not less than. They just pitied those who didn't love their friends and feel them deserving of affection.

"Oh, yeah!" Sunshine half-exclaimed, snapping their fingers as they remembered what they had wanted to tell Elliott in the first place. "I got those pictures printed, from when we went on that long-ass drive across the state for literally no reason at all. I ended up getting some great shots of the installations, and the sky and stuff."

The "and stuff" included a few pictures of Elliott's face lit by the sunset colours, laughing at one of Sunshine's dry jokes while driving them back home. They could have been home hours earlier and beat the fading light, but Elliott's endless compassion for Sunshine's – understandable – aversion to acceleration, meant that he had taken great care to keep to a manageable speed, and even went so far as to suggest a game of eye-spy to distract them from the anxious monotony of being cooped up in a car for so long.

And although Elliott hadn't yet plucked up the courage to talk about his own near-death experience, he couldn't express just how much he appreciated the way Sunshine reacted when he had to regrettably turn down a trip to the beach. Not one complaint did he hear from them, and they didn't even feel the need to pester him time and time again like others did, so he wanted to offer the same kind of comfort in return.

"It wasn't for no reason, Sunshine. You mentioned how much you wanted to see that outdoor exhibit before it closed for the winter, and I figured we could use the break in the semester to go see it." Simple. Easy. Uncomplicated. It wasn't difficult to figure out how to make them happy, and it was a no-brainer to Elliott as to how to achieve that goal.

Sunshine laughed, shaking their head, almost in disbelief, as they drained the last few drops from their strawberry lemonade, savouring the tart sweetness for a moment longer. "See, this is why you're my best friend; who else would drop everything just to see an art exhibit in the middle of nowhere, and then fight me on who drove there and back?"

Elliott knew the answer they were already thinking of, the facts they'd assigned to it, and how that made them feel, that no one would do such things for them because they weren't worth the effort.

But they were.

They were worth every mile of that boring road that stretched out for hours, they were worth every shiver he felt as the bitter wind nipped at his skin – he'd planned for everything that day except the chilling weather – they were worth everything and more.

He just needed to find a way to make them see that and believe it too. But until then, he'd continue to be their hype-person.

Elliott tipped his head back lazily, finishing his drink before Sunshine swiped the can from his hand. "Right, drinks are done. Let's get out of here; I can clearly see you've reached your maximum limit of socialisation for an entire week." Sunshine neatly chucked the empty cans in the nearby bin, happy their plan to surprise Elliott hadn't been foiled by Imogen. "My druid's design sheet is calling our names. And if you get locked out of your campus again, the fold-out bed is yours.

"Sweet! And maybe we can play-test your druid," he whispered. "You know I'm always ready for some roleplay dreams… Uhh, wait. Just… forget how that sounded, okay?" Embarrassed, Elliott pulled his beanie down over his ears as they made their way through the busy corridor.

Sunshine laughed at the slip, almost walking into a wall before Elliott yanked them to safety. "Thanks. Uhh, yeah, the sugar's already gotten to your brain. Come on, quick, before we both end up in trouble with the Department."

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Six: Forced Proximity @rowaelinscourt

link to masterlist here

She is a mess because I wrote her in one day between doing my real job and trying not to cry xoxo

Warnings: mild covid references/quarantine days, very poorly edited

level of concern (tell me we're alright)

The apartment was too small.  Aelin hadn’t noticed it until now, but two rooms and a single bathroom with a kitchen that easily melted into the living room was hardly enough space for two people.  Two people who hated each other.

Aelin threw herself down on the couch, gripping her coffee in one hand.  She’d long ago mastered the art of equilibrium where any sort of caffeine was involved so she didn’t spill anything as she sprawled across the plush cushions.  Groaning, she leaned her head back and tried, so very hard, not to lose her ever loving mind.

It was only week three of quarantine and she was going insane.

She missed going outside whenever she felt like it.  She missed going shopping.  She missed her friends.  She missed people.  Instead, she was trapped here with the one person she did not want to be.

“Do you always have to sound like a dying whale?” A very unamused voice called from the kitchen table, a grand ‘ol four steps away.

Aelin flashed a single finger over the top of the couch.  She got a grunt of disapproval in return.

“It’s eight twenty-two, well outside of your precious quiet hours,” she informed her roommate. “I can do whatever I want.”

Another grunt.

Aelin shifted to peek over the couch to glare. “You sound like a dying walrus.”

And Rowan Whitethorn promptly choked on his cereal.  Two days in a row—Aelin was on a winning streak.

When Aelin first moved to Doranelle three months ago, her plan was to have her own apartment, a dog, a perfect new job, and a social life.  What she got was a crash landing with her nemesis, no dog, the worst job known to man, and quarantine.

She and Rowan had been at each other's throats since they met one fateful night at a bar.  Rowan spilled beer on her, an accident, and promptly insulted her two minutes later after trying to hit on her.

As it turned out, he was friends with Aelin’s old roommates' boyfriends.  She should have known he was the worst considering he and Lorcan Salvaterre got on.  

The bar scene ended with a fight, more beer spillage (on purpose), and a promise of vengeance.

Unfortunately for Aelin, her prospective lease fell through and she would have been homeless if not for the extra room in Rowan’s apartment.  And then covid struck and Aelin was trapped.

Hence, her beached whale position (and sounds) from the couch.  Life was one cosmic joke after another.

“You don’t always have to make your presence known, y’know,” Rowan commented as he pretended, he hadn’t almost had multi-grain Wheaties shooting out of his nose.

“Of course I do,” Aelin argued, “how else can I annoy you before quiet hours begin?”

His green eyes flashed and he rose from his seat at the table, already dressed in a button up and slacks.  For Zoom meetings.  Like a lunatic.  If he’d been wearing a tie she would have teased him for it.  Of all things the man should still be in shorts and a t-shirt.  At least the button up stretched in interesting ways over Rowan’s broad shoulders.  He might have been the bane of her existence but he was nice to look at.

“Don’t you have a job?” he asked, putting his dishes in the sink. “Ah, I forgot, you don’t.”

“Freelance writing is a job,” Aelin said.  She sat up straighter so she could better glare at him. “It’s not my fault things have slowed down.”

Indeed, Aelin’s literature degree had taken a hit given the state of the world right now.  She’d hoped she would have a job at a major publishing company or magazine or something.  Instead, she’d been rejected from job after job and was trying to write freelance articles to keep up on rent.  It…wasn’t going well.  Which had led her to content creating for Instagram.  She read books and talked about them and it kept her somewhat sane.  Until Rowan mocked her for it.

“Rent’s due on the fifth!” he called as he disappeared down the hall to his room to shut in for his work day to begin.

Aelin had no idea what he did, only that it involved not having a sense of humor.  Something with marketing?  But his degree was in history if Elide was right…

She shrugged and took a long sip of her coffee.  She had less than twenty minutes before quiet hours started at eight-forty and ended at five thirty when the work day ended and she had every intention of making as much noise as possible.

…

Rowan knew he was an ass.  He’d always been known as the asshole throughout high school, college, the steps in-between.  Even his friends often thought he was worse than Lorcan.  Lorcan of all people.

Granted, ever since Elide came into the picture, Lorcan had mellowed out and even smiled once a week.

Rowan found scowling to be more beneficial.  Especially when it came to getting Sam Cortland to shut up in the daily staff meetings they had over Zoom.

His degree was in art history and appraising--a limited degree where all he’d wanted to do was work in a museum organizing exhibits.  Not writing legal documents for rich men to take art from their rightful owners.

The irony was not lost on him that perhaps he shouldn’t give Aelin such a hard time about her job and the fact she wasn’t using her degree very much.  

The only problem was he’d dug himself into a hole and now he had no idea how to get out.

Aelin, for all eccentricities, was smart and did work hard.  She was doing everything possible to stay afloat--sarcasm included.

Their first meeting at the bar had only gone so miserable because Rowan didn’t know when to shut up and apparently had a unique skill of insulting beautiful women.  What a time to learn that.

English?  Isn’t that the easiest thing to study?

She should have slapped him and not just dumped beer in his lap.

Rowan leaned back in his seat as the project manager started talking over the new contract that would be drawn up between a client and their acquisitions.  It continued on for too long and Rowan just wanted to get back to his own assignments.  By the time late afternoon rolled around, he was ready to log off and be done for the day.

He’d always considered himself to be a homebody, but this was getting ridiculous.  He wanted to be out doing things.  But the trails were closed, his friends were spread out over the country, and there was the risk of a disastrous illness running amuck.

So he was trapped in an apartment with Aelin Galathynius.  The place had always felt enormous until she’d moved in.  But she had a way of filling every space she occupied.  Other than the various bathroom accouterments she had there were the dozens of fleece blankets, the books, the personality.  Even he had to admit she was different from anyone he’d met before.

Unfortunately, she was very good at holding grudges.

He’d tried apologizing for getting off on the wrong foot when she first moved in, but her mind was already made up.  Then came the way she was loud, talkative, rambunctious.  Quarantine was not meant for her.  After one day he’d realized that she needed space and freedom and the ability to do whatever she wanted.  The jury was still out on how he felt about that.

He was finally able to mute his other coworkers when a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.  Rowan rolled his eyes.  It was two, so of course Aelin was getting snacky.  He’d clocked her eating habits and quickly learned she needed to eat at least eight times a day to be in a good mood.  Seven of those times had to involve chocolate.

She had been doing better at keeping quiet while he was in his zoom meetings so Rowan tried to control his ire.  Really, she hadn’t been a bad roommate.  She’d tried to keep the peace between them and even offered to include him on DoorDash orders.  All of her orders were from the local dessert shop and Rowan didn’t eat much sugar so that didn’t help matters.   

Another crash from the kitchen followed by the patter of feet to the linen closet.

“Damndamndamndamn,” Aelin chanted as she went.

Rowan froze.  She’d broken his sink again, hadn’t she?  He glanced at his computer but no one was paying attention, all engaged in their own work.  Besides, he could step away from a minute if he needed to.

Standing, Rowan slipped into the hall and down to the kitchen.  He braced himself for anything and everything.  Knowing Aelin there could be a dead body.

What he was completely unprepared for was the settling plume of flour and mess of various baking items scattered around the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing?” he blurted before he could stop himself.

Aelin turned from the counter, her blonde hair spilling out of a messy bun.  Her t-shirt and shorts (that showed off her lean legs) were covered in a mix of flour and butter, her face smudged too.  He knew he should stop staring.  Really, he’d seen her first thing in the morning looking like the walking dead and in the middle of the night crying to Taylor Swift.  And now, covered in flour, eyes wide with panic.  He would admit it only to himself and deny it if anyone asked him--but she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“It’s cookie Friday,” Aelin said, she had a towel in one hand, spatula in the other.  A bottle of vanilla was tipped over as she was trying to mop up the mess. “Sorry.”

“You hate cooking, or baking, or anything involving an oven,” Rowan reminded her.

“Which is why I’m only going to eat the dough raw,” Aelin said, voice growing quieter with each word.  Her blue eyes were comically wide as she gestured around the kitchen. “Then the thing exploded and the other thing tipped over and it turned into a mess and I was trying to be quiet because you are a grumpy buzzard, even on Fridays, and I know you’re at work but I really needed cookies.”

Aelin continued to look at him with her large eyes as she offered a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders.  

"Sorry?"

Rowan didn't know if he should laugh or be irritated or something else.  But all he really could do was stare at her.  It was such an Aelin thing for her to do that really, he couldn't be mad.

"You know raw cookie dough is bad for you right?" He asked.

"No, it literally feeds the soul," she set.

With a wet thwack, she dropped the towel in the sink and righted the vanilla bottle.  Most of it had spilled out leaving a sickly-sweet scent cloying in the air. "And I don't care what scientists or other miserable things you read say."

Rowan rolled his eyes. He should have known better than to try and reason with her. "Alright fine.  Eat your salmonella."

"I will, thank you," she said.  A patch of flour still clung to her cheek giving her bravado a little less umph than he was sure she wanted. "And I'll clean up, no need to worry your poor old heart about that."

"I'm not old," he said.  Thirty was a perfectly reasonable age.

"Yeah, yeah."  She patted herself down, sending little plumes of flour all over the place.  She tried righting her hair, but it seemed to be of no use—most of the tendrils had broken free and she was stuck with a curling mass in the nape of her neck. "Go back to work, I'm sure nothing will get done without you."

And Rowan in a bought of what had to be pure reckless abandonment shook his head. "Nah.  I'm not that important."

Aelin raised a brow. "Really? Even with your real degree and real work you put into college."

Well.  He deserved that. 

"Yeah?"

Aelin eyed him skeptically before tossing another clean towel at him. "You get the floor I'll get the cabinets."

And then because the apartment had somehow shrunk in the last three months—they were continually in each other’s way.  Rowan brushing her leg, Aelin grabbing his shoulder when she nearly fell over while reaching for the top cabinets, both going for the sink at the same time.  It was chaos.  And because Rowan didn't know how to sort out his own feelings, he found his skin heating at each touch, his heart race at each glance.  And he knew, he knew he was a fool.  But if the past three months had taught him anything—it was that he could be very wrong about a great deal of things.

When the kitchen was somewhat restored to order.  Aelin sighed. "I guess that'll have to do.  I'll dig out the real cleaning products in a minute, I have to meet with one of my editors.  Hopefully one of my articles was accepted this time."

She said the last part flippantly, but Rowan could sense the tension rolling off of her.  She wanted that job to go through, needed it.  

"I'm sure it will," he said.

Aelin rolled her eyes. "You don't have to offer a pity compliment buzzard; I know it's not your style."

“It’s not--” Rowan cursed and looked away, running a hand through his hair anxiously. “We both know what I said back then wasn’t true.  I know it must have taken work and dedication to get your degree.”

“Thanks.  It did.” She was unapologetic with her bold words, just as he would expect her to be. “I won’t keep you.  I promise I’ll have the rest of this cleaned up before bed.”

“It’s fine,” Rowan said. 

Aelin grabbed the dirty towels to take to the small laundry alcove but Rowan stopped her.

“You’ve got flour,” he tried to explain that there was still a steak of flour on her cheek, but he was already reaching out, brushing it away with a quick swipe of his thumb.

Aelin froze, watching him as if she didn’t recognize him.  Not that he could blame her, he was actually being nice.  Her lips parted as if to say something, but Rowan’s phone gave a loud ping from where he’d left it in his room.  He’d hooked his notifications onto a larger speaker setting so he wouldn’t miss anything during the day if he got up to leave his desk.

“Work calls, right?”  Aelin joked with a small, half smile.  And then she was gone down the hall.

Rowan cursed again, running a hand over his face. 

“Get it together, Whitethorn,” he muttered, before he too returned to his room.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

tags are a joke rn. please consider reblogging?

love yall

[salternateunreality2]

Potassium has had a tumultuous day.

Salty's housemate over text: Salty, please keep an eye on the bread chunks* I cut up and left on the dining table. I know Potassium never does this, but just in case...

Salty: *was dead asleep after a long day at work*

Salty: *wakes up, sees text* Ah yes, ok. *Checks bread chunks*

Potassium: *innocent angel guarding the bread * 😇😇😇

Salty: Hi Potassium! Are you being a good dog?

Salty: Let's check this bread...well, one pan looks perfect, and it's weird that the second pan has A PERFECT (I SHIT YOU NOT, PERFECT) RECTANGLE OF OPEN SPACE AT ONE END, but I'm sure Housemate-chan has her reasons. *Steals a chunk of bread* *from the rectangle end***

Potassium: 😇😇😇😇😇😇😇

Salty: Good dog! You guarded the bread so well!

Salty's glasses: WEAR ME MORE OFTEN

The table: SALTY I HAVE CLAW MARKS ON ME CAN YOU NOT SEE THE CLAW MARKS

Salty's glasses: WEAR ME

Salty:

Housemate-chan retuned home and asked everyone if we had taken a I SHIT YOU NOT, IT WAS A PERFECT RECTANGLE, NO SPILLAGE OR WOBBLY EDGES, THE PAN WAS PERFECTLY STRAIGHT TOO, perfect rectangle of bread chunks. We all said no, except Potassium.

When we called her over and asked if she knew about this, she suddenly found the other room to be Very Interesting, and the table Not At All Interesting.

We have concluded that an evil cat snuck in, poisoned her so she passed out, stole the bread, and left without a trace other than the claw marks on the table.

*I think she is/was planning to make bread pudding, and it helps if the bread airs out and gets a little stale??? Idk I hate bread pudding.

** ew ew ew I ate dog cat slobber bread and thought it was weird but I was hungry and just kept chewing ew ew ew

[newyorkreject]

Modelo with Lime.

I smile, dryly, through red wine stained teeth,

And talk through a thin layer of bottom shelf vodka.

Isn't that my curse?

To be good, alright, but never quite good enough?

My tears are lemon drops, my memory is merely a lipstick stain on a crystal whiskey glass.

To get your attention, but never enough?

To get your attention, but no action, no talk?

I want to know you,

Every want- every thought.

And you'd agree, if you were here with me,

Through your brown lashes and the spillage of soju.

That I wouldn't fit in with them-

With you.

Not fit enough, not funny enough, not innocent enough yet not ruined enough.

Parents didn't make enough.

The trauma speaks out too much-

Already had the cigarette phase once,

I speak your name to honor a blunt.

It's been over a week but it feels like months.

A never ending tale of is this love or lust?

A never ending tale of never being quite enough.

I hear their laughs when you go out with them.

I see their light filled eyes, their toned bodies.

Their laughs, their fucking laughs,

Eye contact and flash backs- oh-

I know I show up in your dreams-

But how do I tell you youre living mine?

You're a living, mine.

And maybe that's my curse.

Solitude. Isolation. Virgo, The Hermit.

I want to know you -but

Maybe I don't.

Someone gone once told me to never meet your heros.

But at night, when the party dies down and she's asleep

Or no one's around,

I feel your spirit floating here.

Maybe that's the closet I'll ever get to you.

Maybe that's the most I'll ever know of you.

So you can look your mother in the eye,

Saying what I want is mine,

While your white middle class friends drink Mikes hard,

Cause they hate the taste of wine.

So you can look her in the face and feel like you haven't committed a crime,

Throw me away so you don't feel like you're running out of time.

And we can be strangers,

Sharing a Modelo with lime.

Always there yet, never quite on time.

[blackjackkent]

Oh, man, the Dark Urge personal quest line descriptions are even better than the narrator lines:

Incredible. XD

Anyway. I think Rakha's primary party is going to be Lae'zel (because I think they will be buddies in bluntness), Wyll (bc romance), and Gale (bc Rakha's fascination with magic). So - initial priority is to pick up those three ASAP.

Gale is closest so we'll start heading in that general direction, but on the way we get some combat with the lingering illithid survivors, which of course Rakha barrels into headfirst leaving Shadowheart watching bemused from a slight distance.

Check out this intellect devourer that she fried to a blackened crisp with Shocking Grasp:

More important than the devourers, though, is the mind flayer further up the slope.

"That thing's bound to be dangerous," Shadowheart points out. "Best be careful."

And then, I can only imagine, she rolls her eyes and says "Or don't," because Rakha IMMEDIATELY recognizes this as the mind flayer she almost killed on the ship and is off at a run to finish the job.

Narrator: You approach the dying monster. This is the thing that abducted you.

Rakha's hands are already up, ready to try out the new electrical surge she just learned she could manifest and send it slamming through every remaining cell in this creature's body, to finish the revenge she began.

And then her thoughts are dragged to a sudden halt.

Narrator: You could end its life here and now, if only you didn't feel... compassion.

Narrator: Compassion?!

The rage is still in her, rising, burning, conflagrating her from within but-- muted, muffled under the inescapable, alien kindness that suffuses her consciousness in this moment.

No. You should be furious... shouldn't you?

Narrator: Yes... you feel hate. And you deserve to be punished for it. You should be whipped, made to bow before this creature in shame.

Narrator: It's possessing your mind, forcing you to... love it.

No, says the rage, says the beast in the back of her mind. No, no, NO, NO, NONONONO-- kill, strike, maim, spill its blood silver-white in the sunlight--

She does not know where that voice comes from, she does not know why it takes such joy in the spillage of guts - but she would much rather succumb to that screaming chaos, complete the vengeance she began on the ship, than let this creature possess her for another moment. But she can't move, can't think, is on the point of falling to her knees and placing her head within the grasp of the illithid's fangs--

Narrator: But then the feeling slips... The creature's mind seems to focus elsewhere.

Take advantage of the lapse - break free.

Narrator: The monster lies exhausted, defeated. Its eyes - wet, orange pearls - radiate malice.

She staggers backwards, ripping herself free of the mental grip. And the rage bursts out in full, a fiery inferno that consumes everything. Her vision goes white and the beast-fury takes control.

Close those eyes forever.

-----

She comes back to herself on her knees, elbow-deep in silver blood. What exactly she did is lost to her broken memory, but the illithid's head is some distance away, spiderwebbed with electrical burns. Its body has the spine pulled free and drips steaming alien gore onto the equally alien wreckage.

Shadowheart is watching her with wide eyes. "I think you're finished with it," she says, deadpan, her eyes narrowed.

Rakha stands slowly, wiping the blood in unsteady smears on her robes. "If I could bring it back and kill it again, I would," she mutters.

Shadowheart raises an eyebrow. "Why?" she asks. It's not an innocent question; she's parsing Rakha out, bit by bit, adding to the picture.

Rakha frowns. "I don't know," she answers quietly. A pause. "It put these things in us. It tried to use me. It had to pay."

Shadowheart lets out a soft exhalation that is almost a snort but not quite. "Every hour I seem to have a new reminder not to get on your bad side," she says dryly.

[javen-tiger]

ykw i do hate a round boob but some bitches really do work a pushup bra. maybe i should get one a size too small. for spillage.