#clove says things

[cloveisinhell]

made a cloveisinhell bingo ig

[gutfaced]

so anyway when anyone holds the belief that the career kids were evil and were natural born killers you are equally dehumanizing them like the systems of training they were put in. you are adultifying children who were brainwashed and forced to learn the ways of slaughter for sake of glory. we could talk about their parallels to war also, but the main thing here are these are children taught that in order to appease their district they must kill ruthlessly and without second regard for anyone else in th equation. their win and their path of success only, even if in the end they're still cannon fodder like all other victors. like how many time does it have to be said that the careers are VICTIMS. not villains like they're portrayed as by the narrative.

[goodluckclove]

CRIMEEEEEE

TELL ME THE CRIMEEEE

So I think this is from when Sleep Deprived Hangover Man invited the internet to ask them about the crimes they committed as a youth. I will be honest, this is not a super great thing I did. But because the statue of limitation is up and honestly none of the crimes are really - significant? They're just weird. I was an angsty, turbulent, manic youth.

And it turns out, I'm an equally turbulent adult. I tried to list the weird semi-crimes I've done in my childhood, and it sort of turned into a guide on how other young people can kind of break the law and get away with it. Maybe not law. Policy? Yeah, so it's not great and I'm putting it under a read more.

Disclaimer, since this is still technically my author page: I do not think any minor should do most crimes without just cause. Like within the legal system the trouble it could get you in sounds like it could really set you back for a long time. I actually don't even think you should immediately implement my advice across the board without practice and introspection and observation. It's actually a way harder skill to cultivate than people might expect, but if you can it will help you for a long time for things other than crimes.

Ideally you don't do it. If you want to, learn how to tell when the right time to do it would be. Don't make a point to inconvenience people more than you have to, both because that's a nice thing to do, and because it improves the odds of you getting away with it. I need to stop telling young people how to do crimes. Or do I? I don't know. If anyone has questions about my philosophy and experience you can ask and I'll say more.

I am a professional weirdo. Let's do this.

Let's go in a vague order!

I was suspended for terrorist death threats in the third grade. I do not believe this is fully my fault but it is a thing that happened.

I shoplifted a pretty decent amount, but not in a way I think any other youth would find cool. I stole candy and pens. But like GOOD pens.

I used to carry glitter glue on me for the sake of writing poetic phrases on various surfaces

Once I walked into an empty business lobby and moved around some plants and furniture, and then I left. If there was a camera there I probably created a strange story.

I generally trespassed a bunch of places all the time. All the time, straight up. If there was an open door or unattended hall that I wasn't supposed to explore I'm absolutely exploring it and taking whoever I'm with with me. I learned pretty quickly that I was charming enough to pull off being caught and getting myself out of it without any consequence. Literally, if you aren't actively causing trouble and just wandering around someplace you know you're not supposed to be, just tell someone who finds you and asks questions that you're lost and you aren't sure where to go. Like maybe you thought this was a way to the parking garage or the bathroom. Assuming I wasn't stealing, causing damage, or shouting slurs, this has worked for me 100% of the time.

Literally, if you do crimes that aren't crimes, you should practice being genuinely nice

Not fake snarky nice, like actually polite and respectful

You didn't realize you weren't supposed to be hanging out in that lot or in that parking garage. You were just trying to find a place to sit and chill. But yeah, you'll leave.

Yes, in retrospect walking down the lightrail tracks wasn't a safe or practical idea. But you took the wrong train and you genuinely didn't know how to get back and this was the only idea you had. You're just trying to get home. Look, you're even buying a ticket (I like never did that as a youth holy shit)!

a teenager is not going to win a fight with an adult who perceives themselves an authority. I don't think you should do whatever adult authority figures say. I do think that you should learn how to navigate your way out of conflicts within spaces in a way that means you can still use that space

if you break a rule and, instead of fighting, take the honest stance that you didn't mean to do that and, in fact, you actually need help from an Adult Authority Figure for a slightly unrelated thing that doesn't actually matter to you (directions to a place, maybe).

I genuinely just wandered around wherever I wanted and this always, always worked for me. I'm really good at looking confused and like I need help, because most of the time I am actually confused and need help

You are not in a sitcom and being sarcastic and snarky to a person that catches you trespassing will not not to anything but make you think you're cool. They'll still make you leave, and now you can't go back to the place you explored because you're the person that started shit instead of the person who got confused and made a mistake and apologized and left.

Adults in authority positions automatically assume a young person in a place/doing a thing they aren't supposed to do will turn it into a conflict. If you genuinely, honestly respond with respect and curiosity, I almost guarantee you'll get away with it. Fucking say you've never tagged before and you weren't really sure if it was still a crime in a place like this, but you get why the person is upset.

Offer to clean your own tag. Like not ironically. Ask if they have some supplies or if you can come back. Be entirely serious, say you're realizing it wasn't a good idea and you kind of regret it. This doesn't have to be true, but it will rattle a security guard or manager far more than if you call them a fascist.

They might yell still, but if you give them nothing they can justify as a reason to keep yelling at you they're actually going to look like the weirdo to themselves and everyone around them

thesis: misdemeanors are a lot easier to get away with if you are unafraid to look like you're naive and willing to learn and adapt. You might feel like it's a blow to your pride, but in the long run you will be able to do way more questionable shit. i came to this conclusion when I was 14 years old and decided I'd rather do weird shit than have the adult minor authority figures think i'm a peer or a worthy adversary, because neither of those things would happen anyway.

Okay so this just turned into a guide on how to do a misdemeanor. I should say now that there are crimes that are bad. Even tagging, something I truly enjoy, does create more work for employees and sanitation workers. That's frankly why I like ways that are easier to remove than spray paint and postage stickers if it's something you want to do.

And I'm not necessarily pro-shoplifting as, like, a hobby? I don't think it's great, mainly because if you are caught it'll probably lead to you being banned from the store you stole from. Which, if you're young, can be pretty hard to hide from the adults in your life. And the shaming that results from doesn't seem worth whatever you took. I still have a mug I shoplifted from Target, and I am not thrilled that I stole it, because it reminds me of a time in my life when I felt so shitty I decided to steal something to feel in control of a situation. And that sucks.

Compare that to moving furniture in some random office and then walking way. That's so fucking funny and I do not regret doing that at all. Imagine you're looking at security footage and you see that. That's some cryptid shit.

Young people - if you are weirder and nicer about it, the amount of stuff you can do widens extensively and you can potentially confuse adults who work otherwise boring and stressful jobs for a long time to come. Case closed.

[s0ngsandstars]

Ever wish you could reblog a post without reblogging a post?

[hxneylavendxr]

points and laughs. known homestuckie

(/lh btw)

[caruliaa]

Also maybe it’s because Matilda and her friends were so young but I always loved how her peers accepted her and befriended. Too often you see young kids in movies being bullied for being so smart and the prodigies in question being pretentious and too good for the kids with average intelligence. It just shows that Matilda is just a kid like the rest of them and I :’)

ya !!! like both those tropes (smart kids being bullied and smart kids acting like theyre better than everyone else) are so dumb and tired so its really great that they avoided them and just had the kids be friends with each other and stuff it was nice :]

[cornflowercanine]

oh yeah also almost forgot to post that one year ago today i moved out of utah. i went from constantly tired and 8ody Hurts Randomly All The Time and Gets New Minor Illnesses Monthly and Starting to get heart issues to like... i've only gotten sick once since i moved out. any pain i get is just from workin lots. ive gained TWENTY POUNDS(!!!) pro8a8ly more since i moved out (REALLY GOOD). i finally have irl friends :) and we go out shopping or to eat at least once a w33k, every other w33k X) literally every8ody in my store that i talk to loves me and is happy to s33 me and gives me compliments :D i kinda cant express how huge a deal it is for me to 8e a8le to Go Outside and TALK TO PEOPLE nevertheless MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM!!! 8ut god this was kinda all i ever wanted? this was like the 8aseline thing? people are just as nice as i thought they'd 8e and my parents were wrong X) i am way more lova8le than anticip8ed even if i do get confused easy and am slow at some things people still WANT me there :D i have my own money now and can do whatever i want with it and i have :) a lot... in savings and i plan to learn to drive this year and move out next year or so!

LITERALLY EVERYTHING IS EASIER WHEN YOU DONT HAVE YOUR PARENTS 8REATHING DOWN YOUR NECK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I AM SO HAPPY A FUCKING MEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

So most recipes for watercolor binder recommend using clove essential oil for its antimicrobial and antifungal properties (so your paints dont start growing mold)

Well I could not find clove oil for a reasonable price anywhere near me

I did however find cinnamon essential oil at walmart

So I did some digging and cinnamon oil can be used in place of clove oil for antimicrobial and antifungal properties. SO im not sure why all the watercolor binder recipes that tell you to use essential oil specify clove oil. I thought maybe other oils might make the paint weird? But I figured it was worth a shot to try the cinnamon oil. So far the paint seems to work just fine and its hardening nicely.

So if youre making watercolor binder but can't find clove oil (and you want to have an essential oil in there for the added antifungal properties) just know that any with antimicrobial and antifungal properties are likely ok to use. (This note isn't the point of this post I just feel the need to put it cuz I had a very confusing week of digging around online to figure out if I could substitute clove oil for another type of oil because literally every single recipe that recommended using an essential oil said CLOVE oil which makes me think that clove oil must have something about it that makes it different from other essential oils with antimicrobial and antifungal properties thats making all these other people use it specifically and was finding NOTHING and decided to just say "fuck it" and see what happens-.....anyway.)

This has had the lovely effect of making my paints smell very strongly of cinnamon

Which is definitely an upgrade from how I imagine they wouldve smelled had i not added essential oil at all. The gum arabic solution smelled very bad lol. The cinnamon oil helped quite a lot.

[nezuscribe]

(slightly suggestive)

another little drabble for arranged marriage!gojo but imagine a moment before he confessed but something was looming over the two of you. it was crossing the line of friends, not necessarily husband and wife, but two people desperately in love and didn't know how to say it.

you were in one of your late-night frenzies, your brain so muddled with every thought that you decided to do what you knew best: bake.

you often find yourself in this situation as of late, but it truly seems to be the only thing that helps. you wanted to tell gojo how you were feeling, but it was too far in, so you decided something simple and sugary would help you in the moment.

at this point, the walk to the kitchens was something you could do blind, and considering how many times you did this, you already knew where all the ingredients were.

you set out your sugar and flower, and go rummaging in the cold cellar for some butter and eggs. you try not to think about how at dinner gojo slid closer to you, your arms touching as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. or how a couple days ago he had found you in the library, reading next to a windowsill, cozying up next to you as he read the book over your shoulder.

you're so lost in your head with sifting the ingredients that you fail to realize that the very man himself had come up secretly behind you, curiously watching you in your element.

(he'd never admit that he'd first gone to your room, and only came down here after he realized you were gone).

but, unlike the last couple of times, you'd gotten used to his stealthy ways. he was quiet, sure, but you could recognize him by his slight breath alone, or the way he smelled faintly of cloves.

you try not to let your breathing hitch, or let a smile grow on your face as you decide to break the silence.

"if you try to scare me while i'm baking you better rethink your choices," you warn him and hear gojo snicker quietly behind you.

gojo moves from where he was standing, and he leans his back against the counter next to you, craning his neck to look over at your bowl.

your eyes dart to the side, to the way his arms are resting behind him as he balances himself back on them (or the way his arms bulge and veins pop).

"what's on your mind tonight?" gojo asks, knowing you only do this now whenever you're stressed out.

"not much," you mutter, despite wanting to say you, you're on my mind.

he tsks, not buying your lie as he leans in a little close, his head blocking your view of your mixing bowl as he tries to get a little taste with his fingers.

"hey!" you cry, smacking him lightly on the back of his neck, "your hands are all grimy!"

you watch as he peers at you from the corner of his eyes, glaring at your offensive remark as he retracts away, a small pout on his face as you grin in slight victory.

"my hands are clean," you hear him mumble petulantly and you chuckle, rolling your eyes at his antics. the closer the two of you got, the more you found out that his closed-off and aloof demeanor was just a facade for a dramatic, grouchy man-child.

there's a comfortable silence for a moment, one where you're mixing and one where he watches you mix. you don't really notice the quiet anymore, just another added sound when you and gojo grow more comfortable together.

"how was your day?" he finally asks, a simple question, but you know he's using it as a mask to find out what was wrong with you.

"good," you say with a shrug, starting to gently fold in your wet mixture with your dry one, "you weren't at dinner so i was actually able to eat in peace," you add, trying to sound indifferent when really it's what spurred this entire thing on. how, when you realized that you missed seeing him, talking to him, being near him, you were really, really, missing him. and that's not how friends are supposed to act. or, at least, from what you've heard.

gojo smiles, a soft look on his face. you're trying to be sarcastic, he knows that, but there's something...deeper behind your words, something that he too feels.

"the eastern tribe took up more time than i thought they would," he explains, his blue eyes glowing when he notices the way you slightly relax, "i tried telling them that my wife was waiting for me, but apparently peace negotiations can't be postponed."

you bite your lips, trying to hold back your giddy smile at his words. you know he's probably teasing you, using the phrase my wife as a way to get out of a boring meeting, but you love it nonetheless.

he knows you do.

"those bastards," you murmur teasingly, hearing his loud laugh as he lightly shoves you with the point of his boot.

"yeah, well, they don't have wives back home," he crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his lips into a thin line, "so they don't know the feeling."

you swallow thickly, not looking over at him when he says that.

there's another silence as you continue to fold the batter, sensing that same feeling wash over the two of you.

"let me grab a..." you turn around, head craning to look for a spoon to dip in the batter, needing to make sure the sweetness wasn't too overbearing (and because you liked tasting the batter before it was sent off to be baked thoroughly), but stop when gojo pulls the bowl in closer to him.

you watch as he glides his finger across the sides, not letting it touch the actual bulk of the mixture, and brings it forth towards your lips.

his brows cock upwards, as if he was waiting for you to try it.

you give him a look, nose slightly wrinkled.

"i swear my hands are clean," he promises, crossing one hand over his chest as a sort of pledge, but that's not what holding you back, shouldn't he know that?

your mind is working to beat the thrill of your heart, the one that's pulling you towards him like a magnet, the one that desperately wants to have his finger in your mouth.

you bite your cheek for a second, eyes flickering up from his to his finger, and some sort of heat in you takes control as one hand gently grabs his wrist, pulling his hand closer to your parted lips.

your tongue darts out, your mouth closing over the digit as you taste the sugary batter coating your tongue. you feel dizzy, your stomach twisting, a heat taking over your body as your tongue swipes over it, licking it clean.

it's nothing overexaggerated, nothing too crazy. you lick his finger the way you'd like your own, but fuck, this isn't your own finger and gojo's looking at you with his pupils blown wide, the blacks overtaking the blue in his eyes.

your hand is still holding his wrist, your lips gliding over it as you pull away, breathing slightly less when you glance up at him.

gojo swallows thickly, hoping you don't see the bulge that's growing in his pants.

"good?" he chokes out, his voice thick in his throat.

"yeah," you mutter, the batter still lingering on your tastebuds, "it's perfect."

fuck, you're both screwed.

[cloveisinhell]

failed and ate breakfast today. im going to (remembers suicide jokes are bad for my mental health) kill myself

[zamalie]

just me and my foreign anchovies against the world

[goodluckclove]

hey so like i'm sure we all know this is a thing in the back of your mind, but i feel the need to say it. flaunting ignorance and having that be the end of the story is a bad look. most would agree with that.

but shaming people for what they don't know? also shit. it's shit, and it's very likely a major factor in people who end up doubling down in being proud for not trying to learn more things. because in they're mind, doing that keeps them from acting like you.

when i was in school i was not in advanced science or math classes. i just followed the sort of default path there. but i definitely had people younger than me who made fun of me for not being Ahead of the Curve, and that radically decreased my enthusiasm to actually try. I used to avoid my friends when they were all gathering to do homework because i was embarrassed that i was in a more remedial math class than they were. it wasn't until nearly a decade out of school that i realized i actually had a great deal of interest in certain aspects of STEM subjects - because by then i fully separated myself from the kinds of people who would probe asking oh you don't know this? why don't YOU know this? EVERYBODY knows this. look how much I know LOOK AT MEEEE.

like anti-intellectualism is not great. but it's also - like - not entirely the product of the people that believe in the philosophy. i am not one of those people, but i can absolutely see why someone would fall down that pipeline if they stick to certain channels for long enough.

i don't know where i'm going with this. deeply annoyed by people who take the amount of information they've accrued and treat it as if it's proof they're morally superior. incredibly grateful for my brilliant engineer wife, who has been immensely passionate about science for all their life and allows me to ask as many questions as i want about a subject until i understand it.

learning about the world is actually super cool and even cringe people should have welcome access to doing so without feeling like the alternative is societal exile.

[tooquirkytolose]

Everyone loves my moms mexican rice and proclaim it the best they've ever had and I see a lot of recipes out there that are either too fussy or too bland so I'll just list the things my mom does that she says make it good

-you really truly do not need chicken bouillon/chicken broth. Plain water is fine, my mom started omitting the bouillon when I became vegetarian so I could eat it and literally no one knows the difference its fine

- you don't need cumin or cilantro you just need onion, garlic, salt and tomato sauce (or jarred tomatoes)

-FRY YOUR RICE!!! in oil!!! Fry until golden brown and nutty, DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP it adds flavor and deepens the color of the end product if you don't fry your rice in oil it looks pale and unappetizing

-blend your water, chopped onion, garlic cloves, and tomato sauce (or jarred tomatoes) add this liquid to the fried rice after you've drained the excess oil, cook like regular rice

You will now be the envy of all mexican mothers and taquerias 👍

[s0ngsandstars]

Oh I dream of the day that I'm no longer living in this toxic fucked up house

[nereidprinc3ss]

relax

in which spencer helps university student reader de-stress after a particularly exhausting assignment

18+ (smut) warnings: fingering, overstimulation, happy crying, lowkey softdom spencer, slight d/s dynamics, reader is referred to as a girl, ????idk i've never had to tag for smut before lols wc: 2624 a/n: been doing some insane literary cooking. lots of smut AND more fluff in the works (all uni reader... lol... ). idk if i love this but again need to fucking get it out of my word doc so here u go, PLEASE lmk if you like it!!

You don’t even realize the room has gone completely dark until Spencer comes in the front door and flicks on the light. 

“Why did you do that?” you snap immediately, looking up from your laptop screen for the first time in potentially hours, blinking hard as your eyes painfully adjust. Your boyfriend gives you an odd look. 

“Hello to you too...” 

“I’m sorry. Hi. How was dinner?” 

“It was good,” he says, crossing the room to the couch that has been your entire world for the past five hours. You sigh, releasing some of the tension in your shoulders when he leans down to kiss your head and set down a to-go box on the coffee table. “Have you moved since I left?” 

“...no,” you admit, moving your eyes dejectedly to the keyboard.  

“You made progress,” he appeases, leaning over you to angle the laptop upward. Immediately you wrench it away, holding it protectively against your chest. 

“Stop! I don’t want you to read it yet!” 

“I could help you with it though,” he pleads, bracing a hand on the arm of the couch. You look up into his hazel eyes, where he’s definitely playing up the puppy dog factor. His tie brushes your stomach, and he smells like lavender and clove and-- 

“You need to go away,” you realize, snapping back to reality and shrinking into the couch, away from him—trying to escape his all-encompassing sensory presence.  

“Wh- I just got back!” he scoffs, straightening. 

“You’re distracting me,” you accuse, throwing him a baleful look. 

“I’m literally offering to help you.” 

“And I’m respectfully declining because I care too much about your opinion to show you this essay until it’s less terrible. I really just need a couple more hours to finish it, please?” 

Spencer sighs, regarding your pitiful state before moving to sit down next to you. Automatically you move your legs out of the way before settling them in his lap and damn it he’s supposed to be going away. Your iron grip on the laptop involuntarily loosens a little as his hands begin to run back and forth over your legs. No—you must stay focused.  

“Spencer,” you whine, flopping your head back. You let the implied complaint hang in the air. 

“You’ve been writing all day. Your brain is exhausted, and your synapses aren’t firing at a rate that is intellectually productive.” 

“What is the point of having a brain if I can’t even use it half the time!” you almost-shout, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes until you see fireworks.  

The couch shifts and you feel the warm, robotic weight of the laptop unpin you as Spencer lifts it from your lap. “Don’t read it,” you beg, watching through parted fingers as he sets it on the coffee table, and relaxing slightly when he settles back into the couch.  

“Come here,” he says, holding out an arm. Too mentally exhausted to do anything but comply, you pull yourself up just enough to fall into him. Immediately he wraps his arms around you, one hand slipping under your shirt to rub your back in hypnotizing passes. “I think you burnt yourself out,” he mutters. 

You nod into his shoulder, surrendering yourself to his warmth, letting yourself sink into a lavender-clove fog, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into it. The darkness behind your eyes glows an inviting amber, threatening to pull you under...  

But the essay... 

“Stop thinking about the essay,” he demands. 

“But I have so much to do,” you sigh against his jacket, the words coming out muffled. 

“The best thing you can do now is give your brain a rest. I promise you you’re not making that paper any better if you’re exhausted.” 

“I am not exhausted,” you insist, although your eyes are still closed, “I’m just really stressed.”  

Spencer hums, continuing to rub your back.  

“Do you need me to help you relax?” he says innocently. 

Oh? 

One of your eyes opens to peer up at him suspiciously. He sweeps some of your hair out of your face. 

“Because I would be happy to.” A moment passes—him looking down at you fondly; you wondering if you’re picking up what he’s putting down. 

“And how would you go about doing that?” you ask suspiciously. 

“Orgasms reduce tension and stress and improve brain function.” 

Damn. Why did the nerdiest, most un-sexy pickup line ever just turn you on?

You groan, burying your face further into his shirt—mostly to hide any trace of a blush. 

“You know what else would reduce stress and improve brain functioning? Taking an Adderall and finishing my fucking essay.”  

“Angel, you're such a smart girl, and you are fully capable of doing whatever you set your mind to—but I will lock your laptop in my gun safe before I let you look at that essay again tonight.” He speaks so softly, and his fingers are still gently combing through your messy hair... all in all, you put up a good fight, right? Maybe you should just listen to him...

“... fine.” you say eventually, reluctant to give in too quickly even though the idea quickly has filled your stomach with butterflies. 

“Fine?” he says, pausing his motions as you turn your head just enough to look up at him. “Sounds like you don’t really want it, baby. Maybe we should just go to sleep. Or I could take you back to your-” 

“Spence,” you whine, gently grabbing the front of his shirt. Now he’s going to make you beg? As if it wasn’t his idea? Those puppy dog eyes of his are deceiving. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that,” he sighs, hand moving from your hair to your outer thigh. 

“Please?” you whisper, dignity forgotten as you look up at him imploringly. 

“Lean back, sweet girl,” he says, helping you adjust your position til you’re lying against his chest, legs sprawled across the couch. Your head lolls on his shoulder, intoxicated by his close proximity. “Perfect. Such a good listener.” 

Normally, you’d be quick to make a defensive remark, but with the way he’s slowly hiking your shirt up, running his hands over your sides so lightly it gives you goosebumps—you're really in no position to argue. Your eyes flutter shut as his hands grow bolder in their explorations, crossing your stomach, fingers just slipping under the waistband of your shorts and skimming over your hipbones before coming back up. 

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, and you nod lazily, apparently losing access to your language facilities after running them dry all day. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem good enough for your boyfriend. “Do you remember when the last time I touched you like this was?” 

Through the hazy blur of your exhaustion, you try to think back. Was it... two days ago? Three? More? 

“Almost a week ago,” he supplies the answer for you when you take too long. What? That can’t be right. 

But when you think about it harder... it is right. It was right before finals week started.  

An errant hand straying up your torso distracts you. “Do you remember what I did?” 

You flush. 

“You... yeah,” is the best you can offer, too flustered to say exactly what he did to your body. That stray hand moves over your breast. Your back arches just slightly at the stimulation through the thin fabric of your bra.  

Thankfully, he lets you off the hook.  

“I made you cum three times, right?” 

“Mhm,” you hum through closed lips, tense with anticipation as he finally slides both hands down to your shorts and wordlessly directs you to lift your hips so he can pull them all the way off along with your underwear. 

“You’ve been so busy lately, huh. Working so hard.” 

You unconsciously drop your bent legs open, brain too foggy to be insecure about how utterly bare you are—allowing him to slowly rub up and down your inner thigh. 

“I’m gonna make you feel good, honey. I don’t think three times was enough for such a stressful week.” 

You gasp when his fingers finally brush your clit, whimpering slightly when they just barely skim your entrance before tracing the wetness back up.  

“Give me your hand,” Spencer says, taking his own from between your legs and holding it up. You don’t even think about it, releasing your grip on the arm he now has wrapped around you and holding it out for him. At this point, you’d do anything he tells you to without hesitation.  

He takes the proffered hand, gently guiding it back between your legs. Your fingers meet slick, soft warmth. “Do you feel how wet you are?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, seeing how your fingers glisten when you pull them away. His remain, running slowly up and down your clit. Your brain seems to be vibrating in your skull as warmth spreads throughout your body. 

“Who’s that for?” 

“You, Spencer,” you whimper. He hums in approval before the room falls into silence as you both watch his teasing intently, your breath baited as you try to be patient. But your body isn’t with the program, you keep twisting slightly, your hips cant upward. “Please, please,” the words escape on a held exhalation as you finally break, arching your back against him as your search for more friction.  

Without warning, he sinks two fingers inside you. The slight stretch after not having taken anything in a week scratches an itch you didn’t even know you had, and you let out a broken moan. 

“I know, honey. You’re so good, I know.” Spencer kisses your head as he speaks over your cry, barely moving his fingers for a few moments while you get comfortable. 

Still you’re not ready for it when he withdraws and pushes back in. 

“Look at that,” he breathes. 

“Oh, fuck,” you choke, watching how your arousal completely coats his fingers as he slowly, slowly begins to fuck you with them. 

Again you feel the vibrations in his chest as he laughs slightly—probably at your earlier insistence that you didn’t desperately want this. The laughter fades as you both become entranced by the sight of his fingers disappearing into you, and your stomach twists with pleasure. His pace remains languid, and he seems to delight in the filthy, wet sounds his hand is producing between your legs.  

“You okay, baby?” he asks after a moment, seemingly snapping out of some trance. 

“Uh huh,” you whimper. One particular drag of his fingers at just the right angle has you dizzy, and then he’s speeding up. Your jaw drops at the change in pace and your hips chase his hand, wanting even more. 

“So pretty,” he mutters as his other hand moves to spread you open.  

You attempt to shut your legs around his wrist, but instead he just ruts his fingers deeper into you, palm pressed against your clit. You attempt to twist away from the extreme stimulation, but he doesn’t allow it. 

“Too much,” you squeak, bucking your hips inadvertently. 

“No it’s not,” he states, like you’re talking about the weather. 

“Spencer, I really c- ah- can't!” 

“It feels like a lot, huh?” he asks soothingly, not letting up one bit. 

“Yes!” you cry, eyes stinging as tears begin to well. 

“You’re okay, angel. It’s just been a while.” 

You are so completely fucked. Each stroke of his hand feels like an electric jolt through your whole body. It is too much, but at the same time, pleasure is pooling deep in your stomach and at the base of your spine and you never want him to stop. You throw your head back onto Spencer’s shoulder, eyes screwed shut.  

“Relax,” he mutters, carefully bearing down the pressure across your waist with his arm to try and keep you from squirming. 

A rhythmic whine breaks through the barrier of your sealed lips as you focus all your energy into taking it, when the all-consuming need to kiss him hits you. You twist your neck to look up at him, observing the furrow of his brow and the way he’s tucked his bottom lip into a bite. Thankfully he notices your movement—his eyes dart from your own half-lidded gaze to your lips and he understands what you want. 

The kiss is messy and the angle is awkward and you’re moaning into his mouth half the time anyway, but it feels so good to have his lips moving on yours that you don’t care about any of it.  

“I—ah,” you cry into him, unable to form a coherent thought as your stomach drops like you’re mounting the peak of a roller coaster. 

His fingers again change their angle and he finds the spot inside you that makes your legs spasm. Attempting to hold in whatever noises you were making is now futile—the whimpers and pants turn to full-fledged keening moans interspersed with taut silences as you fail to breathe properly.  

Your wrench your gaze and lips away from Spencer to watch through a blurry haze the rapid movement of his hand between your bare legs, the way your hips buck and twist and the way your leg bends as he hooks his free hand under your knee and hoists it toward your chest. 

“You’re doing so well, honey. Being so good for me.” 

Moisture spills over from your eyes, tracing down your cheeks and down your neck as you begin to come with no warning and a desperate, broken cry. 

A string of praise from Spencer underscores your pleading moans, but you can’t focus on anything other than the buzzing warmth emanating from your core, the bright, pulsing white that blinds you and the feeling of stardust flowing through your veins. 

Your boyfriend continues pumping his fingers slowly in and out of you for a blissful few moments, before sensing the tail-end of your orgasm and bringing his fingers up to rub lazy circles over your clit. Aftershocks resonate from the hypersensitive area and make you clamp your legs shut around his hand as your toes curl and you attempt to squirm out of his grip. 

“Done! I’m done,” you squeak, rocking your hips back and forth to try and escape his toying. 

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, relieving the pressure of his hand between your legs and moving it to run over your stomach as you come down. 

You lie in silence for a minute, enjoying the liquid sensation weighing down your muscles and basking in the warm afterglow of your orgasm.  

“Shit,” you breathe shakily after a moment. Spencer chuckles. You manage to turn yourself over, laying your cheek on his shoulder and slipping your arms under his waist. He looks down at you as he moves on to massaging your back and bare hips, eyes full of warm adoration.  

“Feel better?” 

You hum an affirmation, wiping your eyes on his shirt. 

“Oh, honey, did I make you cry?” 

You laugh into his chest and nod, a few stray tears leaking from your shut eyes. “It’s okay. Not sad tears.” 

“What kind of tears?” 

“Orgasm tears,” you mumble, a tidal wave of exhaustion you’d been fighting all day finally washing over you. 

“That makes sense. Orgasms can be cathartic or even therapeutic depending on your head space. Major losses and life changes are often associated with sexual dysfunction but the opposite is actually just as if not more common. A spike in libido can—” 

Spencer pauses, looking down to see that you’re either asleep or close to it, and smiles to himself. You’ll probably be mad about it when you wake up, but he had to get you to stop thinking about that paper somehow. 

[lynxgriffin]

Eldritchrune - Dreemurr of Jokes

1 | 2 | 3

Story Setup Eldritchrune Masterpost

Toriel stops by Sans' shop for some goods, and for some more cheery distractions! Unfortunately, all this time later, it's still too difficult to escape reminders of what's been done.

It was fun finally getting to do some stuff with Sans in this universe! The last part for this trio of scenes will be up sometime next week!

Alt text for these pages is under the read more:

Page 1 Panel 1: Interior shot of a small store, with displays of goods, loose plywood, sacks of things. Two circular woven hangings bracket the door through which Toriel enters, a heavyset woman in a polka-dotted dress with a basket over her arm. Sans watches her enter, though we see only the back of his head. 

Panel 2: Toriel enters the shop and we see more displays, mostly food. There are large potted trees as well, and the shop’s counter, draped in patterned cloth and decorated with candles. Toriel: “Well, hello again. I was wondering if you had-” Sans, a jovial, bearded man dressed in loose robes and always smiling, waves a hand and cuts her off. “Hold on, you hear that?”

Panel 3: “...Hear what?” Toriel asks, nonplussed. Up close, her face is soft but distressed.

Panel 4: Sans leans over his slightly messy counter, still grinning. “I HERB that you needed some more cinnamon cloves, and look what I have here!” He offers a handful of herbs. Up close, the cuffs on his robe sleeves are patterned with little bones.  

Panel 5: “Just what I needed! How did you guess?” Toriel exclaims, reaching out with a real smile to accept the herbs. She and Sans are framed by other mysterious shop wares- jars of things, open sacks, rolled-up mats. Things you might find in an open-air desert market. 

Page 2 Panel 1: Sans: “Was just thinking it’d been awhile since I saw you making the neighborhood rounds with some of those pies of yours… Figured you were planning to start this month’s soon!” Sans gestures up at Toriel in explanation. 

Panel 2: Toriel smirks, setting down a handful of coins.  “And perhaps hoping that I would stop by your place first with them?” Sans: “I pride myself on my forward thinking, y’know.” His grin is conspiratorial as he leans towards her and he taps his temple with one finger. 

Panel 3: Toriel, eyes sad despite her smile: “All right. How about this: Tell me a good joke, and you have my word you will have the first and freshest one.”

Panel 4: Sans: “Just a good joke?” He raises an eyebrow. 

Panel 5: Toriel clutches her chest- we don’t see her eyes. “I find myself in desperate need of levity these days.” 

Panel 6: Sans waves his hand as if to keep her from feeling like she need say more, scratching his chin in thought with the other.  “Sure, I got one…” 

Page 3 Panel 1: Sans, with the smug grin of someone about to tell a terrible pun: “Why was the empire soldier happy to get demoted to horse groomer?” Toriel, with her hand on her chin in thought: “I do not know, why?” 

Panel 2: Sans shrugs widely like the answer is obvious. “Because he finally had STABLE employment!” 

Panel 3: Toriel laughs in genuine delight, although maybe a little harder than expected. 

Panel 4: Toriel: “Thank you, I needed that.” She smiles a relieved little smile. Sans: “No problem. So hey, aside from the pie… Can I maybe get an invite to those little get-togethers I see some folks around here doing once a month?” He steeples his fingertips together. 

Panel 5: San’s dialogue continues: “I’m so curious as to what goes on then!” We only see Toriel, though, shocked and dismayed. She’s thinking of the Ritual gatherings- townspeople gathered in their robes and animal masks- reindeer, fish, but most centrally, the goat masks she and Asgore wear. 

Panel 6: Toriel: “Unless you are completely enraptured by tedious talk of planting schedules and building repairs, I believe I can sate your curiosity by saying you would find them quite boring.” She waves a hand in front of her, dismissing the thought- her expression is once again drawn and weary. 

Page 4 Panel 1: Toriel turns to leave, waving goodbye. “You should look forward to your well-earned pie more!” 

Panel 2: Sans gives her a slightly skeptical look. “Alright.” is all he says. 

Panel 3: As she leaves, Toriel looks down and sees for the first time a small statue set by the door, surrounded by candles- it’s not a merchandise display, more like an altar. The statue is a horned figure holding a bowl filled with greenery- an offering of some type. The figure is rounded like a sitting child, and simple, with closed eyes and little other detail. 

Panel 4: Toriel’s dialogue over a close up shot of the figure: “What an interesting little figure you have. It does not look like it is for sale, is it?” The little horned one has three toes and four fingers on its stubby little arms and legs, and a detail on its forehead that could be a suggestion of hair, or it could be a symbol. The pillar candles surrounding it have been burned enough to have long wax drips pooled around them. 

Panel 5: Sans: “Nah, that’s just a holdover from my home country. Supposed to help keep demons out of your space.” He seems uninterested in this bit of lore, but Toriel, still facing away, is wide-eyed and shaken.

Panel 6: Toriel whirls back to him, sweating. “I-Is that so?” 

Panel 7: Sans’s expression intensifies, eyebrows dropping dramatically. “Sure thing. You know what happens when demons get in your grain stores?” 

Page 5 Panel 1: “They’re OATsolutely RYE-ined!” Sans holds his hands wide, like he’s waiting for the rimshot effect. It’s almost like his shop counter and back wall are suddenly a stage. 

Panel 2: Toriel hides a giggle behind her hand, relieved. 

Panel 3: “Is that something you have had to deal with previously?” she asks, stepping a little closer in her interest. Sans makes a slight gesture of dismissal. “Nah, I don’t really go in for that sort of stuff, honestly.”

Panel 4: Sans: “My brother, though… He’s all in on charms and wards and that sort of thing.” He gestures up, as if to point to wherever it is in the town that his brother might be now. 

Panel 5: “Keeping customs from your home country, I suppose?” Toriel asks, drawn again into the shop and closer to Sans. “Something like that,” he responds, leaning forward on his counter. On the wall next to him, there’s another woven wall hanging like the ones over the door.  Toriel: “Do you have any customs that have a reverse effect?” 

Panel 6: Sans looks as skeptical as one can while constantly grinning. “You mean like, if you want demons in your house?” 

Page 6 Panel 1: Toriel puts a hand up in denial. “N-No, that would obviously be undesirable! I meant more… just out of curiosity about your home.” 

Panel 2: Sans stares up at her, for a beat of silence. 

Panel 3: “Maybe? Again, this stuff isn’t my thing.” He leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head, nonchalant as can be. “And anyways, we left our country for a reason. Old customs aren’t relevant in this town, y’know?” 

Panel 4: Toriel once again turns to go, with a rueful smile. “Maybe not… but I cannot imagine letting go of your entire history.”

Panel 5: Sans shrugs and looks away. “There’s worse things to let go of, honestly.” 

Panel 6: Toriel, gritting her teeth, thinks of a happier time tucking Kris into bed. 

Panel 7: Close on Toriel’s expression, now more haggard and pained than it was when she came in. She clutches her chest tight.