#complimentary apple

[adeleine-everyday]

day 109

magical girl adeleine! 💫

[freddyyeti]

WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE

[tooquirkytolose]

My fellow American hobby bakers, demoralized by egg prices and scarcity and how you will make the American apple pie or the chocolate chip cookie, fear not. I have spent many years turning regular baking recipes vegan for my corrupt and traitorous sister who last week ate a salmon cream cheesed roll. There are many, many substitutes for eggs including but not limited to:

Mashed banana: best added to compliment flavors of whatever it is you're baking (peanut butter, chocolate) make sure it's MUSHY and ripe

Apple sauce: again, best with complimentary flavors (cinnamon, brown sugar) use unsweetened and have the rest as a snack

The big boy champ, ground flaxseed: flavorless, though it does darken your batter/ dough a bit. Bags found next to cornstarch and almond meal, etc. Instructions on how to use right on the bag! Make sure to let the flaxseed water combo sit in a separate bowl until it has the consistency of mucus 👍

Now with all of these you MUST add a bit more leavener, they don't have the lil bit of lift eggs give, so make sure you add a touch more baking powder. Sort of ok for brownies and cookies if you want them a bit more dense but KEY for cakes, quick breads, muffins and other things like that or she is gonna be SQUIDGY 🫡

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

looking for a fragrance to match my armpit stink 🤔 this is do to wanting to make myself less conventionally palatable. why should i mask my odor? why not compliment it?

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Eleven: shear

tw: none

“What?”

It’s the only word your jittery mind can think to spew as you stare at John Price, shirtless, cornering you at your most vulnerable. Caging you like livestock. Like prey. Soft candlelight illuminates his skin—the pallid flesh that rarely sees the light of day, and the sunkissed forearms that flex as he stalks forward—but you know what lies beneath this superficial layer. This human-like facade that he so strongly carries upon his shoulders, like Jesus Christ carrying the cross that would bring his own demise. 

Masks can only stretch so far. They can cover the hair, the face, the body—but it cannot cover the soul. 

It cannot cover the cerulean of his eyes or the glint that betrays what he usually suppresses. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he assures. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

There it is—finally. Your question flies off of your tongue, half-cocked and rigid as your fingers press into your shoulders, desperately attempting to save what little shreds of dignity you’re able to cling to. You watch with parted lips as John cuts through the numbra of the room, boots hitting heavy on the floor as he approaches the vanity. Sinking into the tub, you watch him from over the rim as he retrieves the washbasin. His hands cup it from the bottom, dwarfing the bowl, as he tilts his head. 

“Laswell had to step away for a moment to sort some business downstairs, and the boys all left. While I’m waiting, I figured we could visit.” He lifts the washbasin as if toasting a drink to you. “That, and I am in desperate need of a shave, little lamb.” 

Panic rises in your throat to strangle you as he steps closer, quickly closing the gap that lies between the two of you as he approaches the tub. Your hands flail, desperately covering your breasts with one arm and your sex with the other. You are shorn. Splayed out and on display, a lamb with no voice to bleat. 

Your eyes widen far enough in your skull to cause you discomfort as you witness John sink the washbasin in your bathwater, submerging it until it is full, then retrieving it. Thick drops of water splash back down as he pours out the excess, knuckles shining with thick gloss like dew. Before he returns to the vanity, he pauses to chuckle as he stares down at the bowl, then looks at you with a glistening gaze. 

“She sure went all out for you, didn’t she?” he says as he pulls a rose petal from the bowl and presents it between his forefinger and thumb. 

Tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, you watch in silence as John’s lips part. His fingers move between his teeth, pressing the rose petal into his mouth before humming, seemingly content with the flavor. You blink, flabbergasted as you watch his Adam’s apple bob while he swallows, consuming one of the few gifts you’ve been given in this ruthless world. 

“You have no courtesy!” you snap, the disconnect between your tongue and brain finally mending as your frustration boils over. 

“Sweetheart, I sincerely hope it hasn’t taken you this long to figure that much out,” John quips dully. 

Just as you go to disparage him again, John turns his back to you and you find your throat going uncharacteristically dry. Not even the dim candlelight can smother the divots in his skin—the long scars that wind like roads on a map, each with a dead end. They’re grotesque, and considerably out of place. Though John Price is a man to be reckoned with—a strong, wayward stranger who does not fear the barrel of a gun nor clenched fists—these marks are out of place on him. These were not earned through some unspeakable battle, some glorious fight. 

This was endured. This was scarcely survived. 

John plops himself down at the vanity where the candles illuminate every curve of his chest and the dark pavonine of his eyes. He makes quick work of the supplies laid out before him; complimentary items of a straight razor, clippers, and a shaving bar. He wets his face with your bathwater before lathering up the soap to apply to his throat and the apples of his cheeks, and you find yourself memorized by the strange ritual. 

You’re brought back in time several years as you watch John’s fingers glide along the flat side of the razor. When she was still alive, your mother would shave your father’s face for him on the front porch when the weather permitted. Neither of them would speak a word to one another for the duration of it. Simple gestures. Heavy sighs. Your mother would grip his face and move his head into the positions that were required to ensure she never nicked his skin—it was the only time you ever saw your father relent to anyone. 

It was the only time you ever saw a shepherd submit to his lamb. 

When it came to cleaning up the tender skin that lay along his throat, your mother always paused. Lips pressing together, eyes surveying the area, you always thought she was nervous. Scared to cause your father harm where the skin is thinnest; where the blood runs thickest. 

Now that you think of it, her thumb always pressed along the back of the blade, almost longingly. As if it were more than just a razor. A knife. 

A weapon. 

“Laswell is working on getting you a dedicated room here,” John says as he lets the foam sit on his skin. He looks strange, suddenly aged with the soap turning his facial hair white like the powdering of flour on sourdough bread. “Something a little long term until you’re able to get a place of your own. Or a husband. Whichever comes first.” 

It is a great feat for you to hold back the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Oh, how clever of you,” you mutter. 

“She’s also hosting us for dinner at her house tonight. Consider it a welcome to Grand Hollow party,” John continues as if you never spat at him at all. “I volunteered you to help with the food preparations. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Anything to get away from you.” 

John’s mirth is warm, and soft like worn leather. You watch him from the safety of your tub as he begins to work away at himself with a razor, ridding himself of the overgrown patches of hair that plague his throat and too high up on his cheeks. His neck contorts and his hand pulls the skin taut, leaving no room for his skin to catch; to knick. It’s hard to ignore the way rigid muscle moves beneath thick flesh—how his biceps curl and veins pop—but you force your gaze away in favor of bathing yourself. 

You decide that if you pretend that John Price isn’t here to witness you like this, then it’s not as much of a sin as it is. You are not being witnessed in some holy way—only bathing while a dog grooms himself on the other side of the room. Lathering your skin in more soap than is necessary, you pray that the suds that gather along the water’s surface is enough to shroud your body from impudent, prying eyes. 

Neither of you speak to one another as you complete your respective tasks, though you realize it’s difficult to keep your gaze where it ought to be. Wandering through wisps of steam, you watch him. He cleans up well—as much as you hate to admit it. Beard trimmed and shaped, his jawline grows rigid, and his eyes seem brighter. He is less wild; a tamed creature. 

As much as a wolf can be tamed, anyway. 

“Your gaze is heavy, Lamb,” John hums. Using the provided hand towel, he cleans his face of any remaining foam, wiping himself clean, before tossing it back onto the vanity and twisting to you. Somehow, his eyes feel sharper—enough to draw blood. “If your right eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out and throw it away.”

Baffled at his quote, you shake your head. “What? No, no I’d never,” you say as if insulted he would ever insinuate you would look at him in such a lascivious manner. Despite the humidity in the air, your mouth goes dry as he leans his elbow on the vanity, spine curling forward, body shrinking. “No I… forgive me, I know it isn’t right, but your back is very… peculiar.” 

Despite the weight of your words, John doesn’t flinch. Instead, he nods before leaning back to look in the mirror and continue grooming himself. Like an animal licking old wounds, he runs his fingers along his hair, smoothing down the inky strands before humming. 

“Yes. A gift from my father.” 

Stunned by his words, you blink as if that will change the course of the past, but it doesn’t. He’s still here in front of you, the most wounded you’ve ever seen him. He attempts to hold himself together, to not fall apart at the seams of each scar that lines his skin, but you see right through it. It’s the first time John Price has refused to look at you.

He’s never relented before, not like this. 

“Your father?” you repeat, nearly tripping on your words. 

John nods. “A belt if I was lucky. The buckle, if I wasn’t. His cigars when he was bored.” 

Each word he speaks brings about unwanted visions—a terrible make-believe reality that leaves a sour taste on your tongue. “Why would he do such a thing?” 

Finally—finally—John looks at you. His gaze is the softest you’ve ever seen, yet his lips are tight as he smiles. “Same reason your daddy did what he did to you. Some men love a silly book more than they do their own blood.”

Floorboards squeaking beneath his weight, John stands before stalking towards you. He does not bear his teeth at you, and still your heart thunders in your chest worse than summer rain or a horse galloping in haste. Once more your hands move to cover your body in an effort to conceal yourself, but John does not seem at all interested in your body. 

Gentle fingers that smell of warm wood brush against your bare shoulder before traversing down your arm. Your vision tunnels as you stare up at John, utterly helpless, bending to his whim as he removes your arm from the tub. You whine, and if he hears it he at least has the decency to ignore the sound as he takes your hand into his, thumbing over your knuckles one by one. 

“But you already know all about that, don’t you, love?” he muses, eyes picking apart the scars on your hands. “Preaching to the choir, so to speak.” 

Blinking, you look at where your hands are joined. He holds you similarly to how he did when you first met, collapsed next to their campfire, fresh tears still on your cheeks. “I don’t think our situations are comparable. Daddy never… never did anything like that to me.” 

“Maybe not,” John hums. When he releases your hand, his fingers trail back up your arm, over your shoulder, and along your collarbone. As he dips between your breasts—tracing your sternum—you nearly shriek. Instead of doing anything nefarious, he grabs your necklace. “Is that why you still hold onto this? Your silly god? Because you think that torment wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been?” 

You look down at yourself—at where his fingers hold the only memento that remains of your mother. “It’s my mama’s. It was, anyway. Consumption took her away from me when I was a kid. Daddy locked her up and never let me see her. Said she was too sick, and that I’d… only make it worse. This is all I have left of her. That’s why I keep it.” 

John drops the necklace back against your chest. “Do you think she went to heaven? That she’s up singing with the angels?” 

His question is facetious—and still you answer. “I hope so.” 

It’s not the correct answer. It’s the type of answer that would have your father bending you over his lap and spanking you bare with a spoon if he heard such a thing ever leave your mouth. But it’s not wrong—it’s the truth that burns in your heart where grief and hope coalesces into poison. Tongue wetting your lips, you look up at John, and you’re not sure if you’re comforted by the softness in his eyes or not. 

“I hope so,” you repeat. “I don’t think I could handle it if there was any other answer. If there’s nothing for her.” 

The two of you stare at one another for so long you think the world may have stopped moving. Wide eyes study you as if gauging how far he would have to spread his maw in order to fit you all in, to grind you between his molars until nothing but dust remains. Instead, he hums, and turns his back to you. 

“Enjoy your bath, Lamb. Don’t feel as if you have to rush.” He stoops downward, fingers snatching his discarded shirt before slipping his arms back through the sleeves and buttoning it up properly. “When you’re finished, come find Laswell and I downstairs. We’ll put you to work.” 

You’re hardly able to get a confirmation out of your throat before John flees through the door, shutting it tight behind you as if he suddenly cares about your privacy. Your bath suddenly falls quiet without a wolf to howl next to you. Swallowing the tears that threaten to surface and strangle you, you find your hand reaching up for your necklace. You clutch it close to your chest as you mull John’s words over in your mind. 

You suppose that—after all—the two of you are not too different. Both of you cry to the same moon in some capacity. 

The water has gone cold by the time you finish scrubbing yourself clean of all things that ail you. Dirt, grime, the rage of your father. When you pat yourself dry, you throw yourself into a new chemise before donning a sky blue dress and fixing yourself in the vanity. You appear like a whole new woman. Tidy, standing tall, and without a scab in sight. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you look like your mother. 

When you arrive back downstairs, you notice a glaring disturbance in the crowd that was not present when you had cut through previously. A maid huffs over what appears to be the splintered remains of a chair and fine china while a man in ragged clothes nurses a bloody nose at the bar. The chatter has quieted to dainty whispers, and everyone’s eyes shift uncomfortably the moment you enter. Deciding to keep your mouth sewn shut, you return to the back of the hotel to find John, just as you were instructed. 

Yet you hardly arrive at the door and raise your hand to knock before you’re stopped in your tracks. Hushed tones, biting words—desperation. Chagrin bleeds through the seams of the door heavy and thick like crude oil, and just as noisome. It chokes you. Freezes you in place and pries your ears open. 

“I’m sorry, John, but I can’t help you. You’re on your own for this one.” 

“Please. I need something. Someone. Just for the trip. None of the boys or I will be able to step a foot into that bank without alerting everyone in the whole goddamn town.” 

You’ve never heard John like this before; pleading. Begging. The tone sounds odd coming from him, the man who’s never been denied anything for the entirety that you’ve known him. The man who takes what he wants because he simply won’t take no for an answer. 

“Things between Shepherd and I are already shaky as is. If I send one of my own with you, at best he’ll send their head home with you, at worst he’ll level this entire building to the ground,” Laswell says, staying steadfast in her denial. 

“Don’t you understand?” He’s almost yelling, now. Words sharp like a knife, booming just as loud as the rifle he taught you to shoot—he breaths. Exhales loud enough for you to hear it. “Kate, if we break into that bank you won’t have to worry about Shepherd anymore. None of us will! This tyranny of his in Blackpeak will be over!” 

“He’s gotten stronger since you left. His manpower? Twice than what you remember it being. If you go into that city, you’ll die there, John. You, Simon, Johnny, Kyle—you’ll be lucky to return in coffins, if at all.” 

“You know better than to underestimate me,” John snaps. 

Silence. Aching, tangible quietness. It’s enough for you to hear the very blood dragging through your veins, slow and steady, like waves upon a rocky lake shore. 

“Your days of being the hero are over, John. You and I both know that. I’ll take Lamb off your hands, but I’ve got something worth sticking around for, now. I can’t throw that all away in the name of vengeance,” Laswell says firmly. 

The integrity of the upright guides them, but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them. 

You’ve lingered too long; listened where you shouldn’t. Swallowing, you step away from the door as if you can run from the words you’ve heard, but you’re frozen in place as they rattle in your brain like screams echoing off of cave walls. Bank. Shepherd. Blackpeak. 

Well, that’s none of your business, now is it, sweetheart? 

Before you can betray them any further, you finally muster the strength to knock on the door. Silence falls faster than rain on the other side, and then feet approach. Laswell opens the door, and you sheepishly stare at her, shame evident on your face. She does nothing more than blink at you before crossing her arms. 

“John says you’re interested in helping prepare for dinner tonight,” she says. 

Eyes glancing past her, you find him sitting at the table. He leans far back in his seat with his fingers running over his freshly trimmed beard, but he does not look at you. Disappointment radiates off of him like steam from boiled water—you’re surprised he’s not as scarlet red as burning coals. 

“Yes,” you say with a decisive nod. 

“Good. Come on, let’s get you settled.” 

John does not speak a word to you as you’re led away from the door and out the building. As you step foot back onto the streets of Grand Hollow, Laswell gives you a quick rundown of your task, but most of her words seem to flow in one ear and out the other. 

Cart… Lottie… dinner… 

Your mind spins—you can feel the very earth give way beneath your feet. There are too many people around you, too many smells. All the love of a small town has vanished but the filth remains. Beggars line several corners on the street, children peddle newspapers, women sneak men into shady buildings—Everything is grey. Terribly grey with man made structures, stone lined streets, russet brown buildings—where are the flowers? Like the ones your mother planted? You begin to think it may have been better to stay home. At least your father’s violence is predictable, and the streets smell familiar. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” 

Laswell’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts and back into your body. You’re standing on the corner of a street with a topless carriage awaiting you. Blinking, you bring your attention to the woman before you and swallow. 

“Sorry, I…”

“I understand. Must be a lot for a country bumpkin like you to take in,” Laswell humors. Giving you a soft smile, she gestures to the carriage behind her. “My driver will take you to the house. You’ll find Lottie there, and I’m sure she’ll have plenty of work for you to do. The boys and I will be back around six for supper.” 

You nod. “Yes. Alright, that will work. Thank you so much, again. For everything.” 

Uninterested in your praises, she waves you off and motions for you to climb into the carriage. The driver does not turn to greet you, but nods when Laswell barks portarla a casa. Sighing, you settle back into the seat just as the horses begin to move forward, jostling the carriage as the wheels squeak into motion. 

Just as you turn your head to watch Laswell fade away into the crowd, something catches your eye. Parchment. Thick paper. Black ink. There, sketched into a small box, you see the unmistakable features of John’s face pinned to a wooden board. The curve of his nose, the budding apples of his cheeks, the sharp cut of his beard—the only thing missing is the hue of his eyes. That blue that contends with the sky above your head and all the paintings you’ve ever seen of the sea. He’s nestled between various other pieces of paper that jitter in the wind, and the confusion almost makes it impossible to decipher what the poster even is. 

But then, you see it. The words. Your stomach twists as you read them—over and over and over again—before the carriage takes you too far and it fades in the distance. 

WANTED: JOHN PRICE DEAD OR ALIVE FOR THE BLACKPEAK COAL MINE SLAUGHTER

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[1800titz]

Ex-boyfriend/hairdresser!Harry (second part)

The one where Y/N gets drunk, cuts her hair, and Harry fixes it (feat. complimentary gut rearrangement) > continuation

the 15K follow up to this

patreon masterlist (with 338.2K WC and updating) : main masterlist

Harry hums. His fingertips grasp a distinctly shorter chunk closer to the top along the back, tugging on it gently, “This bit’s fucked.” “Thank you,” Y/N narrows her eyes at the shower tile.  “Pleasure’s all mine…” he pauses, and though Y/N can’t see him— or necessarily hear a bark of laughter or a peal of snickers in the process of the assessment— his next comment causes irritation to twist in her chest and hotly surface across the apples of her cheeks. He sounds nearly awed, “This is almost avant garde.” “Fuck off,” she bites flatly, picking at her cuticles absent-mindedly as the annoying nature of his jest settles into her bones. “No, really. Scissor-Seizure chic. Back’s a fucking mess, but it’s business in the front, party in the back, right?”

1.9K preview

“Gonna have to take this short,” he admits.

Crestfallen notes— though, impressively muted, Harry decides— color the girl’s tone as she weighs his confession. “Short?”

“Pixie. Nineties Winona Ryder. Or,” he shrugs, letting the jagged tresses fall free and cupping her rigid shoulders instead, massaging them, “Mia Farrow, if we’re feeling biblical.”

“Biblical.”

“Mm. Old testament. Vengeance. Sacrifice. Demon baby,” Harry purses his cushiony mouth. Then, he pulls on another distinctly shorter piece along the back (one that she’d missed in her evaluation the first time), “This bit’s giving— how do I put this delicately… evidence bag.”

“You’re such a dick,” Y/N scoffs (though she lets his hands stay on the locked up stretch of her shoulders). With the panging vexation that heats along the underside of her skin and the playfully, somewhat derisive quips he’s been sprinkling over her crisis, the full gravity of his analysis doesn’t have the room to settle in. Instead, the conclusion gets lodged somewhere between the gnarling limbs of her frustration and floats along the surface, unprocessed. 

An amused sound of astonishment spills off his tongue before the words flow out, “I’m literally salvaging your head. For free. In my off-hours. And I brought you a sweet treat.”

“I told you not to laugh,” Y/N cries, her shoulders jumping under his palms as she raises her hands, even as he thumbs into a tender spot along the base of her nape to soften the blow, “You promised you wouldn’t laugh. Multiple times.”

“I’m not laughing. This is an assessment,” Harry argues, neutralizing his features with mock-seriousness, “It’s a— very delicate process.”

“And the shitty little comments are necessary, why, exactly?” she twists over her shoulder, pointedly directing a scathing side-eye up at him. 

He’s not laughing. In fact, his features are possibly the most neutral she’s seen them all morning, and the nonchalant way his shoulders climb is, maybe, most infuriating of all. “Live entertainment. Obviously.”

“You know what, I really forgot what an ass you were,” Y/N grumbles, stretching forward— out of his grasp— to cradle her drink and take an exasperated gulp of the liquid past her teeth. The notion of this beverage being a thoughtful token by the man does little to soothe the seeding flicker of her temper. Before she takes her second mouthful, she tacks on, “You’re very good with the… distractions.”

“That’s alright pet, I’d hardly consider that one a top-three descriptor,” Harry returns smoothly, pursing his cushiony lips and letting them melt off into the filthily-fueled smirk the memory incites, “Besides, you seemed to remember the important bits last night. Are we opting for the Winona then?”

As her ex-boyfriend— begrudged, she reminds herself, simultaneous knight in rusty armor— cards his fingers through her hair once more, the depth to his offhand statement (and its true meaning) registers as a white-hot streak of an ache. Although an itchy curiosity scratches along the forefront of her mind and prompts her to question and decipher what exactly these important bits are and what her remembering them entails, it becomes dulled under the weight of the casual inquiry. 

“Wait,” Y/N deadpans, the range of her irritation dampening as the words sink in, “The Winona is practically a Jamie Lee Curtis.”

Harry hums. If not for the mild, reignited sense of panic clawing up her esophagus, the sensation of his fingertips scraping along her scalp would be comforting. “Mm. Sort of. We can do a Linda Evangelista, too. The blonde nineties verse. Heavy fringe. Or— hear me out, here, darling. Alice Cullen.”

“With the… spiky bits?” Y/N swallows weakly. She’s suddenly very lightheaded.

“Yeah… that’s not gonna sit like that,” Harry muses. Knowing her general styling routine, best opt for the simpler route, “If you wanna style it every day, sure. Or…” he bobs his head, the notes to his tone implying that he’s aiming for realistic, “y’know. Breaking Dawn is also an attainable option.”

This is all… a lot of information to process. Abruptly. Y/N takes a deep breath, though the stretch of her lungs scarcely quiets the maelstrom of emotion threatening to surge, prickling along the backs of her eyes and the few bites of pastry churning in the pit of her tummy. 

“Wait,” the young woman screws her eyes shut, taking another deep breath and holding it behind the crevices of her teeth as she attempts to gather her composure into something semi-controlled, “Okay. I need a second.”

“Sure,” Harry chimes, his words carrying an ease that insinuates he’s unaware of the current internal struggle taking place beneath his hands, “Take your time. Listen, I know we didn’t want to go the demon baby route, but if it’s any consolation, you’ve got the face for a Mia Farrow.”

It doesn’t happen immediately. 

Actually, it’s a gradual decline somewhere between Take and demon, and then a steep drop-off at Mia. With all the effort Y/N had pressed upon maintaining her calm steadiness, despite the unfavorable circumstances, the resolve of the metaphorical dam harboring her emotions whittles, and it sags before it collapses. The blend of her hair predicament, the confusion molting the shape of the night before, the way her body still has a ways to go to recover (despite the two liquid-IV packets she’d chugged, the shower she’d taken, and the caffeine coupled with a portion of the croissant), alongside the revelation that she’ll have to near-shave her head just to look like a semi-presentable fragment of society, finally causes her nervous system into upheaval, and the second bout of tears she’d worked so hard to repress bubbles to the surface as the back of her throat tightens scratchily. It starts as a welling sting behind her tired eyes, and as the wetness crystallizes in beads along her waterline, one slips over, traversing her cheek, and pearling over her clenched jaw. Then, an ache that feels too close to an incipient sob curdles along the back of her tongue. She tries to swallow it�� she really does. But as the back of her throat works over the blooming emotion and the weight of the morning crumbles her front, the girl can’t help the hitch in her breath or the way her shoulders tremble. As her shoulders jolt and the breath she takes burns along her chest, she squeezes her eyes shut and tips her chin to cradle her face in her palms. 

And as Harry draws a circle with his thumb over a particularly tight area along the right side of her trapezius, meandering under the fabric, he doesn’t immediately recognize that the young woman’s emotions have begun to pool over. It’s only when he hears a sharp sniffle and looks down, concern etching a wrinkle between his progressively furrowing brows, that he realizes the girl is practically quaking with the way she tries to smother her sobs. Instinctively, a dull seedling of his own unease roots apart behind his ribcage, cobwebbing its tendrils out as the hand that’d settled along her shoulder slips to the side of her upper arm instead, grasping gently when he steps to the side and ducks to assess her side profile. Just as he’d thought, the girl sits crying into her hands, blatantly sucking down hiccups with the majority of her face eclipsed by the shape of her palms. Worry slopes his mouth and sharpens the crease between his eyebrows, and as he kneels beside her, he squeezes at the top of the limb comfortingly. He stitches a calm gentleness into his tone, brushing along the backs of her raised, cotton-coated forearms with the opposite palm. 

“Hey. Hey. C’mon,” Harry soothes, shaking his head as she allows her sounds to intensify with the acknowledgment, dislodging a broken sob that echoes off the wall tiles, “S’just hair. Hey. Look at me.”

She allows him to twist her on the toilet lid with minimal protest— no protest, really, besides the stutter-y hum of dismay she makes into her palms, though Harry assumes that’s more directed at the circumstances than him, really— and then her wet hands. He blinks up at her, ducking his posture to fit into her eyeline with the way her chin is dipped downward. 

“Hey,” he shakes his head again. 

“It’s my hair,” Y/N sniffles, shaking her own from side-to-side as she mirrors the action in devastation, “And— and it’s gone.”

“Well. Now it’s my problem,” the curly-haired brunette declares. Another nonchalant shrug jolts his shoulders, and a soft grin quirks his mouth as he repeats his self-assured claim, “Lucky for you, m'brilliant.” 

At the very least, this comment lures something between a laugh and another sob. A couple of tears bead and dangle from the tip of her nose, and aggregate along her soaked, bunched lower lashes. Reflexively, the man reaches for them, thumbing the ones hanging threateningly from the tip of her nose first, then under her lashes. Playfully, he curls his expression into one of dramatic disgust, sticking his tongue out as he pretends to gag and wipes the pad of his thumb against her pant leg. The theatrics (as intended), pry another— although tearful— giggle that suggests an incremental boost in her spirits. She raises her chin, scrubbing at her face with her palm, and then the back of her sleeve, sniffling once more for good measure to clear her sinuses of the build-up that’d ensued. 

“Sorry,” she sounds sheepish.

“Don’t be,” Harry shakes his head, hands now planted against her knees, “S’a big chop, and I get it. It’s an emotional moment.”

He gives her another moment to compose herself, petting at her knee comfortingly as the bout of despair passes and her mood shifts, before he frowns up at her once more in a teasing, faux assertion of stern instruction. “Now, chin up, crybaby. No tears in my chair.”

“I’m on the toilet,” Y/N protests weakly, waving out with her hand as he stands and picks up the spray bottle. 

He brandishes it threateningly, pointing it into her direction as if he’ll spray it anywhere besides her scalp. Then, he flicks the tip of her nose with the fingers on his other hand in reprimand, “Use your imagination, then.”

As the young woman lets him re-moisturize her hair with the spritzer, she ogles the shape of his toned tummy under the tee with the limited range of motion. His prior comment (the one he’d shared right before her barrier had deteriorated), sits in the dell of her foresight, and she chews into her chapped bottom lip as he ruffles her hair out with his fingers to soak the layers beneath. 

“Do you really think I could,” Y/N blinks up at him from the sopping tendrils that had flopped over her forehead messily, “…pull it off?”

The question makes Harry pause. He sets the spray bottle back onto the cheaply marbled countertop beside him and combs her hair back off her face with his fingers, drawing her chin up with the soft tug along her wet roots. As his fingers stay tangled into the hair along her scalp, the other hand cups her jaw, the pads of his fingers gently digging into her cheeks. They chisel indents into the soft spaces beneath bone as he seemingly examines her. Although the motion is entirely platonic, the amalgam of the tender-strengthed pull at the base of her hair, the sensation of his digits squeezing into her skin and holding her face angled, and the serious expression painting his contemplative features, causes a warm flutter to ripple along her underbelly. The tip of his pinky lingers too close to her thundering pulsepoint, and her throat bobs as she wordlessly swallows.

“Yeah,” Harry murmurs, irises briefly edging to her mouth, then riding back up along the column of her nose to her eyes, “Yeah. I reckon Mia Farrow for sure.”

IMPORTANT: sign up with a browser (NOT the app) to avoid extra apple fees

[maculategiraffe]

everybody in my family except me and the baby loves shrimp so my boyfriend decided to fix shrimp among other things for a family dinner. and I told the baby that uncle boyfriend was going to fix shrimp but there would be plenty of other things for him and me to eat, and said "does that sound good?" and the baby got a tearful look and said "no because I am worried that uncle [boyfriend] will accidentally put some shrimp on my plate 😟"

and I was like buddy the good news for you is that auntie mac is exactly as autistic as you are and also doesn't think there's anything wrong with that. for you and me, young man, I will set backup safety plates so that if it even LOOKS like a shrimp is THINKING about touching one of our plates, we can WHISK the contaminated plate away and use a clean plate instead. and I hope you appreciate all the hard emotional work I did to get to a place where I know I deserve to be accommodated and so do you. bone apple teeth from your very own complimentary autistic concierge auntie

[lotties-ashwagandha]

SORRY TO CANCEL…

shauna sadecki x fem!reader, 1.5k words.

when you move in across the street, shauna invites you to her book club — it’ll be good for you to be involved in your new community. but when her book club cancels last minute during your first meeting with them, the night starts to feel more like a first date. dedicated to @seluni . part 2 of this coming soon!!! lmk what we want if we want sesbian lex or no sesbian lex? stalker shauna?

Your new neighbor stands at the door with a store-bought pie made to look homemade in a glass dish and giant sunglasses covering up how she tries to inconspicuously look into your house. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

You take the pie, trying to figure out where to look instead of straight at the sun glaring off her glasses. You look down at the pie. “Thank you so much! It’s beautiful— apple?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Pickle.”

Oh. Well. “It’s great to finally meet you,” you try. It’s been a little less than a week since you moved in, and so far the neighborhood has been quiet — it’s good to make some acquaintances at last.

She hums in response, taking off her sunglasses and squinting into your house to get a better look at it. She has already lost patience when it comes to disguising the snooping neighbor act, and while you would’ve preferred your privacy, you respect her openness.

“Would you like to come in?”

She meets your eyes. She nods, and then she backpedals as she becomes aware of her impoliteness. “Oh, I’m sure you’re busy unpacking…”

“No, not at all,” you smile. You step aside and catch a hint of her perfume as she passes, cool and woodsy and complimentary of the air of authority she’s swept into your house with in her blue flannel. “Shauna, right? The realtor mentioned you, said your family kept the neighborhood a lively community.”

She nods mindlessly and continues inside. You follow.

“You have a gorgeous home,” Shauna picks up one of the framed photos on your hallway display table and puts it back face-down. “You know, I took a tour with the realtor while it was still on the market. Didn’t want to buy this place, just wanted to see if you could still tell where they buried all those murder victims in the backyard.”

Fuck. “Really?”

“No.”

You set the pickle pie down on the kitchen counter. You clear your throat, trying to cut through the silence that has formed between you. “Thank you for the pie.”

Shauna stalks toward you, studying you so intensely you look away. She leans against the kitchen island as if she lives here, taking you in. She isn’t subtle about letting her gaze linger.

The smell of fresh grass wafts in through your open windows, the sound of a lawnmower down the street acting as a tool for groundedness. You try not to read too much into the way Shauna is looking at you, and you try not to let your gaze get stuck on her for too long even with how close she is. You lift your eyes to meet hers.

“You should join my book club.”

You blink. “Your book club?”

“We’re meeting this Friday night at seven. You’re new here and it’s good to be active in the community, don’t you think?”

“Your group wouldn’t mind a stranger?”

“No, I think they would be very welcoming,” Shauna shakes her head. “Friday at seven. We’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

She’s out the door before you can respond.

Book club. Do you seem like a book club person? No. Maybe. You certainly aren’t a woman eager to party crash a stranger’s gossip group on a Friday night, but the finality in Shauna’s tone left you without any options.

That doesn’t mean you can’t mope about it, though — you spend the entire week dreading that Friday, trying to get your confidence up so that you can channel a bit of charisma upon arrival. You buy a nice bottle of wine to bring over too, and while you have no idea what book Shauna’s group read this month, you try to make yourself seem somehow academic when you step onto her front porch on Friday at exactly seven in the evening and knock on the door.

“You made it,” Shauna smiles, opening the door a crack. She looks you over, takes the bottle of wine from your hands, and then her expression falls. “Oh, shit, I forgot to come tell you…”

“Tell me what?”

“We canceled this month,” she sighs. “I didn’t have your phone number, I would have sent you a text…”

You don’t know how to respond — you wish you hadn’t gone over in the first place. You knew this was a bad idea from the very start.

Shauna opens the door up wider and steps to the side. She holds up the bottle of wine. “I can’t send you home when you’ve brought me this, though. Come in.”

After a moment of hesitation, you follow her inside. It’s a little awkward being the only one here and to be an unexpected guest, but the wine was expensive and you’re dressed up in the finest of the clothes you have unpacked since moving in. You’ll consider it a guilty pleasure if you must, a night to celebrate your new house and your new neighbor and your new status as World’s Most Prepared Book Club Member.

Shauna doesn’t seem to mind, either. She has an empty house and a full bottle of wine and nothing more to ask for.

Her house is beautiful, and you try your best to focus on it as you try not to focus on her. You try not to study the way she fits into her black dress, too formal for book club, hugging her frame and complemented by the array of dainty silver jewelry adorning her neck.

“Sit down,” she gestures into the living room.

You settle into an armchair and Shauna takes a seat on the sofa next to it after handing you one of the two wine glasses she comes back with.

“How are you enjoying the new house?” Shauna asks. “Despite what the realtor told you, this isn’t much of a busy neighborhood. I’m always grateful for that.”

“It’s beautiful,” you nod. “Pleasant neighbors…”

She taps a fingernail against the wine glass. “Who would that be?”

You pretend to consider it. “Certainly not the Sadecki family.”

“No, definitely not. Not so pleasant at all. You should move away.”

“Do you want that?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t want that.”

The wine is sweet on your tongue. You look down into the glass, and then up at Shauna. “What book were you reading this month? For book club? I never asked.”

For once, Shauna falters. She stares at you harshly for a few seconds, scanning a small stack of books on the coffee table before gingerly picking one up off the top. “This. We were reading this.”

“A gardening guide?”

She pauses, eyes darting to the title. She shrugs and sits back. “It’s almost summer. A few of us in the group have gardens.”

You’re not convinced. “What did you learn from reading it?”

“Are you an avid gardener?” Shauna asks, irritability creeping into her tone.

You like it — you want to evoke more. “I am, actually. I’d love to hear all about it.”

She sets the book down in front of you instead, rapping her knuckles on the hard sage green cover. “Read it yourself. Take it home.”

“Oh, you don’t have to...”

“It’s the least I can do after everyone canceled on such short notice,” she says, trying to recover — it’s clear to both of you by now that there’s no book club.

If not book club, you’re wondering what this is. It feels very much like a date, but you don’t want to make any straightforward assumptions. If she had wanted a date, you would have hoped she would just go out and say it.

Maybe it’s different with Shauna, though. She doesn’t come across as trusting. This is her way of assessing you, and if she likes what she finds then this will count as a first date from her perspective.

“You look incredible,” Shauna tells you. She looks over your outfit approvingly.

“Thank you,” you look down at your own clothes, smoothing them with your free hand. “I wasn’t sure if it was too formal for a book club.”

“You look perfect,” she assures you, because she’s too overdressed herself to have not been expecting visitors.

This was all premeditated, and the longer the night goes on the less you care. In the back of your mind, maybe you wanted this — your dread had concealed your hope. And even though it was the excuse you had both gone with to get you here, you didn’t give a fuck about being an active member of the community.

Wine glass in hand, you stand up and move to sit next to her on the sofa. You meet her eyes when she shifts a little to face you.

“I’m glad book club had to cancel,” you place a hand carefully on her knee. You let her read into it in whichever way she’d like, but despite the possibility of the gesture being domestic, neither of you see it as such.

She places a hand over yours on her leg and slides it up her thigh a bit. When you look up at her, she seems even closer. New want dances in her eyes, focused on you alone, and she leans closer.

You won’t give in just yet. Not on the first date.

You take the wine glass from her hand and stand up. “Ready for a refill?”

-

-

-

sexy yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie @neighbourhoodspidey @dorotheareid @jackiesjersey

thank you for reading!!! if you’d like to read more fics, check out my masterlist!

[softshuji]

CW: NSFW, ptv, daddy kink mentions, reader wears makeup and a dress, marking and lots of pet names. this is pure smut that's literally it, just pure filth I am so sorry I had to get this out, I'm pretty sure I blushed writing this, extremely self indulgent bye.

Hanma's been eyeing you for a while.

You think maybe he'd know that you knew how often his eyes are shifting from the mirror to you in front of the vanity as you apply a light coat of blush to your cheeks. You're leaning forward to see yourself better in the mirror, rocking back on your feet when you turn to look at the makeup and find a complimentary shade of lipstick.

He's done and undone his own tie so many times, a little excessive maybe, but he likes to watch you - and it's even better to him that you don't mind and will let him for as long as he wants to.

You do like an audience after all, he knows that first hand. And he's yet to shrug on his jacket when you feel his hands, creeping along your sides as you hold up a hand mirror to inspect your handiwork more closely. To him, the waiting is unbearable, and of course it is, when you look so delicious so effortlessly and he can't simply be content to just watch you and wait till you notice and turn around.

"New dress?" He says, lips dropping down to where your hair meets your ear, a soft trail of kisses and a light brush of his lips against your soft and open hair.

You cast a glance back, a smile inlaying your now coated lips before you pop them experimentally, a little internal relish at how his Adams apple bobs and his eyes drop to the matted sheen of them. "Mhm, yeah, you like it?" You know he does.

"Yeah," he says, muffled and whispered as his warm breath falls and dances further down with a caress and gentle trail along your skin. "Real pretty sweetheart, you look perfect. Looks nice with your pretty hair too." He knows you know that he thinks that already, because he makes it known often just how pretty he thinks you are. And oh how often he reminds you, as you know he wants to do now.

"Yeah?" And you can tell, so easily. When he bites his lip, and his teeth are grazing along the juncture of your neck and shoulder, big and rough but assured hands now coming around your hips to pull you flush to him, it's almost too easy to tell. "I got it cos I thought you'd like it."

"oh you did it for me? That's sweet and I do like it princess. How'd you know?"

"It's easy to tell. You like the ones with easy access." You grin at him in the mirror, slightly pushing your hips back against him and he laughs, pulls his hand up to your throat to tilt you back till the back of your head rests against his chest, a firm but confident grip on your neck that has your thighs twitching- a visceral reaction you know he can feel from where he's pressed up against you from behind.

"mhm, yeah I do. Got me rock hard so early in the morning, I should punish you." And with that he grinds his now hard cock against you- hips fully flush to yours as his breath ghosts and curls over your lips.

Your chest trips, eyes flitting up and then down to where his other hand creeps and dances over the hem of the white dress. "You'll be late, I'll be late too," you say, without conviction, tongue swiping at your bottom lip to wet it in anticipation, your hips still meeting his in tandem, a heat pooling between your legs.

"I'll be quick pretty girl." Although he knows you don't need any convincing when your eyes are clouding with lust, that familiar glassy shine glimmering in them as you - expectedly, press your lips to his. "Five minutes princess, just wanna feel you."

You always start off soft- a little push and pull, him pressing himself into you with a needy and eager bite, and you curling your tongue along his from the underside, soft breaths and gasps as you try to drink him in entirely. You push, press yourself further against him, an unmeasured whimper against his mouth when he drops his hands to massage and squeeze your thighs, fingers dancing and stroking at the soft inner sides. Back and then forth, and back again.

"You always say that, and then you make us late," you whisper as you pull away for air, a thin string of saliva now pooling on your lips. It never lasts and he knows your rebuttals are half-hearted, that the wetness now dampening your underwear says enough.

He chuckles, a hot breath curling along your skin when he flips you around, his size and shape and the entirety of him backing you against the dresser. "Oh you don't wanna? How wet you are says otherwise pretty girl. You think I can't tell? You're dripping."

"That's your fault," you say even as you lift a leg to hook it around his waist, ankles locking around the lower end of his back to keep him in place and pressed firm to your hips, as his thumb lightly circles your clit over the seat of your panties- a sharp and broken whimper lost against his lips as he bites and nips at you.

"oh my fault huh? So shall I stop then pretty girl? Want me to leave you dripping and wet and aching?" And he pulls your panties to the side now sticky and hot, thumb pressed to your clit to draw firm and measured circles against the achy bundle of nerves.

Your eyes flutter, teeth biting down on your lips as you twitch and your thighs squeeze together. "No please, please, I need you." And oh how he draws it out from you easily, with so much need, an eager rock of your hips to feel him more, the rough pad of his thumb and then his fingers slipping inside you.

"yeah? What do you need sweetheart? Use your words for me. Tell daddy what you want." Middle and ring finger curling inside you, slow and drawn out and perfectly punctuated against the soft and twitchy sensitive spot, thumb still caressing your hot and wet clit, arousal now drooling down his wrist.

A broken whine escapes your lips. "I need- need you inside me, please please? It hurts. Need you to cum in me."

And be laughs, giggles in fact, with a grin that you can feel against your neck from where his lips are sucking harsh deep and purpling marks into your skin. "Good girl, that's My girl. Don't worry, I'll give you what you want." And then, as his nose nudges against your collarbones, scent of your perfume on his tongue, "Gonna cum in that pretty pussy of yours. You feeling good? Like having my fingers In you?"

Saliva pools on the edge of your lips as his fingers repeatedly curl and press against that soft and swollen spot, thighs clenching and lifting to meet him more, till his knuckles brush absently against your clit. And then deeper still, broken and gasped choked moans pressed to his shirt from your saliva now dribbles onto the white linen- too much for you to form a response in return.

He coos at you, soft and teasing, till that tight wire of heat and tension simmers in your tummy, moans and breathy broken whines getting quicker and sharper and you tightening around his fingers with every curl of them against your soft, warm walls.

"shuji- fuck, oh, I think I'm-" you try, and it comes out as a heavy breath, you panting and gasping against his shoulder where your cheek is pressed until suddenly, he pulls them out, cool air now pulling your orgasm further away from you as cry in protest.

"shhh, relax princess, I got you," he says, undulated under the sound of metal as his belt comes undone. "You trust me right?" And he lifts your hips, easily, your thighs now resting on the dresser as his aching hard cock springs free, now dripping and drooling with precum.

You stifle a gasp, tongue pooling in anticipation as your eyes trail, unashamedly from his darkened gaze to where his cock now twitches with need.

"I- I trust you baby, promise. But please, I Need- need to cum so bad." And as if to enunciate your point, your hips lift and jerk, an eager shuffle that has his tip pressing against your clit.

"I know, I know Doll, take a deep breath for me yeah? Relax, let me make you feel good," he says, a slow and measured press of his cock further into your pussy, loud moans from the both of you now whined and broken against each other's lips.

"I- I can't, it's too much-" quick and sharp gasps now lost in the wet and sticky sound of your arousal spreading further along your thighs and you're clenching still, sucking him in, ankles now tightening around his waist, a hand coming up to his hair to tug at and the other bunching his shirt between your shaking fingers.

His hands find your hips, smooth and reassuring circles rubbed into the skin even as he sinks deeper and deeper still. "Shhh you can do it sweetheart, just relax and ease up a little- look at how much you're sucking me in." And then, somehow, his hips press flush to yours, buried in you to the hilt and his tip now kissing lightly at your cervix.

You take sharp breaths between the broken whimpers, the pitch of your sweet voice rising as he begins a languid grind of his hips, his hands now bruising at your skin gripped tight between his fingers. He drops his forehead to the crown of your head, hips snapping as the dresser shakes behind you.

"shit that's it pretty girl- so warm and tight and perfect for me, so fuckin soft and pretty." He slurs, half lost in the clouded daze, lips parted and reddened, sweat clinging to the nape of his neck as you pull and tug at his soft curls.

"fuck, oh my god, sh- shuji-" you whine and whimper, moan and whisper, loud and broken and it's all lost under the wet sound of his hips snapping against yours, the repeated slapping sound punctuated by the rock of the dresser against the wall.

"I got you, I got you pretty doll,- hah, you feel like heaven, pretty princess pussy was made for me huh?"

Your lashes flutter, lips grazing his neck as you pull and tug and tighten your fingers in his curls, the one scratching down his shirt that clings with to the shifting muscles in his back. "I was, I promise," you babble, tears forming in your eyes as the mascara runs and smudges on the white linen. "I'm yours- I'm yours- I'm yours, all yours."

His cock twitches, pulses and stutters, hips stilling momentarily. "You're mine?" And then. "All mine? Only mine?"

You shuffle and grind up against him, that all too familiar wire of pleasure bubbling in your tummy. "Only yours, forever. Please, let me cum, can I cum?"

He lifts your chin then, a soft and tender kiss to your forehead, cheeks now tinted pink, a rosy sheen to his skin as his lips press softly to the crown of your head and you almost keen, a fluttery beat that only increases tenfold when his thumb finds your clit again to run smooth circles into it.

"Cum for me then sweetheart, cum for daddy and let me feel you," he says, and your lips part, hips rocking as you spasm and twitch with the orgasm that has your vision clouding white. You choke out his name and it feels reverential, feels tender and intimate and delicious coming from your swollen lips now wet and smudged with lipstick and he loves you dearly, loves you in a way that's terrifying and otherworldly.

He thrusts messily, a few pumps of his cock till he's spilling into you, warm and hot and sinking his forehead to yours, your name chanted and sweet on his lips till he slows his hips down and your breath softens as the heady pleasure carries the both of you into bliss.

"I love you," you say, mumbled against his shoulder as your breath evens out, hands running softly up and down his back as he pulls out.

"I know sweetheart, I know you do." And he presses an extra kiss to your cheek, hands now smoothing reassuring and loving circles into your hips as you both come down together.

It's overwhelming in the moments like this, somehow more intimate than the sex, when he looks on you and your reflection shimmers in his pupils blown wide with love and an adoration that borders on worship and he waits and kisses you softly, small little murmurs of your name on his lips.

"we're late, you made us late," you say with a hazy smile as your hands trail along his forearms, finding the veins and junctures, small scars and fissures in the skin that are silvery and pink in the light.

"such a greedy needy little thing aren't you? Came on my cock and now it's my fault we're late?" And it makes you laugh - so unreservedly, that the tension and pressure of the moment slips and peels away.

"you're the one who liked the dress a little too much."

He grins, thumb and forefinger taking your chin between them. "Well it is a nice dress isn't it? My pretty girl is just too pretty." And you love him entirely, so big and beautiful in all that he is, all the bad and the good that comes with him that maybe, being late is worth it.

You know he's worth it all and more.

I am not proofreading, I'm too embarrassed to go back and read it, take what you're given.

Reblogs appreciated though

[colourstreakgryffin]

Is there any chance you write for Adam from Hazbin Hotel? This man has a chokehold on me and I love him sm 😭 If not, I completely understand!!

If you do, could it be with a platonic reader? Like, Reader looks up to Adam ( for whatever reason 😨 ) and kinda just follows him around until he just questions them about and they admit they look up to him.

I COULD IMAGINE HE'S JUST LIKE "Ha! I fuckin' rock, so of course you would."

I am so sorry if this doesn't make much sense 😭

Whatever we like about Adam! I am all for this! I can actually see what you mean; You want it kinda like a big brother thing where we admire him and follow him around but then he confronts us about it and probably likes it since ego-play! I hope I mainly get what you’re asking, loves and thank you! And for real, I can just hear Adam’s voice reading out ‘Ha! I fuckin’ rock, so of course, you would’

Adam- Stem of the Apple

Adam has no clue why you’re following him around… yeah, he looks very cool and he is the best man. He is the original, the strongest, the most unique and the most grand but he isn’t sure if he appreciates fangirls following him around like lost clingy puppies

You just showed up in Heaven and you luckily got to see Adam, but you’re already enamoured by him? He is kinda confused but then again, anybody viewing him as superior is good to him

Adam, however, just decides to embrace it… for a little while. If you’re following him, it means you have good tastes and he won’t be against commending that. Though, he doesn’t really keep it to himself forever. Eventually, he just needs to know WHY you’re always right behind him

Adam suspects a good response. He suspects that you compliment or praise him, he deserves it. Give him what he deserves and don’t you dare hold back. So, as he turns to face you and confronts you, after maybe the fourth whole week of you following him around

He asks the big question: “Why are you following me, Bub?”

Adam is both pleased and surprised by your response. Yes, he’s surprised because you’re not romantically interested in him, you view him as a surrogate older sibling? That’s so interesting. He is basically your ancestor, as the first man ever, and yet. You’re assigning him as your brother

Since it’s amusing, Adam decides to entertain this little delusion fantasy idea of yours and proclaims you can follow him, as long as you always praise him. And just like that, you’ve become Adam’s left-hand angel, right beside Lute. You’re the little ‘sibling’ that gets to express how much they look up to him

Adam soaks up the glory and the praise, bringing you close to him and booping your nose. Just proudly claiming that you’re a good little one for admiring and looking up to the right angel in Heaven. He mainly likes you, due to how much you express what you find amazing about him. You’re his little complimentary machine and for that, he’s protective over you and keeps you away from those awful demons

Adam cannot afford losing his most favourite and most open fan. So, you don’t often do as much as work as he does, you’re more there to be given special treatment for expressing awe to him, further feeding his huge ego and it seems you don’t mind how crude or egotistical he is

You know Adam will show off to get praise from you so he’ll play his sick holy guitar at random, waiting for you to openly express how amazed you are at his guitar-playing skills and of course, he gets that as soon as he finishes. He has become quite a fan of playing his guitar and playing songs so his little fan-sibling can idolise him more

Adam will actually give you affection and gifts… conditionally. Only conditionally. If you praise him and give him all the egoistical fuel he requires, he will keep feeding your own admiration for him so the cycle continues

Does Adam view you as a sibling? Kinda… but mainly, he sees you as a way to fuel his greatness and he is kinda manipulating you but he does care about you. You’re a good person and for that, he can’t really bring himself to just push you away

“What’cha thinkin’, dove? Like the song? Yeah. That’s right, I am the best guitarist in this realm after all. Listen to my next work, you’ll love it”

[t00thpasteface]

blue jays and cardinals should be the same size. they match in shape and they have complimentary colors. it's unfair that one should be naught but the size of an apple with graspers dainty enough to perch on a humble clothesline and the other one is big and meaty and heavy enough to make an audible BANG when it leaps into my window-mounted bird feeder to guzzle 1000 grams of protein in whole peanuts without chewing

[raspberryjamnnn]

what if you took me under your wing and taught me everything you know about GROCERY STORE, about APPLE, about CORN MEAL? what if you walked me through every step of a AISLE and how to make JAM last and the best way to move my SHOPPING CART? what if you moulded me into your ideal SHOPPER, complimentary GROCERY LISTS, the one person who knows youR PANTRY above all others? what if i put myself into your SUPERMARKET and you never let me go?

[ashleyleedarlingdolls]

Monster High Fangelica VonBat!

Fangelica is the only child of the royal VanBat family, left an orphan after her family was run out of Transylvania by the angry masses. Fangelica was left to live alone in her family's home for centuries. Formally a royal and an abandoned child until the ghouls of Monster High brought her to live with Draculaura and her father as a sort of foster child.

While that is all incredibly messed up when you think about it, the Fangelica that I've created follows this lore, but is somewhere between 3-5 years down the line. Fangelica is a preteen who has settled down as a member of Draculaura's family and is getting ready to go to Monster High. She still retains her royal scaritage and some of her monster traits.

This is why I chose this outfit from the LOL Tween Suprise Swap doll, it has very pretty complimentary colors and the fabrics and cuts are pretty reminiscent of a modern day take on royal clothes. The flared pants are also similar to the Harris Reed Skullector doll, who also appears to be a vampire.

Her body is a repained Tweens body, first sanded, primed, and then painted the color Cameo Pink by Apple Barrel. The headband is from the Barbie fashion pack and the heart is from the second Beetlejuice Skullector pack. While Draculaura is a vegetarian, Dracula and Fangelica are not so I thought this heart would be a fun nod to that.

I love her as an addition to my slowly growing collective of re-bodied and aged up little siblings. I've only got a handful more to go. The next project is Barker wolf, I've got all of the parts I need for him being shipped right now. The other little siblings are

-Pharah, I don't love her design (edit: hOLY COW!!! Why are people pricing her like that?!?! I understand supply and demand but she's not the greatest design)

-Lux , there aren't enough male tweens to give him a proper outfit

-Alivia, I'll never be able to afford her at current prices

-Kelpie, who I just don't feel like there are any suitable outfits for her right now.

I'll probably slowly go through these characters as I'm able to get them and new tweens come out, but right now I'm stuck with just Barker being by next project. I'm excited for him though, and in the meantime here is Fangelica with the rest of my little sisters' customs.

[cloudcountry]

auburn's 3k followers bake sale!! (lasts from july 24st to august 6th)

order a baked good, get a complementary drink & fic! menu below!

(thank you all so much for 3k!! ever since getting back into the twst fandom after a six month break, ive been reflecting on my time here a lot. i feel like the twst fandom is one of the few fandoms that i'll actually be able to look back on fondly and feel comfortable doing so. i've been connected to all of these character for about 3 years now and now 2 years with you guys. i know some of you may think i'm scary but i encourage you to take part in this event ^^ it wouldn't the same without you <3 and while im at it, thanks for 3,100 followers too!!)

MENU!

complimentary drinks

romantic content - your choice of bubble tea

platonic content - your choice of coffee

familial content - your choice of water, milk, or juice.

after making your selection, please pick a cup for your drink!!

fluff - mostro lounge™ sponsored collaboration cup

angst - special 3k event cup with cat cap

heartslabyul

riddle rosehearts - strawberry macarons (set of two)

trey clover - mini lavendar cream cake

cater diamond - chewy ginger cookies (set of two)

deuce spade - chocolate chip cookies (set of two)

ace trappola - apple muffin with streusel

savanaclaw

leona kingscholar - chocolate swirl bread slices (set of two)

ruggie bucchi - lemon poppyseed muffin

jack howl - peanut butter cookies (set of two)

octavinelle

azul ashengrotto - lavender honey galette

jade leech - almond mushroom cookies (set of four)

floyd leech - stained glass cookies (set of two)

scarabia

kalim al-asim - sweet bread slice with icing (set of two)

jamil viper - slice of baklava

pomfiore

vil schoenheit - bowl of blackberry crisp (optional vanilla ice cream)

rook hunt - plum macarons (set of two)

epel felmier - apple slice rose puff pastry

ignihyde

idia shroud - pudding filled dirt cupcake

ortho shroud - dirt cookies (set of two)

bubble tea not available with ortho set!!

diasomnia

malleus draconia - slice of dark chocolate truffle cake

lilia vanrouge - slice of tomato soup cake

silver - mixed berry crisp (optional vanilla ice cream)

sebek zigvolt - slice of dark chocolate swirl pound cake

staff

crowley - fudgy dark chocolate cookies w/ edible gold shine (set of two)

crewel - slice of dark chocolate & white chocolate pound cake

trein - raspberry hand pies (set of two)

vargas - high-protein blueberry oat muffin

sam - spicy chocolate truffles (set of four)

secret menu

neige leblanche - apple dumplings (set of two)

chenya - colorful "eat me" cookies (set of three)

rollo flamme - croissants (set of two)

fellow honest - quilt cookies (set of two)

please note any other personalization requests you would like to add to your order, such as tropes (i.e. enemies to lovers), genderbent characters (i.e. fem!riddle), and any other requests you may have!

[marlynnofmany]

Starseed Apples

“Here you go,” I said, putting down the last box. “Uncut fabric, plumbing supplies, and three cases with a fungus biohazard label. Do I even want to know what’s in those?” I cast a curious look at my fellow human as I handed over the signing pad. She was shorter and rounder than I was, dressed in a crisp uniform of a type I didn’t recognize. Big pockets everywhere.

She signed with a wry grin. “Those are dirt.”

“Dirt?” I repeated, looking around the admittedly spotless loading dock of this particular space station. “Dirt warrants a biohazard here?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said, handing the pad back. “Organic mulch that could contain anything from decomposed animals to fungus to poop? With uncountable amounts of bacterial life and potential germs? We’re lucky they only focused on the mold aspect!”

“Hm, good point,” I said.

Zhee, who was busy moving boxes off the hover sled, muttered something disparaging. I expected him to complain about how gross it all was, since he was always the first to point out when humans did something to offend his bug-alien sensibilities, but it sounded like he was griping about the strict station rules this time.

The human continued. “We have to keep a clean room between the greenhouse area and everything else. Even there, most things are in pots. We’ve got a great crop from Johnny Starseed right now!”

I’d heard that name before. “Oh, was he the one who sells little potted—”

“Apple trees, yeah,” she said. “Tiny and convenient, but they make an impressive number of apples as long as you feed ‘em quality dirt.” She bent down to pat a box.

Zhee finished freeing the sled. “Reasonable business plan,” he said, sounding almost complimentary.

“The guy named himself after Johnny Appleseed,” I told Zhee. “A human from centuries ago who got famous for traveling around and setting up apple orchards on Earth. Everybody likes a guy who brings food wherever he goes. And drink — I think some of those apples were supposed to be the cider variety.”

Zhee flicked his antennae. “Sounds like a very human thing to do,” he said drily.

“Have you tried the Starseed Reds?” the other human asked. “They’re very good.”

“No I haven’t, but I’d like to!” I said. “I’ve heard good things. I was kind of hoping to cross paths with him at some point. I wouldn’t mind a tiny apple tree in my quarters. Of course, the cat might get at it, and I’d probably have to find a grow lamp…”

She opened a boxy hip pocket, and pulled out the shiniest red apple I’d seen in a while. “Here you go.”

“Thank you!” I said, taking it eagerly. “That’s very generous!”

She waved it off. “Like I said, we’ve got a big crop. And I’ve got a different one that I’m saving for when I get off shift.” From another pocket, she produced a red apple with distinct orange stripes. “Which should be as soon as I get the supplies back to base.”

I laughed. “Is that the booze kind? I didn’t think those were real!”

“Oh yes,” she said with relish, putting it back in the pocket. “Starseed Cider Apples, no fermenting required!”

Zhee cocked his head, faceted eyes looking at both of us. “Poisonous apples?”

“Alcoholic apples,” I corrected, knowing full well that he considered that to be the same thing.

Zhee pushed the hover cart back toward the ship with a dramatic head tilt and antennae swirl. “Now that sounds like a human thing to do.”

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” I said with a smile. I thanked the other human and followed him, taking a bite of my non-alcoholic apple. It really was good.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come!

[nomsfaultau]

I hereby declare honorary male wife badge for mr qsmp phil and a complimentary gift basket to the rest for trying to take care of the egg nonetheless…def not because I feel bad no siree

- ehe?

nah I threw in the joke answer bc people love a joke answer, it’s all good Ehe!

Happy for the gift basket: Lanterns, Golden Apples

About to cry with relief because the P in Philza stands for Poor: Lambs, Babies

Eats the basket too: Weight in Gold

Assumes the basket is poisoned or a trap in some way: MFR, Lord!

Assumes the basket is poisoned or a trap in some way and eats it anyway: Fault

and lastly, to QPhil our glorious leader….hes eating that up charcuterie style bc im super certain he’s having a vacation and chillaxing on Quesadilla Island. Because thats all I know about the QSMP and I have been assured Amathyst Fox and Sohrleas that nothing bad happened ever in the QSMP.