#if any of u know of any local projects

[quicktimeeventfull]

Animal Games A Lawlight Gone Girl AU (Part Two) Part One 7.4k words Read on AO3 L has moved his lovely, vile, and entirely batshit husband out of their beautiful Brooklyn brownstone into a Missouri suburb, then left him to his own devices. He is under the impression that this is going to end well. In this part: Light gets to say his piece. Content notes: Deals substantially with concerning age dynamics, as well as racism and homophobia; a few slurs are present. Light is as vile as ever. Past childhood abuse is discussed. Suicide is repeatedly invoked, albeit in a way that parallels Gone Girl. There's some arguably disordered eating. Thank you so much to @lightyaoigami for doing so much research and holding hands in worldbuilding and character creation! Everything about New York comes from Monica, and so do all the designer clothes, L's midlife crisis car, and a great deal of the characterization. Monica did so much that it's honestly kind of hard to describe all of it; imo all the best parts of this fic come from her.

I gave him a chance to save himself. You understand this.

I know he's going to make himself out to be the fucking victim in all of this because he always has to be the victim. Oh, poor me, I grew up in foster care and I never got the stable, white-picket-fence life that no one else has in the first place -- come the fuck on. What does that have to do with anything?

I had a perfectly nice life in Brooklyn. I had friends. Friends don't come easily to me, I'll admit that, but I made them anyway. I had a beautiful little apartment in Cobble Hill with real brick walls and portes-fenêtres that opened onto a wrought-iron Juliette balcony and a coffee shop a three minute walk away where I could drink real espresso and eat honey-lemon cornmeal cake and do the work he thinks is so pathetically beneath me which by the way, it isn't. I liked it. It was my job. He worked for a fucking fashion magazine, for god's sake. He wrote about pants and peplums. It wasn't exactly hard-hitting news.

It isn't as if I didn't earn any of what I had because I grew up in a two-story.

Why should I have to throw all of that out because he thought it might be nice to have a lawn when he was seven years old? [continue]

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetical torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’d already successfully wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. Heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I��m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[samlizzy71]

Any other trans girl out there who plays the bass? x)

Some years ago, I wanted to make a virtual band with my OCs. I've always loved music and had the chance to be in a couple of local bands, but nothing that lasted long enough. I mostly played the drums x) but since then I wanted to make my own project. In this virtual band, Avelyn plays the bass! Elizabeth plays the guitar, and (I hope you know them, but will understand if you don't x) You will soon!) Giselle plays the guitar too, Eris plays the drums, and Valerie plays the piano/keyboard.

This year I want to start making music again, and compose things I'd love them to play! Also because I have a couple of ideas in mind for animations, and I want to make the music for them -u- So I've set a goal on Ko-Fi (https://ko-fi.com/samlizzy71) in case anyone wants to help! As always, donating is completely voluntary! I took the chance to draw this and ask for your help since Lynn's birthday is next month (February 19) so this will also count as her birthday gift <3

Hope you like it, and this will soon be available as a poster at my Redbubble store!

[facefullofsadness]

pussy-drunk!purinz relieve your stress

roommate!purinz x reader, university!au

smut, 1.4k wc

for the lovely @strawbsj whose bday is todayyy!!! sorry if it's not that great jwannie bestie, it's VERY MUCH RUSHED n barely proofread (might fix later on), but I wanted to give u something today and what's better than purinz eating u out as a gift! (and I'm so sorry it's late ajhfsjgd)

your finals are coming up and wow, is it stressful. I mean it's evident in the distressed faces of your fellow classmates roaming the campus, rushing to the local cafes and library to squeeze in every single bit of study time they can so they don't fail. and you've been no different, hiding away in your room, slaving away at ur notebook with your head in your textbooks and a laptop in front of you.

your roommates yunjin and chaewon are completely chill honestly, they're already done with their projects they need to turn in and have no written exams, having chosen arts majors. they pity you, feeling bad sitting on the living room couch, staring at your closed door, wondering if you're even alive since they can barely hear any noise coming from your room.

having chosen a more studious major than your roommates always meant you were working hard at all times while they were js kinda there? they would always try to help you by making u food, getting you water, doing the chores for you, checking up on you, being sweet and all that. but after hours, 12 to be exact, of you studying, they thought that was enough, you desperately needed A FUCKING BREAK.

you were so zoned in on your work that u didn't hear the door creak open. ur study playlist played softly in the background as u jump, feeling hands land on ur bare shoulders. you blink away from your notes and look up at the concerned looking chaewon looking down at you.

"y/n-ie, that's enough..." her voice was almost a whisper, laced with worry.

"seriously, you've been at this for the entire day, take a break, eat properly, SLEEP?" yunjin reiterates behind her, form slowly coming into view.

you sigh out, leaning back against chaewon's relaxing massage on your shoulders. u didn't realize how exhausted you were until you stopped what u were doing, legs restless, eyes twitching, fingers sore, back hurting.

"I'm just really stressed and worried about this guys," you reply back.

"we know, but killing yourself over this isn't gonna help cutie," the taller girl shifts to move in front of you, closing your laptop and books, holding your worn out hands with her own.

"I don't know how to NOT overwork myself, you guys know that..."

the two girls exchange a look before looking back down at you.

"yeah, so let us help you," chaewon leans into your ear and sighs against it.

you feel a chill run down your spine and suddenly your hands turn clammy in yunjin's hold, the girl in front of you looking down at you with sweet but dark eyes.

"w-what?" you nervously ask.

"shhhh, let us do the work baby," chaewon's lips ghost the skin on your neck before placing deep wet kisses on them.

you immediately whimper at the sensation, throwing your head back against her shoulder. you grip yunjin's hands tighter, eyes closing at how good the short haired girl's mouth felt on you. u didn't even continue to question what was happening anymore, everything feeling too good to care and the exhaustion hitting you too hard to resist.

you hear rustling from in front of you amidst the wet noises next to your ear, feeling your bottoms fall to the ground and legs shift apart. u widen your eyes at the girl between your legs, placing sweet kisses against your thighs.

"jen-" you begin before she interrupts you.

"don't try to stop it, just relax," yunjin mumbles against your skin before dragging her tongue across your already leaking slit.

"fuckkkkkk," you moan out, the sensations tingling against your body intensely.

you lace both your hands into their hair separately, holding chaewon's head against your neck and yunjin's head against your pussy. their mouths moved so deliciously against your body, making your back arch in your shitty uncomfy dorm room chair.

you feel yunjin's strong hands grip your thighs apart firmly, making sure u couldn't close them, forcing you to take all of her pleasure. chaewon's hands occupied themselves as well, slipping up your tight-fitting tank top, thumbs circling your hardened nipples.

"you like that, sweet thing? does yunnie's tongue feel good lapping at your pussy? like how I just pincchhhh your little nips?" she emphasizes her words as her actions obeyed her command.

"chaewonnie ahh~!" you mewl, thrashing your head around at the stimulation.

yunjin's tongue was so deep inside of you, moving extremely expertly against your clenching walls, her nose rubbing your clit rhythmically. chaewon's mouth kept leaving sloppy kisses all over your neck, shoulders, jaw, and chest, even leaning over to reach it and leave marks. her fingers were so aggressive, never letting your nipples take a break.

it felt so fucking good. your mind was completely clouded with lust as the two girls fucked you for their own pleasure, addicted to the way your body reacted to each and every one of their touches. your grips on them tightened as every thrust of yunjin's tongue hit that delicious spot within you, chaewon's panting against your ear heightening your already overwhelming pleasure.

with the deep groan of yunjin's mouth against your cunt, the vibrations sent you into a blinding orgasm, a series of high pitched whines and whimpers leaking from your lips, back arching off the chair completely. your moans filled the girls' ears, filling them with more lust and desire than ever.

your body collapsed against the chair again as you released deep breaths through the aftermath of your climax. suddenly, you're being pulled up and thrown gently against your plush mattress, feeling your legs forced open once again.

you panic and pry your eyes wide open, looking down at chaewon now between your trembling thighs. "chae, wait wait- fuck!"

she ignores your cries as her tongue laps at the cum you released from your last orgasm, sucking and slurping your sensitive pussy lips. whimpers leak from you as her mouth forces her way around your cunt. you try pushing her head away from your center but your efforts fail as yunjin comes behind you, resting your body against her chest and effectively holding your hands behind your back.

"nuh-uh babe, don't even think about stopping this. just relax..." she breathes out against your ear before turning to capture your mouth with her own.

she kisses you breathlessly, taking the oxygen from your lungs. your whines are completely drowned out by the tongue being shoved down your throat, choking on yunjin's and your own combined spit, the sounds of chaewon's slurping under you making your eyes roll back.

your abused clit throbs and hole clenches around chaewon's greedy tongue, unable to thrash really at all due to the two girls forcing your body to move as they want. the pleasure was way too much, your body couldn't stop jerking at every single swipe of the girls' tongues against you. it almost hurt, how much arousal brewed in your stomach, just anticipating exploding.

yunjin finally releases your mouth and you immediately let out heaving breaths against her lips, tears welling up in your eyes at the sensations crawling across your body.

"fuck fuck fuck fuck..." you chant against yunjin, her holding you against her chest, caressing your skin.

"shhhh, you're okay doll," she coos.

"I... can't, no more," you start sobbing.

"don't resist, just feel..." yunjin kisses across your face.

"cumming, cumming!" you announce with an incomplete cry, ur voice cracking as you yelp helplessly, legs and body shaking uncontrollably.

chaewon doesn't stop her eating, continuing to devour you between your legs. you scream in sobs at her mercilessness, unable to handle anymore, your sensitive cunt red and worn out.

"okay chaewonnie, that's enough," yunjin sighs, grabbing the short-haired girl by her bob and pulling her back, away from your pussy.

your silent sobs don't wipe the lust-filled stare chaewon has in her eyes. you feel small against yunjin's grasp and chaewon's warm hands on your inner thighs.

"we're not fucking done, not even close..." chaewon heaves.

yunjin chuckles sinisterly in your ear, "mm-mm, no we're not."

you tremble and stiffen, the taller girl behind you swiping her long digits across your sloppy slit, gathering slick and dragging her tongue along it.

"y/n's way too fucking sweet and delicious to stop."

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Quarterfinals, Match 2

expand to see all propaganda received! (wall of text warning oh my god this is a severe cautionary message)

Lauryn Hill:

"she paved the way and was hot as fuck the whole time"

"Girl c'mon. Look at her. You're gonna try and tell me that isn't the most beautiful and attractive person alive? Okay. You're lying but okay."

"if u freaks don't give ms. lauryn hill the respect she deserves..."

"actually one of the prettiest women ever I'm such a lesbian for her. like irl I'm already a lesbian but she is helping"

Damon Albarn:

"Don’t think Damon should be here? Why don’t you get your head checked by a jumbo jet? Maybe you’ll feel heavy metal and calm down."

"If Damon is in the “some guy” category, he’s the heavenly and heartbreaking version. Damon is the sort of significant stranger I’d see on the train out of Colchester but could never speak to, just a face seen in passing yet too radiant to be real. I’d fall in love for an hour and carry the ache for a month."

"Damon sets the standard for me. I think he’s the most fascinating man alive. What I find attractive in Damon is not just his gorgeous bone structure and boyish charm, but how wholly he’s committed himself to music. Damon is an artist who walked the walk: in one of his roughest years with some of his rawest songwriting, he said he was no longer excited by anything except the creative process. He was disillusioned with the celebrity of it all, with his relationships suffering for it, and only wanted to make art: nothing more, nothing less. He would go on to compose film scores, write operas and stage musicals, produce other artists’ records, form collectives to fulfill his passion for world music, and create some of the most globally successful music of his career in a completely innovative format that placed him as the phantom behind the characters. Whenever one band takes a break, he makes a solo record or puts together a supergroup to stay busy. He’s uniquely collaborative and still writes personal letters inviting artists to record with him, and yet can function as a one-man show, acting as a multi-instrumentalist, a singer-songwriter and a producer. He’s been a constant voice of bringing British music to the world *and* bringing world music into Britain. Sure, he’s won Brit Awards and a Grammy among others, but he also has a Guinness World Record and was named an Officer of the British Empire for his services to music; his long work with Africa Express earned him respect even from peers who’d previously dismissed him, and his commitment to support his Malian collaborators in the face of violence earned him the title of Local King in Mali. There is so much talent in the world, but there is truly no one else with a career that looks like Damon Albarn’s. Damon is far more than just a prettyboy to look nice on a magazine cover, but looks are the ultimate point of this tournament, so make no mistake: he was terribly, terribly pretty. You watch him performing in the 90s, you sift through photoshoots and interviews and documentaries, and it feels *cruel* how beautiful he was. If his talent was god-given, so was his face. To put a bow on this thesis: I don’t know if Gorillaz and Damon’s musical universe would be the experimental, globe-trotting, boundary-pushing community affair it is if Blur hadn’t become such a central figure in Britpop and if Damon had not been made such a media spectacle, and I don’t know if Damon would have been that spectacle if he wasn’t so ungodly pretty. The domino effect is that Damon’s cherubic face launched a thousand multimedia art school projects for decades to come."

"I wish I was basically any bloke in the 90s so I could tongue Damon Albarn down. Damon will see a man and ask “is anyone gonna kiss that?” and not wait for a response."

"I have a pillow with his face on it. I sleep with it every night 😊"

"��I’m more homosexual than Brett Anderson, always have been. As far as bisexuality goes, I’ve had a taste of that particular fruit, or have been tasted you might say…” is just the rawest most Shakespearean statement ever"

"he is the ultimate Pretty Boy ™. his glorious golden locks, his electric blue eyes. he is if Princess Diana was a Britpop Dude. he is the Regina George of Britpop. he is if Aphrodite took male form. Zeus would come down to earth to fuck him if he knew. he is a caffeinated orange cat let loose. he is deranged. he is unhinged. you never know what will come out of his mouth. he had sexual tension with every single man who knew him. he pulled justine fucking frischmann. his aura knows no bounds. he is a siren. he is a weird guy. but being so gorgeous stunning ethereal didn't stop him from also being one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation"

"THE MAIN BLUR"

"literally where do i even begin. i could write entire essays on this man. a good place to start would be the beetlebum music video, i suppose. i'll never forget the first time i watched that music video. something in me changed, my brain chemistry was altered, my life was never the same, i view the world a lot differently now. and a lot of the viewing i'm doing is of pictures of damon albarn's face because of boy do i have a lot of those saved. every time i try to look for a photo of something on my phone i can't find it because there's so much damon. okay that's maybe an exaggeration but this man has the most unfathomable beauty ever. his eyes? HIS EYES. god dammit i love his eyes i want to stare at them until the end of time like nothing else exists. i'm so normal about this man (lying) and while i'm usually very shameless about my interests i'm actually incredibly glad this propaganda is anonymous because otherwise. yeah. but the world deserves to see damon albarn's beauty and also hear his fantastic voice because what the fuck. his voice is literally the most gorgeous sound ever produced like bro sounds like that and expects me not to fall in love? i want this man to sing his silly songs and talk absolute nonsense to me until the sun eventually blows out and the world ends. cmon damon girlies let's demolish this tournament i know there are a lot of you."

"He’s beautiful. He’s a little rat. He’s a sweetheart. He’s a dickhead. He’s a musical genius. He’s a dumb bitch. He’s a jock. He’s a weirdo. He’s real. He’s an illusion. He’s everything. He’s just Damon."

"DAMON DAMON DAMON where do I begin oh jeez I've hyperfixated on this man for a solid 4 years and still going strong. Damon makes me wish that British people are real. That says A LOT. This man created a whole ass ANIMATED BAND WITH A SHIT TON OF LORE as a SIDE HUSTLE??? Not to mention, what other man has collaborated with Stevie Nicks, MF DOOM, Del the Funky Homosapien, Snoop Dogg, AND Beck?! People, we're literally in the presence of a god. And he's STILL GOING. Anyways, TL;DR, damon is so so so neat and cool and he should definitely win this competition. Thank you."

"Okay 90s Damon is The Perfect Boy yes yes, but the people who parrot the Daily Mail and say "he's ugly now" will never understand. I would still suck every drop from him on his deathbed."

"Vote for whoever you want to. But Damon is so pretty."

"i did not spend hours admiring this beautiful man's face on pinterest just to see him lose."

"Damon Albarn just brings me joy. When I'm watching him perform, following along as the camera lingers on and adores his pretty face, I get butterflies like I'm 15 again. It's nice to still feel that totally unguarded giddiness sometimes."

"God let the intrusive thoughts win making Damon. What if he's a beautiful blond twink with eyes like saucers and dick to his knees, he reads Herman Hesse and plays footie and is insufferable about both, he'll be the most prolific musician of his generation and write operas and seminal albums in 5 different genres and also he's gonna be the dumbest bitch alive? He'll also be kinda bi, but only kinda. And send."

"when i found out about his existence, my life was changed forever. i wish i could use him like the hannah montana boot milk pillow and chuck him at the wall so he makes a loud thud"

"Think of the drama and anon fights it'll cause if Damon wins it all! And think of how quiet it'll get after Damon's out. You'll miss him when he's gone, like memories of a noisy house years after it's grown silent. Choose Damon, and keep the messy train chugging."

"Even the Gallagher brothers have the hots for him."

"Kiss kiss I love him also you can't vote for any of the Seattle men they're literally copy and paste it's not fair. We need Brit representation"

"I want to take care of him, I want to provide for him. I need to gauge his baby blue puppy dog orbs out to I can clean them with wood varnish, paint shades of Pantone 320 C in his eyes, spray eau de parfume by dior in them and sew it back into his eyes like that scene in Toy Story 2."

"Seeing as simply filling the page with ‘Damon’ written 10000000 times isn’t going to cut it 😅 may I admit/submit: I DO have him tattooed on my being (no descriptive, is this anon?); he’s inspired somewhat unhinged late night/early morning fandom conversations in which I’ve served as ‘parish’ priest hearing confessions from all manner of folk about what they’d like to do to him/receive from him; sadly I lost an essay where I detailed why the letters that make up his name suit him so well, and described him as the hot caramel sauce to Graham’s cool vanilla ice cream. He’s a faerie princess with a nose that makes people weep and a voice that feels like the warmest home and he gives amazing hugs. He loves trains and chickens and his tuxedo cat. He’s annoying and sweet and somewhat unhinged and his music saves people and all this is on top of that fantastic dick. He’s a dream yet very real and we’re fucking blessed to be on earth at the same time as him, amen"

"Damon Albarn was a beautiful, beautiful boy. The world saw that, regardless of if every individual reading this has the same taste in men; it felt like a truth of the universe at the time. They don't make celebrities that angelic in face and erratic in personality anymore."

"I need to touch his eyebrows, nose and prostate just one time JUST ONE TIME COME ON"

[seattlesellie]

hi angel i saw u say you wanted more fluffy ellie requests and i thought about maybe something along the lines of the cute pics she has of you two in her phone idk it’s just something i thought of u don’t have to write it if u don’t want to i just love ur blog and everything u write 💗💗💗💗🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

not about love ♡

pre-dating slightly loser college!ellie 🦕 incoming !! basically u go through ellies phone and find… something. part 1 of… maybe?

warnings: slightly mean ellie for a second, sexual tension, mentions of weed and alcohol.

part 2

Tic-Toc, the gentle sounds of the ancient clock in Ellie’s room filled the thick air. a gift from Joel. It was a warm, lazy afternoon. You almost fell asleep, almost. Her bed smelled like her, so did the ruffled, Nirvana t-shirt you were laying on. Everything in this room practically screamed Ellie. The scent, the sketches on the wall — of Dina, and Jesse, and you. Why did she have more sketches of you than anyone else? A dinosaur lego, a miniature solar system, obscure band posters, Oh! here’s the pin you gifted her once!, two pairs of mismatched socks, a random rock (“It’s from like, the moon” she said. It was from the local science museum.)

“El” you whined, receiving a gentle hum in response.

“I’m bored” you exclaimed with a heavy sigh. It's not as if she owed you any attention, she told you she had to study. For some reason, some odd reason nor you or her could put your finger on, you had to be there with her. “Well” you excused. “It’s not like I have anything better to do, right?” A lie. What about your project due Monday? Nevermind.

“Catch this” she exclaimed, tossing a serene light blue stress ball directly at your face.

“Ow!” you whined, yet again. If only you knew what those whines did to her.

“Sorry bro, gotta finish this fucking question. She said, flexing her sore hand. “Fuck this fucking Prof, seriously” She mumbled, clearly annoyed, clearly frustrated. Ellie had this thing, well, if you could even call something that she only had specifically with you a “Thing” — where she had to call you by those stupid names. “Dude” “Bro” “Jeez man!” just to see you squirm. Youd flinch ever so slightly, a fleeting reaction that betrayed a hint of offense flickering in your eyes. Every time you couldn’t help but pout, couldn’t help but look a little bit hurt, it did something to her. It wasn’t because she liked hurting you, God knows she didn’t. It would give her a glimmer of hope, of light. Shed journal about it, too;

“I called her Bro again. She looked really sad. Why does she get sad? I’m so fucking stupid. It’s probably because no one else calls her fucking bro, I’m literally delusional. Also had expired fucking Pizza. Worst day ever. Shit. Not that bad because she smiled at batted her eyelashes. God Ellie you need therapy.” YOURE A DUMBASS!!!!”

Half an hour had elapsed, brimming with Ellie muttering to herself under her breath. lighting a blunt, burning the blunt, passing it to you, begging you to give it back after 3 seconds.

You were pretty sure you had gone through every single app on your phone five times already. Stalking rando’s on Instagram, watching ASMR tiktoks, talking shit with Dina in the groupchat. How much more of this boredom could you take? My god, you were humming a stupid melody to yourself.

“Griiiind boy you know I grind when I pull-“

“Shh”

Did Ellie just shush you?!

“Excuse me?” You said.

“I’m trying to concentrate. Also what the fuck is a Fartulum?” Ellie retorted, withdrawing slightly and punctuating her frustration with stomps on the floor. God, she was too fucking cute.

“Can I play on your phone?” You questioned innocently. One more opening and closing the same App and you’d have lost your damn mind. You could practically see the Candy Crush candies popping inside of your brain every time you closed your eyes.

“No” she answered bluntly.

“Why? you scared I’ll find your nudes? Not gonna look- Swear on my li-“

You could hear her eye rolling, somehow.

“I dont have fucking nudes” she affirmed with a touch of exasperation.

“Someone else’s?” you said quietly. Your tone almost exposed you. Almost.

“Psh… no” Ellie said in return, just as quiet. Her tone almost exposed her, too.

Wish I had yours. Shut it, Ellie.

“Then let me go on your phone” You whined, got off the bed and almost slipped on one of her belts that laid on the floor. So messy, so, so Ellie.

She cast a sidelong glance at you, her eyes darting from the corner of her vision. Her grip on the pen was incredibly tight. It happened every time you got near, got too close to her. Whether it was clutching the strings of her hoodie, her knuckles turning white with tension, or her toes curling in a clenched stance. Shed never ever admit it to herself, cool, calm & collected, but fuck did you make her nervous.

You settled yourself on the chair beside her, causing her to divert every ounce of her attention back to her assignment, shifting it solely onto you. You. You. You.

She gazed directly into your eyes, and a peculiar warmth flooded your face. Its funny how even after being friends for all this time, making eye contact with her managed to stir something within you. She asked you about it once, mid fight. “You never even look at me when we talk!” she huffed. “Yes I do!” no you dont. “No you don’t!” and when your lips quivered, turning you in, she left it at that.

Ellie scratched the back of her neck, her arms flexing subtly with the motion. You gave her that look, the look that made her cheeks go bright pink, her hands clam up. She bit her lip. “Fine”. You won, flashing her a toothy smile she couldn’t help but grin at.

And there you were, with Ellie’s iPhone 5C (Yeah, she never got that buying a new iPhone every 2 years phenomenon) laying on Ellie’s bed, in Ellie’s room.

“Ew - Ellie what the fuck? why is your screen greasy?!” You squirmed, fingertips grazing over her slightly sticky screen. Is that fucking chicken nuggets residue?

“Shut up, dude. You asked me for my phone so deal with the consequences”

Dude.

You rolled your eyes, proceeded to wipe the screen of her phone with the corner of her cozy flannel bedsheet. Her phone was really warm. One more month and it would probably set on fire.

“Password?” You questioned, and shifted to lay on your stomach, your cheek caressing the pillow. It had a little auburn colored hair laying on top of it.

Ellie huffed and waited a second before she responded, contemplating again. It’s harmless, fuck it.

“2222”

“Okay, seriously - you could get hacked with that dumbass password”

“Pffft” Ellie huffed. “I’d fucking beat them up if they tried robbing me” she said, ever the brave.

“I’m not… talking about robbers, Ellie. Like, hackers?”

“Same thing”

“You cant beat up hackers they’re- Nevermind” you sighed.

2222.

If the room was classic Ellie, god, so was her phone. Default Apple background, because she truly couldn’t be bothered. iMessage, Instagram with four pictures on her feed; One of her arm slightly flexing her tat (who the fuck was the bitch who commented “damn” under there?), one of a stray cat wearing her grey beanie, a meme that says “Fuck sex. Let’s do something romantic like play Fireboy and Watergirl on CoolMathGames.Com” (God, she thought she was so funny for that one. 6 Likes, one from you, one from Jesse, the fake Instagram account you and Dina created for Joel, her ex Cat, and one from Dina and a spam bot). Next to the Instagram laid the NASA app (of course), Call Of Duty for iPhone (Made her sleep for only fifteen minutes one night), calculator, 9GAG (People still use that?!), and… her gallery.

You pursed your lips, contemplating the situation. Should you?after all, Ellie said; No nudes. So what could possibly be on there?

Of course.

You couldn't contain a soft giggle that escaped your lips, earning an inquisitive whine from Ellie. "What's so funny?" she grumbled, unable to resist her curiosity.

“Said you were studying, so study” You said, while scrolling through her gallery.

As you readjusted your position on the bed, you unintentionally swiped to the left, revealing her albums. Just harmless browsing, right?

“Screenshots”

“Funny memes”

“Pics to send Jesse when he’s being stupid”

“Dhhdjsjsou”

“Stink ❤️”

A picture of you, laying on the grass, a bright, toothy smile spread across your face. It was from your Instagram, the one you deleted because you thought you looked dumb. The one Ellie commented a for once unsarcastic “Woah” on.

The album was locked.

You felt your throat go dry, heartbeat speeding up. Your leg started shaking, and God, you hoped she would come and snatch the phone off of your hand.

But she didn’t. She just shifted in her sit, cleared her throat and resumed her studies.

You shouldn’t have. But you did.

2222

Unlocked. Success!

You felt like screaming at the top of your lungs. Was it even hotter in here now? Extra humid today? you bit your lip, it almost hurt.

A picture of you and Dina. A selfie you sent to the groupchat two weeks ago. Ellie doodled a green heart on it. You were sweating. A picture of you on Christmas last year. That same day you had your stupid fight on. You were wearing a Santa hat, mug of hot Coco and tiny white marshmallows in your hand.

Your stomach felt as if it were infested by a swarm of Ellie looking butterfly’s.

A picture of you sound asleep, in Ellie’s bed. She was mid-moving a hair strand away from your face. It was blurry. You recognized that top.

You were wasted that day. Blabbering uncontrollably about how you had to crash on her bed, because you were scared your new roommate would think you’re stupid, and dumb, and an idiot, for getting drunk at a frat party.

You couldn’t understand why Ellie didn’t want to help you. You almost kicked her when she said she couldn’t, that you’d be better off in your bed. “I snore. And I kick in my sleep - Seriously” You almost cried. You called her a bad friend, a fake one, because — isn’t that what friends are for? Shouldn’t they have your back when you’re a babbling mess? Hold your hair for you, put you to sleep, take care of you?

Ellie couldn’t sleep that night.

When you laid there, right on her bed, her face went so red and hot you could fry something on it. She almost hit herself in the face when her chest grazed your back. When your leg caressed her’s, and ended up on top of her thigh, she almost screamed. When you shifted to face her, an angelic, sound asleep expression on your face, she swore she almost died. The string of your top came off, revealing more of your shoulder, and the strap of your bra, Ellie turned around so fast she almost woke you up.

She slept for 20 minutes.

When she woke up, she had to make herself remember it. Remember you, laying with her.

So she took a picture. An innocent one.

You almost jumped when the pen fell slipped from her hand and she turned around to face you.

“What are you doing?”

Whats in her notes app?

♡

part two

[erotetica]

Fuck Trump, here’s all the civil rights orgs I know:

(Most have education pages and/or socials to follow and boost if u can’t donate right now)

LGBTQ+

Trevor Project—queer crisis hotline/counseling (NOTE THAT THEY CALL POLICE IN CERTAIN SITUATIONS)

List of Crisis Hotlines/etc compiled by Inclusive Therapists .com which DON’T CALL POLICE

Point of Pride—helps trans folks having trouble accessing gender affirming healthcare

Trans Lifeline—community support/resources/financial aid for trans folks

REPRODUCTIVE RIGHTS

National Network of Abortion Funds—financial assistance/transport/childcare for people in ban states seeking abortions.

Brigid Alliance—same

Sister Song—reproductive justice for WOC

Indigenous Women Rising—helps Indigenous families access abortions/menstrual hygiene/midwifery/etc

Afiya Center—reproductive justice/HIV care for Black womxn in Texas

Abortion access orgs for Americans in the

Midwest

South

Appalachia (they also offer free emergency contraception/support services/etc)

RACIAL JUSTICE

NYU Law Center on Race Inequality—self-education resources on racism & antiblackness/how to contact elected officials/how to protest safely.

List of orgs protecting Black Americans, compiled by NYU (incl NAACP, Audre Lorde Project, BLM, Black Voters Matter, etc)

National Immigration Law Center—fighting for asylum seeking/DACA; helping immigrants access healthcare/worker’s rights/etc

American Civil Liberties Union—working on many intersectional initiatives

Southern Poverty Law Center—same

GLOBAL AID (While we Americans wait for shoes to start dropping, let’s not forget others in need, and that Trump’s atrocious foreign policies will affect everyone!)

World Central Kitchen—hunger relief

Action Against Hunger—same

War Child—supports and educates children in conflict zones, like Yemen and DRC

Medecins Sans Frontieres— medical aid

Islamic Relief USA—emergency aid

PALESTINIAN AID

Palestine Children’s Relief Fund— medical aid for kids

Anera— emergency relief & long-term development resources for Palestine, Lebanon, Jordan

United Nations Relief and Works Agency—aid for Palestinian refugees in Lebanon/Syria/West Bank/Gaza/Jordan

Palestine Red Crescent Society—medical aid

SUDANESE AID

List of humanitarian orgs working in Sudan, compiled by 500 Words Magazine

CONGOLESE AID

Panzi Foundation—supports assault survivors & their families

Eastern Congo Initiative—supports ands funds local/community-based Congolese efforts

Please reblog, & add any legitimate humanitarian organizations you know of! I love all of you!!

[oneslimybastard]

Another underutilized aspect of N, Natural Harmonia Gropius himself, is that he's conceptualized as not just a Math Guy, but a Math Genius if we go by some interview trivia notated on Bulbapedia.

It clearly shows in the way he speaks since his (translated) dialogue (idk about the original japanese one) is full of hamfisted references to formulas and frustration expressed when the chaos of the world does not align with them — which to me is like, the core of his character, something that makes him both An Asshole to deal with but also a very intellectually curios and creative individual. It's just a brand of creativity not a lot of people can keep up with nor understand.

N likes math because a lot of math is about clearly defined variables and their relationship to one another. If you come across an inconsistency that doesn't fit any prior definitions, you iron out a new definition and suddenly the field has expanded upon itself tenfold. It aligns with how his Very Autistic Brain functions, x + y = z, if I do x to y then z will happen. If z doesn't happen, then that just means I have to identify the hidden variables within the exchange and rewrite the formula to be more accurate.

Black and White's quality of writing is. Like pokémon often is. Questionable at best. The foundations are there but the execution is dumbed down and corny because it's still aimed at kids, BW in specific really cutting the theme of pokémon trainer ethics short in favor of just "dang u beat me in the pogiebattle guess ur right!". How-ev-er. In my head, and the reason why I still find the plot of those games compelling (aside for my unhinged thirst for goth man-milf Ghetsis) is that to me they're about local cult-raised autist Normal Henry Gropus bashing his head against the world over and over to desperately try and make the formulas make sense, to distill it into variables he can understand and predict on a consistent basis, and failing miserably at it. Because even if the world is Technically made up of a bunch of chemistry that you could, in theory, predict, there's just a lot of random noise in there from microscopic complexities that fuck everything up.

Pokémon are simpler creatures (discounting the eerily intelligent ones) who will be nice enough to behave like math problems most of the time. Humans rarely extend that grace, the more N studies them like a science project the more contradictory variables pop up. They have a million thoughts in their head he doesn't have access to, that brew into feelings he doesn't understand, which leads to actions he can't do a proper traceback through. Which is frustrating, devastatingly frustrating. At least at first.

Due to how BW2 pans out and my own yearning for thematic mirroring, whereas Ghetsis gives in to the Autistic Bitterness over all these NTs he doesn't fuckign understand, I like to think N develops a sort of joy in studying people like the impossibly complex math problems we are. Because he likes math, he likes figuring shit out, he likes buying a nightmare rubik's cube and charting the squares out on a nightmare variable graph (listen i am not a math guy. i respect the hustle but my skill level is too low to accurately attempt to simulate the process in writing. im sorry math guys) so he has a home-made flexible cheat code on how to solve any possible mix-up of it. It's fun for him, it stimulates his brain and he is so stupid good at it that he can only share that joy with like a stray alakazam or metagross because he's a bit of a tarzan just hanging out in the wilderness, he doesn't know any high end mathematicians he can casually geek out about combinatorial game theory with, and the normies just do not get it .

I think this math enjoying is kind of a big part of his ~Innocence~ as well, since there's a lot of childlike glee to being a Math Guy. It's the love of problem solving as a process rather than a means to an end, it's playful, but severely misunderstood to the point where people kinda might assume things about you if you are a math guy.

N's love of math helps him love the world but it also isolates him. He's a genius, but since he can't communicate it in a palatable way it'll get overlooked in favor of him just being a loomy weirdo on the street chatting up the local patrats.

If introduced to DnD though he'd spend so much time on forging ridiculously optimized multiclass builds, then migrate to digging through old obscure sci-fi ttrpgs from the 80s with hellishly complex systems just for the funsies of learning how the presented variables behave within a variety of frameworks, but then if you actually invited him to play with your group he'd look at you like you'd just called his mom a llama.

He's a neat guy to me, STEM guy who's also one of those animal rights activists who's a little too PETA-coded, I like him :)

[allicat0]

hi there! i absolutely loved ur other fan fic even tho i didn’t know the character. made my pussy throb. anywho 😊 just seeing if u are able to write a gojo x reader, perhaps him being older ( older brothers bsf, teacher, etc. ) i also would love to see some discreet public sexy time. ( classroom, movie theatre, pool… i love fucking hot tubs and pools…) thank you so much!😜✌️🎀

Our little secret

Ans: thank you so much for the support, and of course! I’m so excited to write my take on Gojo! Hope you like it!!

Summary: University au! You're working along side your thesis advisor Gojo in hopes to working closer to your ambitions for the future. But being a university student, costs are high and money is low. So to be able to keep up with your school you have a little gig on the side.

Content: MDNI, 18+, abaf reader, smut, forced proximity, dubcon, oral, penetrative sex, domination, degradation, praise, making out, rough sex, oral sex, penetrative sex, teacher/student relations, dominant Gojo, submissive reader

A/N: I apologize if not all of my historical information its 100% correct, I did do a little research for it to make as much sense as I could. I also apologize for any word vomited, grammar, or punctuation errors. I was up till 2am writing. but hope you enjoy!

You had been given the opportunity to have Satoru Gojo, head professor of the History department as your Thesis advisor. It was all still a little unreal to you, but you couldn't be more grateful. You have spent countless hours with one another, early mornings and late nights, doing your best to progress with your latest research proposal.  “The Villa of the Papyri” you said, placing your stack of papers down onto Gojos desk. “Now that surely is a pretty big project your-” He began to reply before you quickly cut him off “I understand it’s a lot, and that most of the contents inside got destroyed but there are over two thousand lost scrolls that reside inside that structure. There could be so many answers about the lost city of Herculaneum that those scrolls could contain!” Your look was genuine. . and so full of hope that he just couldn't say no. 

As weeks passed, you still had no leads. Weeks turned into, months, and months turned into a year, endlessly working alongside Gojo. Despite your research not flourishing as much as you had hoped, your relationship with your professor grew more than you expected. It didn’t feel like work, it was tolerable to be around eachother, it didn’t feel like he had some weird authority complex over you, you were comfortable, you couldn’t help but admit to yourself some feeling for your professor began to form and you wished nothing would come in between that. .until something did.

Being a university student, especially in the department you're in, funds are high and since you were usually busy researching all day, you had a hard time getting a stable job that worked around your harsh schedule. The school did pay you money to go through with this research but it was barely enough to buy you a loaf of bread and toilet paper. You needed money to survive and things were getting a little tight, so you thought working at your local club didn’t sound like a horrible idea. . as a dancer. 

Zafrio, is one of the more popular clubs in the area, but they worked well around your schedule, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays every week. The pay was beautiful, every penny you made on that stage was yours to keep, on top of that you also got your bi-weekly pay which 10% of it went through tip - out to the servers, but you weren’t complaining. On average you made at least four hundred dollars a night, but on good days you would rack up closer to a thousand. 

Tonight was your Saturday shift, the busier one out of the three. As you were getting ready backstage a familiar face walked into the club, the club was packed full of people, he made his way through the crowd, brushing past people shoulder to shoulder, getting closer to the main stage. Now he didn’t come here often but when he did, it was every Saturday at eleven, to see you and only you perform. He used having a large crowd to his advantage as he was often hidden, so you seeing him was never a concern of his. How he found out about your little side job was not intentional, he just happened to stumble into the club with some of his friends one night, and there you were working. Gojo was beyond intrigued, so ever since that day he’d been coming to watch you perform, he didn’t know why he came back, but all he knew was that he started thinking of you in ways he’d never dare think of before. 

Your stage name gets called and there you are, walking out onto the stage over to the pole, beginning your number for the whole club. Cheers filled your ears, watching the money fall onto the stage, the serotonin that pumped through your body was unbelievable and he watched, every. Last. second. His eyes never leaving you or your body. The way your hips sway to the music, it was like he was in a trance. 

As you finish your number your eyes fall out to the crowd, adjusting from the bright stage lights shining up at you. You start to strut off and out the corner of your eye, you see. . no it couldn’t be. What was he doing here?? Your heart rate began to pick up. What was your professor doing here?! You quickly rushed the rest of the off stage. Did he just see you perform? Your mind was rushing at a million miles a second. 

You arrived backstage and looked in the mirror, your mind began to spiral and your heart picked up its pace, that was totally him, there was no denying it. “Is everything alright?” one of your fellow dancers came over to see if you were okay as they noticed you were panicking. “Yah.  .yah i'm fine” you said to put your clothes on and packed all your belongings. “Something came up and I really need to go, please let the boss know I’m sorry.” You knew all of the money you got from that dance would be taken care of by your boss, and were quick to leave, walking out to your car and heading home. 

Monday finally rolled around and you were on your way to Gojos' office to start work. If it were any other day you would be eager to get back to work after a weekend break, but today wasn’t any other day. The events of Saturday night still loomed in the back of your mind, you didn’t want to admit it but you were scared to face Gojo, how were you supposed to just act normal after that night?!

You opened the door to the office and plastered a smile onto your face and there he was sitting at his desk. “Good morning professor.” you said, making your way into the room, closing the door behind you. “Good morning, how was your weekend?” he asked, his eyebrow slightly arching with the question. You felt a lump form in your throat forcing it down before speaking. “Ah, it was quite relaxing,” you said trying to cut the conversation. “I'm surprised, you spend your weekends working do you not?” his head tilted ever so slightly, a smirk forming in the corner of his lips. He knew what he was doing and he knew you saw him that night. 

You froze in place for just a moment, “i'm not sure I know what you mean” Gojo looked at you right in your eyes, leaning forward so his elbows were resting on his knees. “I think you and I both know what I mean” your breath hitched, there was no going back, there was no avoiding this. You watched as Gojo sat up from his chair and made his way around his desk. Leaning against this chair and resting his ass against it he crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well. . am I wrong?” This was it, your career was over, there was no way you would be able to recover from something like this, you knew the risks and yet you still took the chance, now look where it got you. 

You could feel yourself trying to choke but in the coming years, you were trying your best to keep yourself together. “Now you know there's no reason to lie to me. .” Gojo pushed himself off the desk and made his way towards you, your eyes never leaving him. He walked behind you, leaving your sight, but you could feel him looming over you. “Professor look, moneys been low and.” his hot breath suddenly hit against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” His words were soft. 

Your shoulders tensed as he placed his hands on them “Is this okay? Can I touch you here?” Gojo let out softly once more, you simply nodded your head being speechless. His hands began travelling down stopping right at your hips. “You know. .I have a confession of my own. Ever since I found out about your secret endeavours. . I haven’t been able to stop going back. . I can’t stop thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t.” He choked out, Gojo was doing his absolute best to keep himself at bay. 

“Really?” you said, sounding surprised, his words were making your stomach flutter. As much as you wanted to deny this as wrong and unprofessional there was a recurring curious thought that wanted to find out more, what exactly was he thinking. “The thought drives me crazy” the hold he had on your hips gets tighter, but you move away from his grip, turning around to face him. His eyes were drawing you in like never before, you couldn’t describe it, but his gaze was full of pure lust. 

You bit down on your lips, you were unsure what to do, act professional or. . no what were you thinking! “Darling,” Gojo said, snapping you out of your thoughts. His hands coming up and cupping your face, his thumb trailing softly against your cheek. “Gojo I. .” You stood there speechless. “This is unprofessional.” You try to centre your thoughts “I think we’re long past that.” he said his hand never leaving your cheek. His face leaned down his lips inches from yours “if you want me to stop then tell me, I want you to be okay with this” you looked up at him through your lashes nodding your head ever so slightly. “Please. .don’t stop” you let out quietly just enough for him to hear you. 

Next thing you know you felt Gojo’s lips press against yours, lips moulding with one another. His kiss was delicate, but carried so much passion and lust behind every movement. Your mind continued to spiral at every given minute, but you didn’t want to stop, you wanted more. Gojo’s hands travelled down before taking your ass in his hands giving it a squeeze as he continued to kiss you. 

His tongue slipped past your lips and moved with yours, but it didn’t last long as he was quick to pull away to catch a breath. His head moved to your neck planting firm kisses against your neck as his hands made their way up your shirt, cupping your breast in the process massaging them as he continued to place his markings down your neck. “You’re fucking gorgeous” his voice was breathy, against your skin.

Gojo guided you over to his desk, turning you around to your back facing him. His hands lingered at the hem of your pants, thinking for a moment before he pulled both your pants and underwear down revealing your slick pussy. Gojo went down onto his knees to get a better view, his hand trailing up and down pushing in between your folds, slowly sticking his middle and ring finger deep into your pussy, causing a moan to escape your lips. “What if someone hears us?” you asked nervously. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you slowly watching how your pussy swallowed his fingers “let them” he said. 

The speed of his fingers began to pick up the pace causing soft moans to escape through the seam of your lips. Gojo pulled his fingers out of you, spreading your legs open enough to lodge his head in between your thighs, dragging his tongue against your pussy. As you lay there leaning over his desk, gasping for breath, Gojo tasted every inch of you, savouring the sweetness of your flesh, he knew exactly where to touch, how to caress, driving you further into the realm of ecstasy. Your hips would involuntarily push back into him as he lapped his tongue over your clit, exploring every curve and crevice, bringing you to the edge of climax. It was almost painful, the anticipation and desire building within you, but you wouldn't trade this exquisite torture for anything else. 

As you were nearing release Gojo pulled away standing up, quickly unbuckling his pants to unveil his already hard twitching cock eager to pound into you. He held the base of his cock, dragging the tip in between your wet folds, before slowly pushing himself into you, causing a groan to escape from the back of his throat. His hands grabbing onto your hips, he began to slowly move his hips watching your pussy swallow his cock. “You feel so fucking good” he said as he began to pick up the pace. Your hand moved up to your mouth blocking out the moans leaving your lips, doing your very best to stay quiet enough so others wouldn’t hear your lewd sounds. Gojo’s thrusts became rough, his hand releasing your hip entangling his fingers through your hair tugging on it as he pounded into you. “You’re such a good girl, taking me so well”. 

As Gojo continued to thrust deep into you, you felt yourself coming closer to the edge once again, the knot building up in your stomach from him constantly hitting your G-spot. Your free hand moved down in between your legs and moved rapidly against your clit. “ you gonna cum on my cock baby?” He asked you, smirking down at you, how he enjoyed the sight. You let out a moan as your legs do their best to hold themselves up through your orgasm, Gojo was close, you could feel his cock pulsating inside of you. His thrust was becoming sloppy and out of rhythm. With a few more thrusts he quickly pulled out of you, his hot cum hitting against your back “fuck” he said out of breath looking down at the mess he made, but god it was fucking hot.

His body pressed up against your own, planting a soft kiss against your shoulder. Moving the hair away from your neck and planting them slowly against your neck as well, he let out a light groan, the vibration of his hot breath against your skin made you shiver. “Let's get you cleaned up baby” Gojo said, going back to his cocky smug voice once again. “Oh and. .lets keep this our little secret alright?”

@allicat0 signing off. .

[harlotofupdog]

The Serpent and Thistle - Chapter Three

Hey, check out this dumb wonker harlot who can't even finish a picture in time to post, but here, have a lil sneak peek small version because who finishes stuff anyway? That would be weird and I am demonstrably not weird. Anyway, here's chapter 3 of pubby pubby jizzy jizz.

Summary: Aziraphale is a Met officer who transfers to a small village police station. Crowley is the local publican. They don't see eye to eye.

There is also a plot. I hope.

Rating: E (E for Eventually)

CW/TW: I'm going to add a content warning here now rather than later, just so people are aware - there will be a couple of briefly mentioned deaths in later chapters of this story, but none of them are any of the characters that we know (including animals, of course). It is, in part, a cop story, so there will be a couple of slightly grim allusions, but we're not going into anything too rough in the story itself. I'll do specific CW/TW tags before the chapters in question, but I just wanted to foreshadow that now.

Special eternal thanks to u/Paperclip_Ninja who did an EXTRA SPECIAL last minute beta this weekend for me because I'm useless and hopeless. Thank you always sun-ox.

Excerpty boi:

Aziraphale looks up to where the vicar is pointing out the culprit, perched neatly atop the belfry. Harry, of course, does not look up. He is investigating the vicar’s trouser leg with benign interest, while PC Muriel Constable squints first at their notepad, and then at the church roof, as if the sum they were quite sure of does not add up in the end.

“I’m sure you’re very busy, officers—aren’t we all? But I thought I really should report it. You never know with these things,” says Vicar Brown cheerfully. He seems a nice enough man, although he stands just a little too close and is perhaps a little over familiar. As if to reinforce the point, the vicar claps a chummy hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and leaves it there, fingers flexing slightly against the wool. It’s the sort of thing that would warrant a hand on his baton if he were walking the beat in south London. Here, though, it just makes him wince.

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Seven: All Dressed Up @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // Part One // Part Two // AO3

Doesn’t fit in with today’s prompt, but, I did finish this story one year later so...I think that counts for something.

Warnings: nothing major, ~3.5k words

The Words We Share--Part Three

Rowan Whitethorn grew up on the stories of his homeland.  Little myths and legends that fueled his imagination since he was a child.  It hadn’t taken him long to learn how to create his own stories, how to twist tales and give a voice to his musings.  He just never thought it would get him to where he was now.

He stared at the projected numbers for his new release, already there had been two calls for reorders and the official publication date was still a month out.  It was set to be his biggest release yet.

And still he felt…unsettled.

If that was even the right word.  He could spin a villain’s origin story that could chill anyone’s blood.  He could paint the Scotland highlands with vivid accuracy and enchanting detail.  He’d won awards and been featured on dozens of sites and bestsellers lists.  He’d even been offered an adjunct professor position at the local state college to teach creative writing.  But he couldn’t put a name to this emotion roiling through his chest.

Nothing came.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text on the table beside him and Lorcan’s name flashed on the screen.

>>u see this?

A link to the comment section on a website followed.  Aelin’s website.

Rowan’s stomach dropped as his thumb hovered over the link.  He tried to imagine just what he was getting himself into.  He’d experienced his share of feedback in the form of book reviews and he’d seen plenty of other comments from other shows he’d been a part of.  But this…this felt different.

He clicked the link before he could second guess himself.  And he opened himself up to hell.

It ranged from the usual notes from his fans, those that kept up with his books and how he wrote.  And then he found the comments from Aelin’s fans.  Which was where he found the crazies.  The TikTokers, the influencers, the people who absolutely devoured any form of content with their theories, their headcanons, their passions.  Rowan never begrudged a person their hobby, in fact, he encouraged finding something that brought you joy.  But this…this…

xxgalaCREWfan99xx: ok but was no one going to tell me ROWAN WHITETHORN HAD A SEXY VOICE?? Do I have to change my reading habits now??

Readingbaebe: Does he write romance at all?? I refuse to read anything else.

TheMidnightBookClub: to much historyyyy YAWN

BOOKS4LIFE: but y wuz there banter so on point?? Talk about sxxxyy!

Letsreeeeead: @BOOKS4LIFE: I KNOW RIIIIGHT? Tlk abt meet cute??

Jdashbywriter: would love to hear more of your craft Rowan! Thanks for your books.

Some of the commentors were not as crazy as others.  There was a reason he refused to get a TikTok account no matter what Dorian tried to tell him it would do for his sales.  And there was a reason he’d hired an assistant so he didn’t have to deal with any of this.

He reached for his phone, fully prepared to call Aelin and see if she’d seen any of this.  He stopped himself.  He couldn’t let himself do that.  Not after everything that had happened.

Just as he pulled his hand back from his phone, the screen lit up.  His heart made an uncomfortable leap until he saw the name.

“What, Fen?” he demanded.

“Dude, I didn’t know you were dating Galathynius,” Fenrys said from the other line. “Congrats!”

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop reading random comments on the internet.”

“But they’re so entertaining!  Probably doing my job better than I can,” Fenrys replied.

Indeed, Rowan had made the remarkably stupid decision to let Fenrys be his media manager.  It wasn’t that Fenrys couldn’t do a job properly or was stupid himself (an idiot, sure, but that was different) he could.  It was only that Fenrys had a different vision for just about everything when it came to his books.

“Please don’t let the TikTok win,” Rowan said.

“It’s just TikTok,” Fenrys said.

Rowan cursed. “I hate you.”

“I’m just saying,” Fenrys continued, utterly unaffected by Rowan’s disdain, “you’re getting more hits on your recent Instagram reels and followers.  This whole thing will be good for you.”

Rowan wasn’t sure about that. “Is that the only reason you called?”

There was a pause from Fenrys and Rowan felt a distinct rise in dread.  Nothing good came from a silence like that.

“Remelle St. Moore wants you on her podcast,” Fenrys said, the words coming out in rapid fire.

“Oh for shits-sake,” Rowan muttered, “no.”

He remembered the last time he had interacted with the book influencer at a launch party for one of his fellow writers.  Between the alcohol and suggestive comments on her part, he’d barely made it out alive.  Really, it was because of that experience he preferred to keep to his own group of fans, or too himself.

“That’s what I thought you’d say, but she’s got a lot of viewers,” Fenrys said.

“Which is why I agreed to the podcast with Aelin,” Rowan groused, “at least she didn’t try and grope me at a party.”

“No, you just tried to play hero and save her from being stood up.” Rowan could practically hear the grin growing on his friend’s face. “Which must have worked out really good for you based on some of these comments.”

“I’m hanging up,” Rowan said, “no more podcasts.  Or interviews.”

“What if Aelin’s the one asking?”

He hung up before answering.

Leaning back in his office chair, he tried to ignore what Fenrys had said.  Especially the bits about him and Aelin.  He knew that nothing had happened between the two of them.  And nothing ever would.  He’d known it even before he stepped in to help Aelin save face after being stood up.  That hadn’t stopped him from stepping in though. 

He didn’t know what had come over him that night at the restaurant, only that he couldn’t believe someone had stood her up.  He hadn’t known it was her, at first.  Only that Lorcan and Fenrys were commenting on the fact a woman was dining alone and they were taking bets on what she would do.  When he had finally grown tired of their antics, he’d turned to find Aelin swirling a glass of water in her hand looking utterly dejected.

It was a far cry from the Aelin he’d gotten to know over the years.  Headstrong and stubborn, wild and untamed, charismatic and independent.  Something had shifted over the last eight months, though.  He’d been sure to keep his distance, relying on the illusion of finishing his book.  It was mostly a lie.  His book was going along well, remarkable even.  But then Aelin had gotten a boyfriend.  And from the sounds of it, it had been everything she’d wanted.

Pining after women had never been something Rowan did, but after Aelin and Sam had gotten together it felt like that was all anyone ever talked about at the office.  The only response Rowan could think was to take his work elsewhere.  He went back to Scotland to visit his mother, he travelled the continental U.S. He did everything in his power to put some much needed distance between him and Aelin Galathynius.

Which did absolutely nothing.

She had already wormed his way into his manuscript.  And like a fool, he’d insisted she read it.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised she never caught on to his rather blatant illusions.  She didn’t like him, made it clear.  Which was another reason his stepping in at the restaurant was psychotic. 

But she was Aelin and there was something about her that he couldn’t ignore or let go.  And seeing Sam stand her up?  Hell, it made him angry.  And Rowan didn’t even know Sam.

Rowan shook his head and shut down his computer.  He was being foolish.  On so many different levels.

He knew he wasn’t going to get any writing done.  Instead, he grabbed his jacket, keys, and wallet.  He needed to get out of his apartment even if he didn’t have a destination in mind.

.*.

The manuscript stared innocently up at her.  The Times New Roman font was evenly spaced, paper fresh and crisp from the office printer.  She’d used Dorian’s own code to print all these pages out so no one would trace the mass printing back to her.  Technically she shouldn’t have done this.  It was a lot of paper and she wasn’t even on the editorial team for this author.

But Aelin never did like listening to rules.

I thought it was obvious.

Rowan’s words from earlier that afternoon rang in her head.  They bounced around in a relentless beat and refused to be dismissed.  Because they meant one thing and one thing alone: she had missed something while reading his book.  And she didn’t miss things.

So, red pen in hand, fresh coffee on her desk, and a newly printed manuscript before her—Aelin set to work.

Just like with the first time reading Dead Man’s Game, she was drawn into the world immediately.  The setting, the characters, the subtle tones of magic all worked to create a plot that gripped her by the throat.

During this reread, Aelin focused more on Celaena.  Celaena who was reckless and selfish.  Celaena who put her life on the line too many times.  Celaena who loved fiercely and didn’t let anyone hold her back.  Celaena who killed witches and broke curses. 

She stopped reading somewhere around chapter five when something started to prick the back of her mind.  Something she’d tried desperately to stamp down all these years.  Even the past few months.

Though, it had been easier as of late because Rowan had disappeared into whatever writers’ nook he had.  That night at the restaurant had been one of the first times she’d seen him since learning about his new book.

She took a long drink of coffee before she fired a text off to Elide.  She needed someone to rant to about this because she had no idea what was going on or how to put into words what she was feeling.

When her phone rang a few minutes later, she picked it up on instinct. 

“Elide, did you see what I sent you?” she demanded, still staring at the cliff hanger of chapter five.

Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t her friend on the other line.  It was Sam.

“Aelin.”  He sounded relieved, which only made her blood pressure boil. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, baby.”

Aelin glanced at the Caller ID.  He must have gotten a burner phone and she’d been too distracted to make sure she knew the number.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.  “I broke up with you, end of story.”

“You didn’t even let me explain—”

“Explain what, Sam?” Aelin demanded.  All the pent-up anger she’d been trying to ignore and push aside rose too quickly to the surface. “That you stood me up again without bothering to try and call, hell, even text me?  Instead, I was left alone. Again.”

The anger burned away the tears she might have shed.  He didn’t deserve her tears; he didn’t deserve anything from her.

“You’re blaming me?” Sam scoffed. “I have a job, Aelin.  I’m a lawyer, I don’t get to sit around all day reading books—”

“Lose my number, Sam,” she said, eyes squeezed shut, “or I swear I’ll give your lawyer ass something to work over.”

She ended the call before flinging her phone across her office where it clattered against the wall.  The pain that ripped through her chest was more than just anger, but sorrow and pain.  She’d wasted so much time over Sam that coming out of it she felt like she was drowning.  She was barely treading water, she was—

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

Aelin nearly jumped out of her skin at the deep, careful voice coming from the doorway.  She spun in her chair, nearly careening out of it at the force, and found Rowan standing there.  How much had he heard?  How would he laud this over her head?  Did he judge her at all for the things she’d said?

“Rowan,” she said, far softer than she meant to.  Her skin was blazing over the phone call with Sam and she felt the flush deep in her cheeks, horrified that she was actually on the verge of crying now.

He jerked his chin over to where she’d tossed her phone. “Bad call?”

Aelin huffed a breath. “Sure, if you wanna call it that.”

Rowan stepped into her office, slow and careful as though he expected her to toss him back out.  He was dressed far more casual than Aelin had ever seen him.  With a pair of dark washed jeans and gray sweater, plain leather jacket—he seemed relaxed and at ease.  Not at all how she’d imagined him on a regular week day.

And then, because he seemed to know her so well, he made another comment. “Your boyfriend really seems like a keeper.”

“Not my boyfriend, not anymore.” Aelin didn’t look at him as she grabbed her coffee.  It was shocking how good it felt saying the words, like a weight was lifted off her chest. “Just doing some late-night reading, right now.”

Rowan frowned glancing at the manuscript.  The title page was tossed to the side so it was obvious what book it was.

“You already gave me your edits,” he said.

“Yeah, but I thought I was missing something.”  She shrugged and set the coffee aside.  “What about you?  Why bother coming here?”

Rowan ran a hand through his hair, messing the easy style it had settled into.  He didn’t answer her question immediately, choosing instead to fall into one of the chairs before her desk.  The movement was so easy, as though he’d practiced it a hundred times, as though he belonged right in that chair.

“Did you see those comments on the podcast?”

Aelin’s brow furrowed.  Then, startling not just him, but her too—she laughed. “Oh, Whitethorn, you don’t actually read those comments.  Those people are insane.”

“A warning might have been nice,” he grumbled.

Another laugh tore through her, dispelling the sick feeling roiling in her gut. “Oh, poor little buzzard.  Are you traumatized?”

“Yes.”

Dissolving into another fit of giggles, Aelin clutched her stomach.  She couldn’t catch her breath as she kept laughing.  It didn’t help how affronted Rowan look, how confused.  It was…it was actually cute.  Not that she’d tell him that.

“What’s the madhouse got to say this time?” she asked once she’d gotten a hold of herself.  She also reached for one of her desk drawers and pulled out a bag of chocolate she only saved for rainy days.  She popped a truffle in her mouth and shook the bag at him.

Rowan declined the chocolate.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re blushing,” she said, leaning towards him. “Oh, I’ve got to see these.”

“I’m not—no—” he tried protesting but Aelin was already motivated to see what had gotten him so riled up.

It didn’t take long to get the gist of what he’d gotten so riled up over.

“Oh, these people need to touch some grass,” Aelin muttered.  Many of the insinuations and comments were…out there.  Far worse than when she’d interviewed an audiobook narrator known for his smut and spice scenes.  And that was saying something. 

“You deal with this a lot?” Rowan asked.

Aelin looked at him. “And you don’t?”

“Fenrys filters a lot of them,” Rowan said absently, he paused just a second. “You think I get a lot of these types of comments?”

“I—” Aelin only then realized what her comment sounded like. “You’re a famous author, the crazies exist everywhere.”

She fought down the heat rising in her cheeks while Rowan only smirked.

“That’s it?” she asked, tightly, “you wanted to compare notes on comments?  You could have called.”

“Seeing what you do to your phone, I don’t think the call would have gone through.”  He met her gaze, green eyes intent.

Hell.  He must have heard more of that phone call than she’d have liked.

“Yeah,” she said dryly, “I guess I don’t like phone calls.”

They sat in silence together for far longer than Aelin would have thought possible.  She couldn’t help but shake her head at the fact.  Drawing a finger over the last few lines she’d read of Rowan’s manuscript; she snatched another truffle.

“So,” she said, “can I ask you something?”

Rowan raised a brow. “As long as it’s not gonna make it on another podcast.”

She rolled her eyes. “No need to fear, buzzard.  This is off the record. It’s about Celaena.”

Rowan shifted in his chair. “Why?”

Was he annoyed?  She couldn’t quite tell.  He wore a frown, that charming shit-eating grin long gone.  It was replaced by something guarded.

Aelin drummed her fingers on the manuscript, wetting her dry lips. “She’s based on someone close to you.”

“Close enough,” he shrugged, but Aelin had long ago learned how to read people.  He was tense, worried. 

“Does she know?  The woman she’s based off of?” With far more bravado than she felt, Aelin rose from her chair and came around the table.  She leaned against the desk, facing him, and crossed her arms.

“Aelin—”

“Or is she just supposed to figure it out along the way?”

She wasn’t mad, really, she wasn’t.  More, shocked than anything.

“To whatever end,” Celaena said, pointing the sword to the horizon where the ship holding her captive lover could be seen retreating. “I will find you.”

And Aelin remembered the last time she’d reviewed Rowan’s book.  Where she’d told him to raise the stakes, to let his characters face the unspeakable, to let them be reckless, to let them love.  And here was Celaena.  It wasn’t just that, but Aelin had shared those exact words with Rowan. That had been eight months ago.

Romance, Whitethorn, should be consuming for a character.  Let them have a purpose, let them have a duty to fulfill, to whatever end.

“To whatever end, Rowan?” she asked.

“I’m not allowed to find inspiration in real things or people?” He was still sitting, looking up at her the almost perfect picture of innocence.

She nudged his foot with her own. “Rowan.”

“Why does it matter?” he insisted.  He rose from his chair and it struck Aelin then how big Rowan was.  He was practically a tree—broad shoulders, thick muscles, at least six feet, probably six-four.  Aelin had never really felt small before, delicate, or breakable.  But next to Rowan? 

She lifted her chin to meet his gaze.  She didn’t want to hedge around this question, this tension brewing between them anymore.  She would wait out his answer no matter how long it took.

Rowan leaned closer to her, close enough that Aelin could smell the pine and salt on his skin.  He was close enough that she could see the flecks of deeper green amid the light in his eyes.

Her heart rate picked up.  It would have been embarrassing if she thought about it a little more.  But now, all she wanted was for Rowan to answer her.

He shook his head, just barely, and muttered something under his breath.  It was something in Gaelic if she had to guess.

“You really don’t get it,” he said.

“I want to hear you say it,” she insisted.

“You really are impossible, you know?”

“So I’ve read.”

A small smile quirked his lips and before Aelin could say anything else, he reached out to run a thumb down her jaw.  A shiver ran down her spine with anticipation. 

“I like you, Aelin,” he said, thumb still tracing her skin, “and I have for a while.”

Something clicked in her mind at those words, an understanding of sorts and she furrowed her brow.

“Is that why you disappeared for seven months?  You were here practically every day and then you just weren’t—” she trailed off slowly as the pieces fit together. “Sam.”

Rowan shrugged as though her words had no effect on him, but she felt the barest hint of pressure as his fingers tightened along her jaw.

“I had a manuscript to finish,” he said, “didn’t help that you hated me and then you were happy with someone else.  So, yeah, I left.”

As if on instinct, Aelin reached out and fisted a hand in his sweater.  Somehow in the last twenty-four hours since the podcast, the last week since the pseudo-date—she’d gotten attached.  Which was both hilarious and terrifying.  But was she surprised?  No, no, she really wasn’t.

“I was going to tease you for writing romance into your book,” she began, head tilted to the side, “but I think being the brilliant inspiration behind Celaena will be a lot more fun to hold over you.”

Rowan cursed, shaking his head. “I’m never going to live it down, am I?”

“Nope.”

They moved at the same time, coming together in a kiss that Aelin would later describe as the best first kiss she’d ever had.  One of Rowan’s hands delved into her hair, the other dropping to her waist to pull her closer.  Aelin wrapped one hand around his neck, just as desperate to keep him close. 

His lips were hard, bruising against her own, but Aelin couldn't find it in herself to care. All she could think about was the fire burning within at the feel of him, the taste of him.

“You gonna take me on a date first, Whitethorn?” she gasped, breaking the kiss.  She shivered as on of his hands slid along the bare skin of her thigh. Wearing a skirt did seem to have its perks.

“Already did that,” he replied.

She gaped at him, ready to tell him off. He cut her off with another kiss, which Aelin supposed was just as well.

In the end, no one would get the real story about what really happened that night or how it happened.  But maybe, along the way, a future book would hold some of the details.

end.

[matan4il]

Hello. This is a rather mundane question considering all the things, but I got curious. Does Hebrew have accents? How do they vary in and out of Israel?

I understand if you choose not to reply as this is a difficult time for you. In any case, take care🩷🩷🩷

Hi Nonnie! No, don't worry, all questions that are truly interested in Jewish culture are welcome! ^u^

TBH, something to remember about Hebrew is that it has quite a unique history. To the best of my knowledge, it is the only language that was used on a daily basis as the lived in language of a native population, then "died" as a result of Jews being exiled. As they found themselves in other countries, they had to speak the local language. They didn't abandon Hebrew, but it stopped being the langauge in which they lived their daily lives. Hebrew became the language of prayer, of scripture study, and terms from it bled into the local languages Jews spoke, creating Jewish versions of these languages (Yiddish being the Jewish version of German, Ladino being the Jewish version of Spanish, Yevanik being the Jewish version of Greek, and there are also Jewish versions of Arabic and other languages, too), so Hebrew still had an impact on Jews, and they were still connected to it... but it was no longer a "living" language. It was closer to what Latin is today. A language in which religious ceremonies are conducted, that theologians study, but not a language that anyone conducts their daily life in.

Then, as a part of the project of reclaiming and reviving the Jewish native life in Israel that came to be known as Zionism, people set out to revive our native language, too. There was a realization that it had to be adapted to modern life, give it terms for things that didn't exist 2,000 years ago, so it would be useful for people who wanted to conduct their daily lives in Hebrew again. And that's how the last of the Canaanite languages became the only "dead" language to be revived, and return to be the lived in language of its native people.

I mention this unique history, because modern Hebrew isn't the same as biblical Hebrew (though about 60% of modern Hebrew IS biblical). It means if there were different Hebrew accents during biblical times, we don't know it for sure.

At the same time, the fact that Jews were spread out in the diaspora, and their pronunciation of Hebrew (as a dead language) came to be influenced by the local languages they spoke while in exile. So a Jew who returned to Israel from the diaspora in Germany, a Jew who returned to Israel from the diaspora in Argentina, and a Jew who returned to Israel from the diaspora in Yemen do not have the same accent when speaking Hebrew.

But these are not considered regional accents of Hebrew in the same way that you can find different regional accents of English when traveling across England... If we put aside the accents of Jews returning to Israel, and instead we look at the accents of Jews born in Israel, the ones born into speaking modern Hebrew, there's a myth of a Jerusalem accent. I say myth, because you'll hear all over Israel people swearing, that Jerusalemites pronounce a few words differently. The most common example is the word 'mataim' (which means two hundred), and many Israelis insist Jerusalemites pronounce it ma'ataim, with the first vowel prolonged and emphasized. I have lived in Jerusalem since 2002 and I have never heard it. I think in this sense, regional accents are usually, at least in part, a product of geography. It determines how far apart people live, how much they interact, how much they hear others speaking the same language as they do. The smaller a country, and the easier travel in it is, the fewer accents it's likely to produce. And I think that's the main reason why there aren't really accents in Israel (other than those of people who came to speak Hebrew as a second language), because it's a very small country, and because today, it's pretty easy to travel in it (you can cross it from the most northern point to the most southern one in slightly over 5 hours).

I hope that kind of answers it? Thank you for the kind words, I hope you're well, too! xoxox

[hlficlibrary]

hi adm! love your blog. do u have any recs from unknown authors? thank you!

Hi, anon! Thanks so much for the kind words! I wouldn't call them all "unknown" necessarily, but I'd say underappreciated for how good their fics are! Here are some great fics by writers who I think a lot of readers would like if they gave them a chance!

When the Lights Go Out by thelarenttrap / @antidotetogo

“Louis, what do you have to say about how last week ended?” the reporter asks. There’s a moment of silence. Harry is looking at the reporter, but eventually gives in and looks down the table at Louis. He’s looking straight ahead, as if Harry isn’t even in the room. “If you can’t take the heat, then get out of the kitchen.” Harry leans forwards, placing his arms on the table and leaning onto them to get as close to his microphone as he can while looking at Louis. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Louis turns to him, his icy blue eyes meeting Harry's. “Driving is your fuckin’ job, act like it.”

In its near eighty years of existence, Formula 1 has never had an out gay driver. In 2017, Harry Styles signs a contract with Scuderia AlphaTauri alongside his childhood friend and competitor, Louis Tomlinson. The next decade of their careers is some of the most tumultuous press--on and off the track--Formula 1 has ever seen.

aka the one where Louis and Harry are childhood friends to enemies to lovers over the course of 15 ish years.

The Things We Know To Be Wild by harryanthus_annuus / @harryanthus-annuus

Louis is a London zoologist sent by the University of Highlands and Islands to assess the safety of the island of Eroda as part of the Wonder Seekers Project for sustainable tourism. With his signature needed to write off the concerns raised by the investors - owing to dragons - he faces the true, unassuming local life, and finds himself blindsided by the forms it takes.

(your smile is) on every face by @justanothershadeofblue

Harry streams the whole thing, too overwhelmed to sing along, clutching his phone above his head as Louis whips the fans into a frenzy, playing both sides of the stage before staking a claim to the middle. Niall is shouting along beside him, lost in the madness and dancing something formless and frantic and free. Harry doesn’t even notice the pins and needles in his arm until the encore break, tears springing to his eyes as he switches hands and lowers his arm slowly, letting the blood rush back into it. He bites back a sob and glances at the screen. Maybe he could stop streaming, use his phone hand to massage some life back into his poor arm.

Harry blinks. There are fifteen thousand people watching his stream.

[earthtooz]

ヾ(･u|

hi hi just wanted to share smth I thought up

imagine chigiri who in middle school had a best friend who was also very fast and did track. They were the only one who could ever catch up with chigiri and thus they became best friends and their own sorta rivals.

Then suddenly fast track to chigiri's injury and now seeing their best friend who runs like wind and is now bitter af. He knows he shouldnt be bitter when they have been caring the whole time for him so he starts ignoring them.

some chigiri love will be shown on the earthtooz blog 2nite because i adore him and think he deserves the world.

i actually love this scenario, but just- oh my gosh, i want to add on to your thought with my own:

your 'relationship' with him is admittedly, one of your favourite ones, despite neither of you seeing much of each other during school. but you were known to be on the track team and chigiri for being the fasted sprinter on the soccer team.

and on the bleachers after practice, a friendship/friendly rivalry was born.

for two of the fastest people on their respective teams, your parents sure did not reciprocate that energy, taking their times picking you up from practice. thus, you would spend an unknown amount of time talking to him, bundled up in your sports tracksuits with your sports bag snug on your shoulder.

chigiri was pleasant company. a little stuck-up, sure, but fun to talk to nevertheless. you could tell he took great pride in being a fast runner, but as long as he had the skills to prove it, pride is something you can overlook. it was endearing. he still lost to you every time in a 100m sprint though.

you gave him tips one time. you'd never forgive yourself for helping chigiri almost beat you.

but you admire him for it. you admire his talent and his determination,

then suddenly, he's not at practice. he's not at school either. in fact, it's not a week later until you see him... with crutches and a boot. the look he gives you is empty and devoid of the usual friendliness he always shows you and he doesn't even make attempts of greeting you.

his mum picks him on time too.

you get the message that he doesn't want to talk to you. he doesn't make the effort to anymore, doesn't swing by your class during lunch time, doesn't say 'hi' to you before practice, and his coldness causes your heart to break in two.

people had always told you that distance makes the heart fonder. you found out yourself that the saying was as true as they make it sound, your heart jumping alive and filling you with unexplainable yearning. a feeling you later label as a crush. not that your crush on him could do much now.

you see him struggle in practices, witnessing the way the ball gets stolen off him- something that had never been done before, with such ease. he meets your gaze from where you were filling up your water and instantly glances away, ashamed.

the next time you hear of him after graduating middle school, he's on national television, going against the national u-20 soccer team, representing some... project called blue lock? you don't pay any mind to it though, sitting on the edge of your couch in anticipation. the world was watching chigiri hyoma- the prodigy you knew in middle school.

you panic a little when he gets subbed out and you're scrambling for your phone, searching for chigiri's contact. your old messages that were left on delivered appear, causing a subtle ache in your chest to manifest, but the first thing you send is an 'i'm watching the match. are you ok?'.

the next thing you send is a 'CONGRATULATIONS!' when his team wins.

you get a response an hour later, it's chigiri thanking you. his next text asks you to catch up over coffee. you agree as soon as the message is received.

one coffee 'date' turns into a day in harajuku. a walk together turns into visiting a local park and playing on the swing set, jokingly racing each other to each equipment and your feelings for him return full swing by the end of the two week break he has.

you spend his last day together. he tells you to keep an eye on him. that he'll become even better of a soccer player that either of you imagined in middle school. you make him keep the promise to you with a pinky promise. he agrees. you're satisfied.

and fast forward a few years, it's the night before the finals of the world cup and he's in your arms in the hotel room, self-care routine all done as you let him unwind with you in preparation for the big match tomorrow.

he tells you to watch him. that he'll bring home a medal for you. you make him pinky promise you. he agrees. he kisses your ring finger, where a precious gold band sits snugly, a reminder of his love and the years you have spent with the other.

thank u for ur ask !! sorry that i've been letting this one rot for a while but i've been waiting to get this one out since the day you sent it :D love the idea, thank u chaos!!

[soullumii]

can i request video game Joel miller giving his wife a cat for christmas? like i cant see him as a cat person and i imagine the days prior he’s keeping the cat hidden and taking care of it reader is like “are those fucking scratches???” and hes like “um… no lol what are you talking about…” and I thought itd be cute and funny cus hes so eager to make her happy

cat scratch fever | joel miller x f!reader

this is so damn cute. imagining joel with a cat is such a silly and adorable image. i didn't know if u wanted outbreak universe or modern so i kind of just went with my gut LOL... i hope this is okay <3. fluff, modern au, married. tried to keep this short and sweet {1.7k}

“What’s that?” You asked, eyebrows knitted in concern as you gestured to the thin scratches on Joel’s hand with your chopsticks.

The two of you were sitting at the dinner table eating the takeout you had bought from a local Chinese place. Christmas Eve dinner. It’s a tradition. 

Joel hummed, tilting his wrist, his watch blinking in the candlelight. His hand was covered in scratches from the kitten he had been so dutifully hiding from you for the past three days.

Joel had never been much of a cat person, dogs had always seemed to speak to him more. They were wide eyed and ready to do whatever you asked, while cats were much more independent. Feisty. They did what they wanted, when they wanted. 

In a way, they reminded him of you. His fireball of a wife. 

And you loved cats. Always showing Joel videos on your phone of cute cats, tearing up instantly any time the two of you saw a stray on the streets, to which you fed it whatever you had on you. And if you didn’t have anything on you, you’d crouch down, profusely apologizing to it as if that’d be a suitable replacement to a real meal. As if it could understand you.

Joel always carefully tugged you along when you got like that, and gently refused you when you begged to bring it home. 

Not because he was an ass or anything… It’s just…the fleas on that thing! Who knows what diseases it could have? And the expenses…it’s a lot to worry about.

But you’re coming up on seven years together, and the two of you had finally reached a state of economic stability and owned a home together. 

So, when Joel was out in the city one day running errands for a new renovation project under his contracting company, he didn’t refuse the stray kitten that had scrambled after him from seemingly out of nowhere. An orange one, with big green eyes and the pointiest little tail that flopped with each bound of its little legs.

It was damn cute. He’d never seen anything that fucking adorable. Besides you, maybe. 

Joel was not usually very weak to the charms of cats, but this one reminded him of you somehow. The way you’d follow him with an excitement he’d never seen in anyone else before. You loved unconditionally, and while that was a trait Joel often saw in dogs, the little kitten following after him seemed to possess a similar quality without even having known him. 

So he snatched that little sucker up and texted you he’d be home a little bit late so he could take it to the vet for shots and buy some supplies. He’d been keeping it in the guest bedroom that you refused to go into, claiming it was “haunted”, ever since.

And let it be known that it’s incredibly difficult to keep a cat from a very intuitive (nosy) person like yourself. 

Still, he’d been managing pretty well.

“It’s nothin’,” Joel said. “I just scraped myself with a plank of wood at work.” 

It’s a very believable lie. He’d done that plenty of times. Contractor things.

“Those look deep, though. You don’t have splinters do you?” You asked, reaching for his hand to scrutinize it. Shifting right into concerned wife territory.

He threaded your fingers together and titled his head to catch your eyes. “Sweetheart I’m fine, I promise.”

You squeezed his hand. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

You gave him a mild smile, returning to your lo mein. “So, I heard some weird sounds today.”

Joel’s pulse spiked. He roughly swallowed down a dumpling. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “It was weird. Like, high pitched and squeaky. Coming from,” you sent a wary glance down the hallway before leaning in close to whisper, “the guest room. I’m telling you it’s haunted.”

Joel bit back a smile. “Baby, it ain’t haunted. But I’ll go check it out tonight for ya. Maybe it was a rat or somethin’.”

“A murderous rat,” you said, seriously. “That murdered the man that lived here before. And his ghost now haunts that room.”

“Honey, we met the man that lived here before us.”

“Doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been another guy living with him that was brutally murdered by the rat.”

“You’ve been watchin’ too much true crime.”

You shrug, taking a bite of lo mein. “You can never watch too much true crime.” 

After dinner, Joel kept his promise and stopped in the guest room to investigate the ‘killer rat’ while you got comfortable in bed. 

“Be safe,” you had whispered soberly to him, pressing a kiss to his lips.

“You are ridiculous, but I love you,” he whispered back.

"I love you, too."

Joel carefully opened the door enough so he could slip in without the kitten escaping, but he didn’t have to worry. The little orange fur ball was curled into a shape reminiscent of a croissant in the middle of the bed, and when Joel entered, its head lifted up, green eyes blinking sleepily up at him.

“Shit, how are you so damn cute?” Joel murmured, settling down on the bed to pet the kitten. His hand practically engulfed the tiny little thing, and he picked it up gently, tucking it in his arms.

“My wife is gonna love you,” he said, kissing its head. It started purring, a loud rumbling sound that for sure could not come out of a kitten. And yet, it was. “I’m pretty sure I love you.”

It nuzzled its little head into the crook of his elbow, and Joel was hooked right then. Any past bad experiences with cats were forgotten. Friendship ended with dogs, cats were his new best friend.

He sprinkled some more food into its bowl, told it to be a bit quieter, and promised he’d be back tomorrow before he found his place in bed next to you again.

You turned to him under the sheets, cheek squished against the pillow as your hand found his bare, hair-dusted chest. “Was it a rat?”

Joel angled his head to press a kiss to your hair. “Didn’t find anythin’. It must’ve been the AC makin' noise.”

You sighed in relief. “Good.”

“You don’t really believe a rat murdered a man there, right?” 

“No. But I still think it’s haunted. It’s just a hunch.”

“I’ll protect you if you end up being right.”

“Well I’m always right, so I’ll be looking forward to seeing you sexily protecting me.”

Not right this time, he thought to himself, and was proud you hadn’t managed to find out about your surprise. 

He chuckled, and leaned down to press a sweet kiss to your lips. “Merry Christmas Eve, darlin’.”

You smiled. “Merry Christmas Eve, Joel.”

—

Joel woke you with soft kisses to the back of your neck, his body wrapped around yours, his hand heavy and warm over your stomach.

You looked over your shoulder at him with sleepy eyes. “Merry Christmas.”

He kissed you gently. “Merry Christmas.”

And then he was out of bed almost in an instant. “Ready to open your present?”

You laid there for a second in stunned silence before a light, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. “Jeez, someone’s excited. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get out of bed so fast.”

“I just think I did good this year,” he tapped the doorknob anxiously.

“You do good every year.” You quirked a brow. “What is going on with you? You’ve been so jumpy these past couple of days. Did something happen?”

"Everythin' is just fine,” Joel insisted, coming forward to press his lips to yours again, his hands framing your face. “I’m just nervous about your Christmas present, that’s all.”

“If you didn’t get me anything I wouldn’t care, you know?” You said. “I love just being with you. I mean, at long as you at least got me flowers or something.” 

“I got you more than flowers. C’mon.”

“Okay, okay.”

You followed Joel to the living room, and he made you both coffee before setting you down on the couch.

“I’ll be right back.”

Joel nervously made his way to the guest room, grabbing the decorated box he had poked holes in and had set the kitten inside this morning while you were still asleep before he snuck back into bed.

He opened the lid. The kitten stared up at him and mewled. Yup, still alive. Thank god.

Joel reentered the living room with the box. You made grabby hands at him, grinning with amusement as he carefully set it in your lap. 

“This better not be anything too expensive,” you said, reaching for the lid.

Joel shrugged. “Practically got it for nothin’.”

“Well, now I’m concerned.”

“Just open it.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and lifted the lid, and Joel’s entire body flooded with a relieved warmth the moment you registered what was staring back at you, quelling the anxious jitters he had been dealing with the entire night before and into the morning.

Your curious gaze melted into a look of pure shock, your wide eyes immediately starting to swim with tears as a high pitched oh my god, Joel left your lips.

You carefully took the kitten out of the box, holding it tight to you as a sob escaped you. And then you were fully crying fat, wet tears. Panic struck him in the chest, and he hurried to sit down next to you on the couch.

“Do you not like him? We can give him away, please don’t cry, honey-”

“No no! I’m just so happy,” you said through tears and Joel relaxed. “I love him. I can't believe you got me a kitten. I thought you didn’t like cats?”

“This one changed my mind,” he explained, petting the little creature. “His claws are goddamn sharp though.”

You elbowed him. “I knew those scratches looked cat-like.”

“Wouldn’t have been a surprise if I told ya.” 

“Yeah yeah.”

You maneuvered the cat to look him straight in the eyes. He wriggled in your hands. “Did you scratch up daddy’s hand? You’re a little stinker but god you’re so fucking cute!” You squealed, pressing the kitten’s head to your lips to pepper hundreds of kisses on it.

Joel’s hand snaked around your waist. “What’re you gonna name ‘em?”

You didn’t even hesitate, mumbling against his marigold fur. “Pretzel.”

“Pretzel?” Joel huffed in amusement.

“I’ve always wanted to name a cat that,” you defended, holding Pretzel up to fawn over him again. His purr loudly echoed through the living room.

“Alright then. Welcome to the Miller family, Pretzel.”

[aropride]

saw ur recommendation for 3m aura n95s 👀👀 any advice on where to get them from? heading back 2 school in a few weeks and wanna stock up — tysm !!!!!

ok so!! my first recommendation is to see if there is a mask block near you, in my area it was CRANE (covid resistance action northeast), they're having trouble stocking and filling orders rn so mine took ~a month to arrive but the time would've passed anyway as they say . if ur in a more urban area ur a lot more likely to have one near u tbh, idk if it'd work but it'd be worth reaching out to the closest one even if they're not technically working in ur exact area just to see . here's a map of mask blocs worldwide- they're mostly in america (continent - but mostly in the US+canada) & europe (mostly in great britian) but there are some others too

otherwise the safest way to get some that are 100% not counterfeit is ordering directly from a supplier, but that can be expensive . project n95 is inactive now but theres still a list of suppliers there !! 3m is really good from experience . u can also get n95s/kn95s/p100 respirators from home depot if u have one near u- however the supplyaid kn95s they sell arent very good, i had them and theyre better than nothing but they only have a 67% filtration rate (as opposed to the 95% expected from n95s and kn95s - thats what the 95 stands for i was mindblown when i discovered this)

also while im thinking about it, part of the reason n95s are more protective than kn95s despite both filtering 95% of particles is bc the seal on the n95 is a lot more reliable than the kn95 :}

me personally ive been getting mine from amazon (not recommended) (i have gift cards there so im not giving them My money at least) and trying my best to make sure they're legit . i referenced the 3m n95 1870s i got using this twitter thread and they seem to be legit? on amazon it also usually says where it ships from and check the storefront, the reviews etc etc. i basically have to do an entire vetting process every time its very annoying ❤️ it is a lot less expensive though, especially if they have a sale going . (here are the ones ive been getting- the listings look the same as of rn but amazon changes them all the time so take this with a grain of salt, person i imagined reading this in 2027. link 1, link 2)

ive tried the holy trinity (new term i made up for the 3m n95 1870 (red straps), 3m n95 9205 (blue straps), and 3m n95 9210 (braided white straps)) -- ime the 9210 definitely has the tightest head straps and i have an abnormally small head on account of being 3 inches tall and born in a thimble all alone . so thats something to be aware of, if u have an abnormally big head the 3m auras might not be the best bc of the strap tightness .

SORRY I'M LIKE INFODUMPING AT U NOW ..!! i have more though . If you know anyone irl who masks asking them where they get theirs might help, they might know stuff locally. ALSO speaking of knowing stuff locally- i don't know if this is universal but i have a friend who's getting really into asian cuisine and a lot of asian grocery stores ive been to with her in my area have had masks. that's such a long shot but ive seen them five out of six stores ive gone to and never at, like, hannaford or market basket or whatever.

OKAY ONE MORE THING . when i got my free masks from crane (SHOUTOUT CRANE I LOVE YOU CRANE) they also sent a thing abt how to reuse them that i will add !! they can be used for like 40 hours if theyre not visibly dirty or the straps dont break or anything

okay i am done infodumping now SORRY THIS IS SO LONG..!!! tldr: local mask bloc if it's an option is definitely the least expensive, project n95 compiled a bunch of links to buy from suppliers, home depot/other hardware stores are worth a shot, and amazon's an option especially if you're like me (poor but have money stuck in amazon gift cards) 🫡