#inside of a plum

[wheretheresawyll]

This post by @bladeofavernus got me thinking about Wyll struggling to maintain his clothes after being cast out, his last scraps of home. But I can absolutely see a detail like that playing into a Wyll/Astarion romance.

Like, it begins with Astarion watching Wyll absolutely massacring another of his shirts by trying to stitch over a hole or a rip, and he can see Wyll starting to get flustered. So he takes over with a dramatic sigh, shows Wyll how a master does it - lets him watch as he works.

Time passes - their relationship deepens - and Wyll starts to notice his stuff going missing night after night - a shirt or trousers or his sleepclothes, only to mysteriously reappear in his backpack. And when they reappear, they're tidy and repaired, with a new little embellishment.

By the time their journey comes to an end, whether Wyll is slipping on his shirt or his socks, his fingers brush a bit of embroidery, and he knows he's loved.

[icewindandboringhorror]

I can't do much productively during the heat wave/health issue flare up/etc. like work on my games or anything where I have to sit at the computer/type for long periods of time, BUT.. I did passively sculpt a few tiny foods lol. I wanted to do one of my bigger usual sculptures, but those take so much more time and concentration, I thought something small just to keep my hands busy would be better.. close up photos look kind of weird and blurry from my camera settings or something, but overall they came out okay, especially in person.. Nearly the only reason I ever wanted to buy dolls as a kid was to get my hands on the miniature foods and plates and stuff that came with them, I've always just been obsessed with small versions of things like that, so.. why not make some! lol

[pileofpawns]

i’m still so fucking confused on what the paramount sonicverse is doing with the emeralds. Maybe bits were explained in the Knuckles series (I didn’t watch it.) but it’s still really fucking weird and nonsensical regardless.

[bonnieisaway]

it's funny how Seven's comment "I want to get back... to see you in those beach clothes," is played off for laughs but it represents so much more in the moment. Like it's not just "Oh, I want to see you in the pretty outfit I bought you" it's more than that. It's "I want to go home." "I want to go home and see you there." "I want to go home and live the life we had been living before all of this started." I mean the line represents not only his love for Thirteen but for the island itself and for the life he'd been living. Obviously that's not the only reason he wants to go back, just to see her in the outfit, but it represents almost every reason why. He's saying "I want to keep fighting and go home," and what feels really important to me is he's including Thirteen in that life on Chicken Island. Because mind you she's not a resident, she wasn't living there or anything, and she wasn't even friendly to most of the cast - she was only there to collect intel, and kill. But the line includes Thirteen in this peaceful, happy life he had been living despite the fact that Thirteen is one of the main catalysts for his life being disrupted. She has no reason to go back there. It's not her home, she has no more mission there because she failed to kill her targets and they're up for bounty, most of her life goals are still here in Xuanwu. And I mean he explains in this scene, when Thirteen asks why he's basically sacrificing his life for that island, he says "I love it there. They're my family." He expresses that this is what he's fighting for, what he wants to protect, and he explicitly included Thirteen in that statement. She has no reason to be included in this - especially because she stabbed him not even an hour ago! But he doesn't care and it tells us he doesn't care and she's forgive for this because she is included in the things that he loves and wants to protect. His love is so unconditional, for the island, for Dai Bo, for everyone he's ever known, for Thirteen.

And then he asks what she wants to protect. And she doesn't answer. Because she's still ultimately within conflict with herself here, and 'protection' to her only represents when she failed her mother. She says "that person is dead." And also I want to point out this is the most vulnerable these two have ever been with each other, and really the only time Seven has sat and asked her a serious, genuine question about her and her life. And Seven stops for a second, and he understands for a moment the implications this has, and smiles and says "You protected me, does that mean you like me then?" And it's mostly a joke, but he's also pointing out to her here that maybe there is somebody she wants to protect. That there's somebody she has that's worth fighting for and she's just yet to realize it.

This scene absolutely fucking ruins me from the inside out I need more moments where they're vulnerable with each other like this because it might genuinely be my favorite episode in the series. The conversation they have down to their subtle expressions - the perpetual guilt and sorrow in Thirteen's eyes, Seven's sad smile as he thinks about his life and the things he loves and the way he becomes so happy just seeing Thirteen - you motherfuckers thought I wouldn't bring up the way his eyes light up would you you fucking fools I'll always bring that shit up - and just how soft and comforting it is in the midst of such pain and tragedy and conflict going on around them. I love them so much they need to kiss

[getawayfox]

Desmond & Masudi in pie form 🐈🐈🥧 for @stavromulabetaaa

Happy birthday, darling!🥰

[maddisandy]

my traumatized princess of all time and the fuck ass egg she wants to clock so hard she knocks a tooth out

[bare-booty]

So I can officially fuck my partner with my dick!! Bottom growth fucking rulesssssssssss

[todayisafridaynight]

ADMITTEDLY it’s a very “teenagers first alcohol” kind of vibe so I prommy it’s not popular with any demographic that’s older than 25 gdgdgd

I’m only just recently leaving my baby tastebuds please bare with me (and give me drink recs so I can leave candy hell)

(Also sidenote but I genuinely didn’t expect so much uproar over GRAPE FLAVOURING because I’ve never heard anyone hate it so much so once again I’m convinced this is an American problem and not a problem with my beloved grape flavour 🙏)

passport you are GROWN im fucking crying looking at all of this. this is the equivalent of whiteclaw.

[tvugly]

they were unbothered

[annissaarchive]

kelsey plum was traded to the SPARKS 😔

[swedishwatermelon]

ik w don't fw jj thomson for obvious reasons & all but he ATE with the plum pudding model

[pileofpawns]

I watched Inside Out 2 on Saturday but genuinely haven’t thought about it since then because the “I’m not good enough” thing hit me so hard that I started bawling as soon as I got home and I guess my brain decided to shove that shit to the back afterwards

[ashertickler]

greetings plum u look very nice today please let me inside its cold out here

no this is what you get for banishing me to the basement anytime i get silly 😹😹😹😹😹

[yeyinde]

kinda enamoured with the thought of our poor mc going to a dud of party but meeting Kyle and Johnny there (both looking as out of place as you feel) but instead of taking you home, they bring you back to Price and Ghost. a sweet little treat for them all to share.

and they're charming, of course. too charming. but alcohol numbs most of your inhibitions about how touchy they are. how physical. folding themselves into your space, leaning down to whisper in your ear when you can hear them just fine. hands on the small on your back. around your wrist. your waist. knuckles against your cheek—

god, you're such a pretty little thing, aren't you?

warm skin. breath that smells of thick, sweet cream and oaky black tea. hands curling under the hem of your shirt—shush, shush, doe, ahm jus' helpin' ye; yer hot, ain't ye? lemme help ye out o'yer jumper—thick, sunkissed fingers dancing over your skin.

you feel funny, you slur into his—Kyle, he huffs, grinning wide; wolfish: call me Kyle, sweet thing—neck, chasing the scent of spiced vanilla and wild, ripened plums. everything is spinning. spinning—

"god, he's gonna just love you—"

but they'll take you somewhere. home. you nod, nose tucked tight against his warm, steady pulse. "wanna go home—" you mumble into salt-tinged skin, and they laugh.

"oh, don't worry, beautiful. we'll get you right where you need to be."

you trust them, of course. let them usher you into their car, curled up against a broad, warm chest. lulled under a blanket of security wrapped tight in strong, firm arms. and if his hand wanders, fingers tickling the insides of your thighs. well—

you can't deny they're attractive. maybe you can get their number after and call them in the morning.

but that doesn't happen.

you wake to the sound of voices. hands sliding under your knees, around your shoulder. carried into a house that isn't your own—some strange cabin deep in the forest. the glow of the wood stove in the only light on inside, and you struggle to adjust to the thick orange haze.

"what's going on?" you ask, blinking at the sight that greets your liquid eyes.

Kyle places you down on a rug, holding your hips tight when you fumble. laughing, just a little, under his breath when you gasp.

sitting in an old, wooden chair is a man you've never seen before. big, broad. intimidating. his thick legs spread lazily—one kicked out against the rug, the other bent at the knee. and elbow rests on it. in his hand, a lit cigar. the other dangles, loose and lax, off the armrest. fingers curling, unfurling, into spasmic fists.

his eyes burn caeruleum in the flickering gold.

you fight back a shiver, but feel it slide like hot oil down your spine.

"what—?"

"my boys didn't explain it to you?" he asks, voice a rough, abrasive scratch in your head. gritty. porous. you feel it against your skin. fingers digging into your nape. bad girl. there's something about him that commands attention, and you give it easily as he tuts, pale lips pulling into a condescending sneer beneath the thick of his beard. "or maybe you just weren't payin' attention, sweetheart."

"attention to what—" sir almost trembles out. his lips twitch like he heard all the same. "i just want to go home—"

the hand dangling over the ledge flares to life. he flicks it careless around the room with a hum. "you are home."

"my real home—"

and then you see it.

he moves like liquid through the shadows. folds himself into the dark like its where he belongs. and you thought—and still very much do—the man sitting on his throne was large, intimidating, but it pales at the absurd height of this thing that slinks out of the corner with a heavy, laden gaze. powdered charcoal. endlessly black. flat, though. amused.

when he speaks, it's all brass. "what's this? Johnny brought 'ome a stray?"

"nah," you hear Kyle's grin. feel the phantom shift of sharp teeth against your neck. breathless laugher. warm hands. baby, you feel so good. "we found 'er in a club. lost little lamb."

"and you dragged her back to the wolf's den, mm?"

"you complainin', cap?"

it takes all of your willpower to tear your eyes off the man, but you manage. ripping them away until you find him—Price—again. he stares back with a lidded, heavy gaze. unflinching. hungry.

"not in the slightest."

Kyle purrs. "Johnny couldn't keep his hands off her, sir. might have some competition for who goes first."

cold air on your nape. dread bubbles up in your belly. "no—"

they continue like you hadn't spoken. like you don't exist. the man in the corner folds his thick arms over his broad chest, shaking his head a chainsaw-like grunt. laughter, you think.

but Price doesn't seem to find it nearly as funny. his teeth sink into the butt of the cigar with a growl. "gonna fight me for first, Sargeant?"

Johnny snorts, and rubs his finger under his nose.

"she's sweet," he murmurs, all wide-eyed and feverish. cheeks pinked under the warm spill of orange. "cannae blame a man fer wantin' such a pretty little thing—"

"back of the line," Kyle prods. and you wish his touch made your stomach churn, but that thread of intrigue, alcohol spooled want, still thrums in your veins.

"i just—" you stammer, eyes widening as real, tangible fear sets in. skewers into your belly. heart in your throat. the erratic echoes pounding in your ears. "i just want to go home."

"you are home, birdie—" he speaks and it feels like the walls shake. "didn't get a bright, did you, Johnny?"

"tha's mean, Lt—" his hands snake around your waist, pulling you into his hard chest. "didnae anyone teach ye 'ow tae chirp at birds?" the shorn sides of his Mohawk scratch against your cheek when he nuzzles, kittenish, against your face. "don't listen tae 'im, doe. yer th' sweetest, brightest lit'le thing—"

"mm, and such a bright little girl would know how to behave, wouldn't she?"

even with the alcohol dulling your senses—thoughts scattered and thin as two pairs of hands start pulling at your clothes, stripping you down to nothing—you can still see his words for what it is:

a threat.

as if to reinforce this idea, the man—Ghost, Johnny whines into your burning, stinging cheek, skin chafing from the graze of his buzzed sides: gotta 'ave a taste, Lt—moves, his body spilling out in a dizzying tumble of thick limbs. he stands by the door—the only one—and folds his arms over his chest once more, head cocking to the side as he stares down at you.

"don't worry, Johnny," he rumbles, lids slipping to half cresences over the ink black of his eyes. "i intend to."

the air stills when Price hums. your attention is pulled back to him instantly, but a part of you—all animal—halves it down the middle, keeping Ghost in your sights at all times. turning your back on him feels—

stupid.

you shiver.

Price shifts in the chair, reaching up for the cigar still pinched between his teeth. the look in his eyes is a startling, heavy thing. doom tastes like ash between your teeth.

"an' you're a bright girl, aren't you?"

it's not really a question. you nod anyway, feeling the fight in your body dissolve like wisps of smoke in the dense, thickened air. excitement, desire, hums—an electrical current—in the air, bubbling up between them. they move around you in a way that's dizzingly coordinated—a living, thrumming dance. stigmergy. as your clothes fall, as their hands grab your flesh, pinching and caressing, moaning in your ear about how soft you are, how sweet, one, horrifying thought thickens in the back of your head:

you know, then, that you're not going home.

"oh, sweetheart," Price drawls like he knows what you're thinking. a mocking little coo as he tucks his knuckles under your chin, lifting your head up to meet his burning gaze. there's something in there, you think. something awful. something hungry.

"you already are."

[apoemaday]

The plum you're going to eat next summer

by Gayle Brandeis

The plum you’re going to eat next summer doesn’t exist yet; its potential lives inside a tree you’ll never see in an orchard you’ll never see, will be touched by a certain number of water droplets before it reaches you, by certain angles of light, by a finite amount of bugs and dust motes and hands you’ll never know. The plum you are going to eat next summer will gather sugar, gather mass, will harden at its center so it can soften toward your mouth. The plum you’re going to eat next summer doesn’t know you exist. The plum you are going to eat next summer is growing just for you.