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phantomrose96 · 8 days ago

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God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

#writing #original writing #2.5k words #just a story idea i had :)#God's Favorite

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aaa-battery-not-rechargeable · 1 year ago

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Your blog has helped me a lot, as a neuordivergent, trans, aroace teenager who's still figuring life out, seeing you just living out there as you makes me hopeful. So thank you.

hello sweet anon

here's one of my favorite life secrets: nobody really knows what they're doing and that's kind of the fun part. we're all made of the same stuff, atoms created at the beginning of time inside of stars and supernovae and now we're us. the way we exist is never stagnant, even in our short lil human lives, and that's so fkn cool. so regardless of if we change things about ourselves, we are so awesome because we exist. life is so cool and it's even cooler with you in it

whatever you're doing, keep at it buddy 🩵🦋

#asks #aromantic #aro #aroace #arospec #ace #asexual #aspec #queer #aromantic asexual #queer visibility #lgbt #lgbtq #lbgtqia #lgbtqia #lgbtq+#lgbtq community #lilith has the microphone

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mattluvr · 6 months ago

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⋆·˚ ༘ * a pure smut chris sturniolo oneshot !

( oral — m!receiving, dirty talk, hair pulling, pet names )

chris likes it when you suck him off on stream.

he revels in the view of you on your knees between his legs, palms splayed across his thighs as he shoves your head down onto his cock. the way your cheeks hollow and tears visibly roll down your cheeks is usually enough for him to shoot his load down the back of your throat.

which is what chris is currently on the brink of doing; he’s in a twitch stream with his brothers, the two being outrageously loud in their microphones as they play fortnite for the viewers. loud enough for chris’ strained moans to fall past his lips without notice.

you sit on the floor underneath his desk, chris’ legs quivering on either side of your head as you run your tongue up the underside of his cock, feeling each vein all the way to the tip.

“shit, ma.” chris mutters, clicking around on his keyboard to make sure matt, nick and most importantly the viewers aren’t noticing how distracted he is. “be gentle, i’ll cum too quickly.”

you grin, peppering kisses across his glistening tip, one of your hands coming up to collect the bead of pre-cum, spreading it out across his dick. then, wordlessly, you take his whole length in your mouth and the boy above you has to clamp his mouth shut, a click audible as you assume he moves to mute the stream.

“fuck. you’re so good at taking my cock.”

“mhm.” you mumble, words incoherent as you bob your head up and down, your hand cupping his balls, eliciting a moan from your boyfriend.

chris then shuffles his set up around, pushing the camera away from him, allowing him to look down at you, caressing your cheek with his hand. you’ve always been so good at sucking his dick, knowing exactly what gets him off, when to alternate between your mouth and hand and when to hollow out your cheeks.

he wishes he could capture this moment forever, your eyelashes clumped with tears as you force your head forward, the feeling of his tip hitting the back of your throat making his eyes roll back. his hand snakes round to rest on the back of your head, your scalp burning as he starts to pull at the roots of your hair. your core is sodden, thighs slick with your own juices.

you move off chris, the boy groaning in frustration at the loss of contact, your hand pumping up and down nowhere near as good as your mouth. but you have something to tell him; “you’re making me so wet, chris.”

“yeah?” chris smirks, pulling your hair again, the sound of your moan in response like music to his ears. “how wet?”

“it’s dripping down my leg.” you whisper and take chris back in your mouth, a guttural sound releasing from the back of his throat at your dirty words and dirty mouth.

“jesus. my good girl.”

you hollow out your cheeks then, which is chris’ favourite move; the enclosure of it is reminiscent of being inside you, and it releases an animal within him. he groans again, throwing his head back as he starts to thrust, slowly but with power.

tears are rolling down your cheeks, your gag reflex on the verge of being triggered, but you try your best to focus and accommodate to your boyfriend who looks so fucking hot above you.

“i’m gonna cum, baby.” chris whimpers, pushing your head down even further, a moan choking him as you cup his balls again. “oh god, i’m so fucking close.”

you hum around him, giving him wordless permission to release into your mouth, which he’s evidently about to do from the way his thighs are shaking on either side of your head. his stomach is heaving, sweat sticking to the hair on his happy trail as the string keeping him together unravels.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, i’m cu-umming.” chris moans, and with that warning he’s shooting his load down the back of your throat, painting it white with his cum.

once he’s done, you pull off him, holding eye contact as you swallow every drop, your boyfriend’s jaw slack in awe. “you’re so fucking hot, ma.”

“why thank you christopher.”

you lean over to kiss him, but your movements are stilled by another foreign voice coming from chris’ PC setup.

“uh… guys?” it’s nick, who you turn to see is enlarged on chris’ screen, the twitch livechat going crazy on the opposite side.

below him is matt who looks disgusted, and as you and chris caught on, both sets of eyes widen, the two of you turning to face each other.

“you forgot to mute your computer?!”

chris looked sheepish, eyes cast downwards as he responds. “must’ve gotten carried away.”

well shit.

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #pure smut oneshots #chris sturniolo smut

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pukicho · 2 years ago

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Pukicho do you have anything to say on Trans Visibility Day? *holds up comically small microphone*

Rise up, Attack. Destroy.

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suiana · 6 months ago

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(yandere! saw x gn! reader) (i actually haven't watched saw so idk how the game works 🤓☝️)

"and for your final challenge... you have to kiss me, now."

"aw hell nah, can you just kill me instead?"

"w-what?! no absolutely not!"

you watch as the male visibly twitches, freaking out on the spot as he faces the camera. he was literally panicking, gripping his microhone as you watch a bead of sweat drop down his forehead.

"no! it's either you kiss me, or you die! don't you understand?! you have to kiss me! it's like, the only option!"

"nah, i ain't kissing your clown looking ass. just kill me already dawg."

you remain calm, eyebrows raised as you tap your feet against the ground impatiently. there was no way in hell you were going to makeout with this man thing. he looked like a murder clown from 1900s with his black and white makeup and suit!

and even thoigh you thought you were freaky, there was no way you were going to kiss that doll turned man. nuh uh. that is downright insane, even if he does look hot. i mean, this guy killed people! led them to death games that none of them eould survive to begin with!

why?

cause he liked you, duh. the game was rigged apparently. you found that out from him when he sneaked around and tried holding a conversation with you. it was mostly just him talking though. flushed cheeks and stuttering and all. it would've been cute if he weren't a murderous doll.

"so? are you gonna kill me now? I'm actually not gonna kiss you."

"no! ugh! you're so stubborn! just kiss me already damn!"

he groans into the microphone, glaring at you down the cameras before he disappears momentarily, holding a big red button with the words 'do not push' underneath.

"if you don't kiss me now, i will press this button."

"what does it do?"

"make you do things. silly things. with me, of course."

you stare at him, silence filling the room. what the hell? you couldn't even get a chance to respond before he presses it and out came a chair which you were forced to sit down on.

"what the- a chair? you're gonna give me head?"

you stare up at the screen, only to realise that the oddly attractive doll-human had disappeared. damn it. so he really was going to get all up and physical with you huh?

you watch as he pops up from behind, a grin on his lips before he kneels down by your feet, face against your lap. he looked... weirdly calm and at peace for a doll that just led someone to their death a few hours ago. but you suppose it's because he's not human. well, fully at least.

"oh, so head it is-"

"no not head! what the heck?!"

the doll screeches, hands digging into the legs of the chair. he whines, throwing a small tantrum before his rosy cheeks get even rosier (if that was possible? and his eyes grow all wide. you raise an eyebrow at his silence, frowning slightly before yelping as he suddenly starts begging.

"ahem! do you want to be my lover? uh uh who said that?! okay okay, do you want to be my big sweaty alpha lover? WHAT?! WHO SAID THAT?!"

what the hell?!

"uh..."

"i meant- do you want to be my sigma lover who will peg me- WHO THE HELL SAID THAT?!"

"please just kill me."

yeah, now death is sounding like the much better option than being the lover of this weird doll. hey! maybe smashing your head against the chair would work!

#yandere #tw yandere #yandere x reader #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere concepts #yandere saw #yandere saw x reader #gn reader #suiana brainrotting #suiana rambling

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rose24207 · 22 days ago

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Background cuddles

Summary: While Max Fewtrell tries to focus on his stream, chat becomes obsessed with Lando and you cuddling in the background, turning his gaming session into a hilariously chaotic third-wheel adventure.

Genre: fluff, humor

TW: None!

A/N: Love this! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Based of this request

Masterlist

Max Fewtrell leaned into his microphone, a cheeky grin on his face as he started up his stream. “Alright, boys and girls, we’re live. Who’s ready for some questionable gameplay and elite commentary?”

The chat flooded with greetings and jokes, and Max chuckled, scrolling through the messages. “Yeah, yeah, I’m late. What’s new?” he teased, adjusting his camera slightly.

Behind him, the cozy atmosphere of his old streaming setup was visible, complete with the unmade bed in the background. You and Lando were lying there, completely at ease. Lando had one arm draped over your shoulders, his other hand lazily scrolling through his phone while you rested your head on his chest.

At first, neither of you noticed the chat buzzing about you.

Wait, is that Lando on the bed??

Are they cuddling?? 🥺

Max, move your big head, we’re trying to see the cuteness behind you!

This stream just got 100x better.

Max turned to glance at his second monitor, where the chat was moving faster than usual. He frowned slightly, reading the comments. “What are you lot—oh, for God’s sake.”

He spun his chair around, finally spotting the two of you. “Oi!” he called out, waving a hand. “You two do realize you’re in my stream background, right? Stealing the spotlight, as always.”

Lando didn’t even look up from his phone. “And?” he mumbled lazily, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Mate, chat’s going crazy. They’re all ‘ooh, so cute, Lando and [Y/N] are cuddling,’” Max mimicked in a high-pitched voice, gesturing dramatically.

You lifted your head just enough to glance at Max, your expression unimpressed. “Maybe if you weren’t such a boring streamer, they wouldn’t be looking at us.”

Lando burst out laughing, squeezing you closer. “Ouch! She’s got a point, though.”

Max rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight back a grin. “Alright, alright, I’ll let you two lovebirds off the hook—this time.”

The chat only got worse after that:

They’re so cute together omg!

Max is just jealous.

Streamer by day, third wheel by night.

Max shook his head dramatically. “You see this? This is what I put up with. I’m trying to provide content here, and you lot are too busy simping over my background noise.”

Behind him, Lando pressed a kiss to your forehead, the corners of his mouth lifting in amusement. “Don’t worry, mate. You’ll always be our favorite third wheel.”

Max groaned, throwing his hands up. “I hate you both.”

The chat disagreed entirely.

This is why we love Max’s streams. It’s the chaos.

Background Lando and [Y/N] supremacy!

Third-wheeling suits you, Max.

And despite his grumbling, Max was smiling as he turned back to his game.

#lando norris #lando x reader #lando imagine #lando x you #f1 #fluff #formula one #formula 1 #streaming #max fewtrell #twitch

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