cursed to put my hands on everything

She felt the cold hand gently stroking her cheek, and then tracing her lips, slow and deliberate, teasing her in a way that made her stomach flip. Her lips parted on instinct, every nerve buzzing under the devil's touch. Meanwhile, Mizora's other hand stayed clamped around her hip, fingers almost digging into the bone, as if to make sure Nyssala knew exactly who was in control here.

And oh, she knew.

This was dangerous, and she knew it but damn if it didn't have her hooked. It was as if Nyssala was being pulled toward the edge of a cliff knowing the fall would be deadly but somehow... thrilling. It wasn’t just the smooth, silky tone in her voice or the way her eyes seemed to pierce right through Nyssala’s soul. It was the danger, the power that coiled around her like a snake, squeezing tight but not enough to suffocate — just enough to make her want more. And yet, every time she thought about pulling away, her body betrayed her, leaning in just a little more, craving the attention, the control, and the intoxicating thrill Mizora seemed to exude without even trying.

Nyssala’s mind drifted as her eyes roamed over Mizora's features, the moonlight that seeped through the small gaps where her wings met above her head was casting soft, silvery shadows on the devil’s skin, painting her in deep shades of blue. Her bardic instincts kicked in as a quiet, unspoken poem began to form in her mind.

"Midnight wrapped in azure silk, Silver threads weave through the dark, A devil’s touch, soft as guilt, Her gaze, a flame that leaves its mark."

Somehow, Mizora looked even more otherworldly under the night sky. The moon seemed to adore her, tracing her face and outlining her wings with a ghostly shimmer. The sight was... enchanting.

"A devil’s skin, kissed by the moon, A song of sin in shades of blue, I’d write her name upon the stars, And let the sky bleed crimson too."

Nyssala felt a flicker of heat crawl up her spine, not from fear but from fascination. The poetic lines tumbled in her head, and though they felt dangerous, just like Mizora herself, they were beautiful. She would have to remember to write them down later.

The drow blinked, realizing Mizora had been talking this whole time.

Damn it.

She had totally spaced out, too busy thinking about moonlight and wings and all that... Well, whatever the devil had said, it sounded so beautiful that inspired her to think about a poem, so it couldn't be that bad...

Nyssala nodded, throwing on a smile, trying to act like she’d been paying attention. “Yeah, that sounds great,” she said, with way too much enthusiasm, bobbing her head a little too eagerly. “Totally. Let’s... do that.”

Mortals had a plethora of reactions towards being close towards a Cambion. Some froze up in shock, others quivered and shuddered, and there were those people who now chose this moment to lust after something they could never have. However, more often than not, people felt a blend of these emotions and others they could not name. If fiends were so easy to identify as evil, much less resist, people would never wander astray. And wouldn't that make the world so tediously boring?

Nyssala seemed to feel a blend of fear, excitement and awe. Maybe even wonder. As much as Mizora loved tasting the fear in those in her presence, she had to admit, there was something particularly deviously enjoyable about inspiring awe and wonder in a person. It was all the more delicious to rip that wonder away from the person and crush it into a fine powder as they realised just what they were admiring. Or simply make them question their morals as they burdened themselves with the confusion as to why they were admiring and in awe of a devil.

The drow was a puppet in her grasp, swaying back and forth, caught between her fear and the irresistible urge to give into the temptation of the Cambion's beauty. Ruby-red eyes roamed across Mizora's body as if they tried to encapsulate the otherworldly beauty, she was confronted with. It was interesting. For most people on the surface of Faerun, a drow would be considered exotic and strange with their deep red or purple eyes, their silver-grey skin and snow-white hair. Yet Nyssala inspected her corpse-blue skin, the horns, jutting through auburn hair and the large wings, which seemed to let the moonlight leak through their leathery membrane as if she had never seen something more enchanting.

The girl seemed far away too, deep within the confines of her head. An air of pensive curiosity surrounded her. The drow seemed to be debating something with herself. No, not debating. Imagining. Crafting. Telling herself a story. It was clear that Nyssala had not heard a word of what Mizora had said for her nod was too enthusiastic and her agreement too hasty. Yet the Cambion chose to not rip the blindfold of her latest catch. She wanted to see how long she could let Nyssala stew in her wonder, curious as to what might become of it.

"Don't be afraid", Mizora instructed the drow, "I will keep you safe. Now let us explore the darkest desires, a storyteller like you can conjure up."

With these words, the Cambion rose her arms into the sky and spread her wings. Within the blink of an eye, the camp vanished and in its place, a wall of reddish-brown smoke surrounded them. They stood on a circle of marbled stone, resting on a much rougher stone tower - a sanctuary from the terrors, that lurked just out of eyesight. Sparks flitted through the air. Somehow, inhaling and exhaling was a thing of ease, even though you could barely see a thing.

"The Nine Hells of Baator", Mizora told Nyssala and stepped behind the drow, "The pinnacle of torment and some of the darkest thoughts, people can conjure up. Or so some bards like to describe them. They'd probably be green with envy, longing to trade places with you. Can you feel it? Avernus? The torn battlegrounds, where demons and devils meet in an everlasting clash? Where rage and blood thickens the air?" Her hand extended and a blood orange flame bloomed upon her palm. "Taste it, if you are brave enough."

It wasn't long until she realized that it wasn't simply darkness. When Mizora spoke, it all clickled. She was dragged to the hells. Again. For the second time in less than six months. Nyssala’s stomach dropped. It wasn’t the first time she’d messed up with a careless remark, but this time? This time, she’d really outdone herself.

Her heart thudded violently against her ribs, each beat a panicked drum warning her of impending doom. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts as if her lungs forgot how to work properly. A cold sweat trickled down her spine, making her shiver despite the heat radiating from the smoke. Terror wrapped around her like a vice, freezing her limbs and locking her voice in her throat as Mizora raised her hand at her with bright, unnatural flames dancing through her fingers.

"Taste it, if you are brave enough."

No, I’m not brave! I’m a coward, a complete fucking coward! Get me out of here, pleeeease!! — She wanted to scream, to yell out anything, but her mouth stayed stubbornly shut, paralyzed by sheer, bone-deep fear. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to do something, but she stood there, mute and wide-eyed, trapped in the silence of her own dread.

Still...

Mizora said she would keep her safe... So maaaaaybe she had nothing to fear, right?

... Right?

Well, obviously, some would say that it wasn’t exactly wise to trust a devil. Then again, cracking jokes at a devil was not the best move either. Spacing out while that same devil spoke was even dumber. And of course, blindly agreeing to whatever the devil said was peak idiocy. So what's one more unwise choice, among the sea of horrible decisions that defined Nyssala's life until this very moment?

Nyssala forced herself to close her eyes and take a deep breath. The air was heavy, hot, almost suffocating, and alive with a palpable rage that seemed to seep into the skin and course through the blood. It forced an unrelenting tide of emotions into her mind — terror, fury, desperation, and an insatiable lust. But not the kind of lust she was used to, not the kind of lust she profited from — it was lust... for battle. For blood. For the searing thrill of violence. The yearning to feel the weight of a sharp blade in her grasp, to drive it deep into yielding flesh, to twist until the slick, visceral squelch of entrails pulsed between her fingers. It was overwhelming, almost unbearable, and it took her completely by surprise.

Violence was woven into drow life — bloodshed was as familiar to Nyssala as breathing, something she had witnessed countless times since childhood. But she had never truly embraced it. Even when she felt the urge to harm someone (on purpose, that is), she'd never mustered the courage to do so. Instead, what clung to her more fiercely was the unshakable belief that she was weak, powerless, a helpless creature destined to fail. Her mother had made sure of that, repeating it endlessly: no one expected her to survive long enough to make it into adulthood.

Yet, here she was.

Her eyes widened, and a strange exhilaration took hold. The terror was somehow still there, but it was overshadowed by a raw, primal rage that throbbed in her veins. An electric surge of power coursed through her, making her muscles tense and her blood sing as the fear was replaced by a savage, untamed anger. For the very first time in her life, she didn’t feel vulnerable or small. She felt invincible, unstoppable, like she could tear apart anything foolish enough to stand in her path. And it felt so... good. A wicked grin split her face as she reveled in this newfound, fierce feeling.

Gods, she didn't want it to end.

Every cruel face that ever sneered at her came rushing back: the mean cousins who tried to drown her in the Donigarten and mocked her, the siblings who beated her, the priestesses whose whips sang against her skin, the matrons whose cold eyes promised death. Then came the lecherous men in taverns with their dirty grins, the nobles at their depraved parties who thought her nothing more than a plaything. One by one, they flashed before her mind, and she felt as if she could take them all.

"This... is incredible..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, carrying an almost child-like wonder, except for the vicious glint of her eyes. "Every whip, every bruise, every disgusting smirk — it's like I could repay them ten times over! Hahaha! I could split Gortash in half with my bare hands right now!"

So this is how it would be, to feel the hot, coppery tang of blood on her tongue, watch their bodies pile at her feet? Oh, how she loved it.

A vivid melody unfurled in her mind, sharp and insistent. She could clearly hear the pounding of drums in a deep, thunderous rhythm driving the pace while gravelly lute chords rasped out a raw, almost metallic undertone, a dark edge that scratched at the ears. Layered over this, a violin's notes sliced through, swift and sinuous, adding a tense, almost manic elegance that danced over the deep rumble. The composition thrummed with life, each element weaving together in a powerful harmony that hinted at both danger and exhilaration. She would have to remember to write it down afterwards, along with the lyrics that came rushing through her thoughts.

"Red, red river, come and rise, Bathe me deep, baptize my lies Flesh and bone, they bend, they break, In this symphony of blood I take."

A wild, unexpected laugh burst from her throat as she realized she had been singing aloud. For a moment, she felt so proud of herself for it… But suddenly a flicker of doubt tugged at her, making her smile falter. Was this right, though? She never thought this way before. Never thought about these... Things. Not like that. This bloodlust, this craving for carnage — it wasn’t who she was. Or was it? The feeling thrummed through her, insistent, off-putting. But why did it feel so right?

She brushed the doubt aside, shutting her eyes and reveling in the rush. It wasn’t a problem if it stayed in her head, was it? Just thoughts. Just fantasies. Harmless... wasn’t it? She wasn’t truly hurting anyone. And once whatever Mizora was doing is over, nothing of that would matter.

She would go back to her life, as if nothing happened.

Nyssala gasped as the cambion yanked her from her spot, effortlessly pulling her close. Moments ago, Mizora had been amused, but now? Now she snapped, and things were getting dangerous. Killed for mouthing off to a devil? She thought. Oh, man... What a dumb way to die. She clenched her eyes shut, already halfway through mentally drafting her apology. She'd beg for mercy, swear up and down it was just a joke, a stupid joke. She'd never ever ever do it again — pinky promise. But then… Mizora's cold hand slid down her back, sending shivers racing up Nyssala's spine. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized where she was — practically smack between Mizora's breasts. Wait, wait, wait… what the hell was happening? Nyssala's brain short-circuited for a moment. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind doing backflips. She suddenly felt her eyes go impossibly wide as she tilted her chin up to meet Mizora's gaze. On one hand, she was absolutely terrified. On the other hand? Oddly aroused. Her body had a mind of its own, apparently. Oh, man… What an amazing way to die. Despite herself, she let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “Well, I’ve never really had the best luck with moms," she quipped, her voice a bit more breathy than she wanted. "But I’m not gonna lie, the way you're handling things right now…” She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief as she spread a bold smirk. “I’m kinda leaning towards the ‘much more’ option.”

It would have been a thing of ease to take offence with the nickname, Nyssala had given her. Most devils likely would have been offended and disgusted. A succubus might have salivated at being called an interplanar mummy, but unless the devil in question did not covet you as a toy for his private pleasures, they would have seen nothing but disrespect in those words.

Luckily for Nyssala, Mizora was not someone easily offended. At least not by something, which betrayed such obvious arousal and hunger. Even now with the poor drow pressed against her body and peeking up from between her perky, small breasts, the Cambion could feel her shiver, from fear, arousal and confusion. The same cold hand, which had trailed down Nyssala's spine, now found its way to her hip. Sharp claws tentatively scraped across her hip bone, letting the girl feel the oh, so gratifying sting of pain.

"That's quite alright", Mizora purred, while caressing the drow's cheek with her other hand, "You are in capable hands now." Her wings closed in around her and her latest target, making it so that wherever the drow looked, all she could see, was cool, soothing, corpse-blue flesh and membranes. The mischievous glint, followed by that bold smirk, caused Mizora to quirk an eyebrow, half expecting what the words would be, which soon after left the drow's mouth.

That same hand, which had previously caressed Nyssala's cheeks in a comforting gesture, now traced over her lips with tantalising fingers. The other hand still rested on her hip, however, now the claws clasped upon the protruding bone with a possessiveness to keep her latest catch in line. Mizora's eyes shimmered and shone like a cat's reflecting the light in the dark and her word was like poisoned honey, flowing freely into Nyssala's ears.

"Though I must wonder", Mizora whispered, "Just how far do you want us to push this 'much more'. I could give you pleasures far beyond the mortal realm, something, which makes you forget the constraints of flesh, blood and bone. I could make you feel as powerful as a pack of hellhounds, as fast as a Nightmare and as unchained as a tidal wave. That is if you can prove to me that you can take it. After all, experiencing something like the Nine Hells of Baator is not for everyone. And certainly not for someone, who has not offered me anything in return."

@unhingedbutpretty cont. from here.

She felt the cold hand gently stroking her cheek, and then tracing her lips, slow and deliberate, teasing her in a way that made her stomach flip. Her lips parted on instinct, every nerve buzzing under the devil's touch. Meanwhile, Mizora's other hand stayed clamped around her hip, fingers almost digging into the bone, as if to make sure Nyssala knew exactly who was in control here.

And oh, she knew.

This was dangerous, and she knew it but damn if it didn't have her hooked. It was as if Nyssala was being pulled toward the edge of a cliff knowing the fall would be deadly but somehow... thrilling. It wasn’t just the smooth, silky tone in her voice or the way her eyes seemed to pierce right through Nyssala’s soul. It was the danger, the power that coiled around her like a snake, squeezing tight but not enough to suffocate — just enough to make her want more. And yet, every time she thought about pulling away, her body betrayed her, leaning in just a little more, craving the attention, the control, and the intoxicating thrill Mizora seemed to exude without even trying.

Nyssala’s mind drifted as her eyes roamed over Mizora's features, the moonlight that seeped through the small gaps where her wings met above her head was casting soft, silvery shadows on the devil’s skin, painting her in deep shades of blue. Her bardic instincts kicked in as a quiet, unspoken poem began to form in her mind.

"Midnight wrapped in azure silk, Silver threads weave through the dark, A devil’s touch, soft as guilt, Her gaze, a flame that leaves its mark."

Somehow, Mizora looked even more otherworldly under the night sky. The moon seemed to adore her, tracing her face and outlining her wings with a ghostly shimmer. The sight was... enchanting.

"A devil’s skin, kissed by the moon, A song of sin in shades of blue, I’d write her name upon the stars, And let the sky bleed crimson too."

Nyssala felt a flicker of heat crawl up her spine, not from fear but from fascination. The poetic lines tumbled in her head, and though they felt dangerous, just like Mizora herself, they were beautiful. She would have to remember to write them down later.

The drow blinked, realizing Mizora had been talking this whole time.

Damn it.

She had totally spaced out, too busy thinking about moonlight and wings and all that... Well, whatever the devil had said, it sounded so beautiful that inspired her to think about a poem, so it couldn't be that bad...

Nyssala nodded, throwing on a smile, trying to act like she’d been paying attention. “Yeah, that sounds great,” she said, with way too much enthusiasm, bobbing her head a little too eagerly. “Totally. Let’s... do that.”

Nyssala hauled the last crate into place, stacking it with practiced ease to create a makeshift stage on the side of the bustling road. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the scene as she rearranged the crates to ensure stability. She dusted off her hands, surveyed her work with a satisfied nod, and took a deep breath. “Perfect,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Now, let’s see if this roadside theater can pull in a crowd!”

She stepped up onto the stage and began her performance, hoping that people would be more willing to pay for a good laugh than for a music act.

"I never knew doppelgangers were experts at crashing parties, but those bastards managed to wreck an entire carnival back there!" Nyssala glanced around at the audience. Some people chuckled nervously while others shifted uncomfortably in their places. She could see a few wide-eyed stares, their reactions a mix of shock and amusement. The inability of the surfacers to laugh over a tragedy always shocked her.

Very well, then. Time to change her approach. Her eyes quickly scanned the crowd. The audience was a mixed bag — mercenaries, traders, a few shady types whispering in a corner. And there, near her makeshift stage, was a half-orc with a hulking frame and a stoic expression that almost dared her to be funny.

Nyssala grinned, her mind already plotting. “You know, folks, I always thought the hardest part of life on the surface would be the sun. But then I met this guy!” She pointed right at the half-orc, who barely blinked. “You look like you’ve been gargling gravel and bench-pressing boulders since birth. Seriously, did you get lost on your way to the Coliseum?”

The crowd chuckled. Encouraged, she pressed on. “But don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’ve got a sensitive side. Maybe you write poetry when no one’s looking, huh? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I’ll smash your face, and eat your stew.’”

The crowd roared with laughter. Nyssala winked at the half-orc, enjoying the moment. “You’re a good sport. Let’s be real though, with those muscles, you’d make one hell of a bard — just play the lute and let the strings weep in fear!”

Finally, when the men had their fill of debauchery, they agreed it was time to head home and rest so they could better guard his father's estate and train more aspiring soldiers—young men blinded by the king’s empty promises. Being the king’s sword was never glorious. It was dirty and corrupt, with the sword bound to the king's whims, slaying whoever the king decreed, be they men, women, or even children. No exceptions.

You would think he’d have grown a heart of steel after serving for so long, but no. Even now, he still heard the screams of those whose blood had stained his skin.

He followed his men, hands in his pockets, as they rushed toward whatever had caught their attention. He wasn’t a fan of bards—he’d always thought of them as deceitful little rats. His past experiences with them had been anything but pleasant.

Suddenly, all eyes shifted to him, and he awkwardly stepped back as his men burst into laughter and applause. He certainly didn’t enjoy being the butt of the joke, but, ever the gentleman, he smiled and chuckled politely.

What was wrong with a little poetry? He had always appreciated its elegance—the way words could be used in so many clever ways amused him. With a glance, he silenced his men, who quickly stopped laughing. He subtly signaled them to clear the crowd.

So much for being the fun captain.

He moved toward the bard, gently lifting her down from her makeshift stage as one of his men stepped forward to dismantle it. "It's nothing for you to worry about," he said with a soft smile. "You shouldn’t be gathering a crowd here."

"Nononononono, wait!" Nyssala leaped in front of the towering half-orc, arms flailing like she could physically stop him from dismantling her makeshift stage. It was all she had — her lifeline, her means of scraping together some coins for the day. Her heart pounded in her chest as panic set in.

"Look, it was just a joke! Just a stupid joke!" she pleaded, her voice cracking slightly. "It's the only way to make them laugh, you know? I need this! I finally made some decent coin adventuring, but it’s never enough, and this... this is my shot!"

Her breath came out in sharp bursts as desperation took hold. She sidled closer, biting her lip before letting her voice drop to a softer, sultry tone. “I’m sorry, really. But… what if I made it up to you?"

She knew how this works. Surface man were only interested in two things: coin and sex. She just needed to know which one was the half-orc's case, and pay his price. "Look, I know how this works, ok? Just let me do my little show, I promise I’ll earn my coin and you'll have your share, fair and square.”

"Or... I can think of other forms of showing just how much I regret making fun of you..." Her fingers brushed against his arm, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Would you live up to your words and... split me in half? Hmmm?" Nyssala wraps both of her hands around one of his giant hands, intertwining their fingers as she winks at him, an amused laughter full of innuendo escaping her lips.

But then, she let out a tired, defeated sigh, all the charm draining from her voice as if someone had flipped a switch. The playful glint in her eyes faded, replaced by exhaustion. She was worn down, her earlier desperation now sinking into bitter resignation, as if she went through this too many times already.

i’m always tired of seeing the cringiest sentence starters for smut so i’m back at it again kids. feel free to adjust sentences or specify who does the action. 

ACTIONS: 1. for one muse to give the other oral 2. to skinny dip with my muse 3. to shower with my muse 4. to take a hot bath with my muse 5. for sex in public 6. for sex in the car 7. to catch my muse naked 8. to undress my muse 9. for sparring to turn into sex 10. for an argument to turn into sex 11. for make up sex 12. for friends with benefits sex 13. to tie up my muse 14. to blindfold my muse 16. to make one muse watch the other masturbate 17. for a threesome (specify muses) 18. for one muse to wake the other by fingering them/giving a handjob 19. for one muse to deny the other orgasm 20. for angry sex  21. for break up sex 22. for sex after a near death experience  23. for after battle sex 24. for sex to get revenge on an ex 25. for one muse to give the other a lap dance or strip tease  26. to make my muse whimper 27. for one muse to take the other from behind 28. for sex against the wall 29. for sex on a table/counter/desk 30. for sex in a pool/hot tub 31. for one muse to choke the other 32. for rough sex  33. for our muses to try a new position 34. for our muses to try a new kink together 35. for one muse to use a toy on the other 36. for one muse to sit on the other’s face

Nicknames/Pet Names||Accepting.

A hearty, rumbling laughter filled Mizora's belly. The Cambion buckled over in front of the drow, her wings opening just a touch and her tail swaying from side to side. Oh, that was such a droll, little thing! Drow culture had an obsession with two things: Self-preservation and the worship of the female. So, of course, Nyssala would pick a nickname based on something female.

Gasping for breath, the Cambion rose and properly looked at Nyssala. Mizora wiped away a tear from her eye, even as her stomach quivered from some left-over giggles. Her wing opened and angled itself sideways. Taking hold of the drow with the help of her claws, she urged her so close that the poor thing practically bodyslammed against her, forced to peer up at her from between her breast, stomach touching stomach.

Languid arms loosely wrapped around Nyssala's shoulders and corpse-blue, chilly hands caressed her spine. The wing, previously nicking into her shoulder with the thorn on its top, folded neatly behind her back. Mizora's voice somehow became a comforting whisper and a seductive hum, all at once, an alluring lullaby, which lowered your guard and made you want to snuggle even closer to her.

"Begs the question: Nyssala, what kind of Mummy are you looking for? Because I could easily be a mother figure if that is what you need." Her head inched closer, hot breath whispering against the drow's ear as Mizora practically purred. "Or I could be much more if that is what you desire."

Killed for mouthing off to a devil? She thought. Oh, man... What a dumb way to die.

She clenched her eyes shut, already halfway through mentally drafting her apology. She'd beg for mercy, swear up and down it was just a joke, a stupid joke. She'd never ever ever do it again — pinky promise.

But then…

Mizora's cold hand slid down her back, sending shivers racing up Nyssala's spine. Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized where she was — practically smack between Mizora's breasts.

Wait, wait, wait… what the hell was happening?

Nyssala's brain short-circuited for a moment. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mind doing backflips. She suddenly felt her eyes go impossibly wide as she tilted her chin up to meet Mizora's gaze. On one hand, she was absolutely terrified. On the other hand? Oddly aroused. Her body had a mind of its own, apparently.

Oh, man… What an amazing way to die.

Despite herself, she let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “Well, I’ve never really had the best luck with moms," she quipped, her voice a bit more breathy than she wanted. "But I’m not gonna lie, the way you're handling things right now…”

She paused, her eyes glinting with mischief as she spread a bold smirk.

General Sentences, Vol. 20

(Assorted original sentences. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"Take me to your leader."

"Am I under arrest?"

"If you think about it, this is quite the honour!"

"Since when did you develop emotional intelligence?"

"I've dreamt about this moment for so many years..."

"Do me one last favour, for old time's sake?"

"Nobody is untouchable."

"You can't protect me from everything."

"This reminds me of a horror movie I saw..."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Do you want a tattoo?"

"Is that a grey hair?"

"I suppose this could have gone a lot worse."

"It's probably better if you don't ask what I'm doing."

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

"Does anybody care what I think?"

"There really aren't any normal days in this job, are there?"

"Do you really think you can win?"

"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

"I heard you were looking for me?"

"There are some things that man should not know."

"What am I supposed to call you?"

"Why don't I tell you a story?"

"You know me; I'm always careful!"

"This was the best day of my life!"

"Do me one last favour, for old time's sake?"

"Nothing ever changes with you, does it?"

"Apology not accepted."

"For a moment there, I thought you were an angel."

"Not everything is as it seems."

"What's the harm in letting me try?"

"Are you willing to make a bargain?"

"What? Have I got something in my teeth?"

"I'm sorry, does that hurt?"

"Do you want to talk about it, or should we just pretend like we already did?"

"I really don't want to have this conversation right now."

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"Do you have nothing better to do?"