groversimp

[groversimp]

[groversimp]

May I ask losing your virginity eith lityerses from toa?

no:(

guys i don’t write smut and lityerses is a minor which is super freaky guys 💔 please read my do-not-request list!

[groversimp]

Do you write male reader too or just female reader?

hey anon! I write male readers, too:)

i’ll also write gender neutral readers, trans readers, etc etc..!

i just mostly get requested female or gn ones, but I’d love to write more male characters!

[groversimp]

HIIII I LOVE YOUR WORK!!! I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD DO DALLAS WINSTON X READER? LIKE SHES A POPULAR SOC AND SHES ON THE VOLLEYBALL TEAM AND WHEN EVERYONE HEARD ABOUT THEM THEY WENT INSANE BUT THEY ACTUALLY HAVE A GREAT RELATIONSHIP? ALSO CAN IT BE SWEET DALLY PLEASEEE IF YOU COULD🩷🩷MAYBE EVEN HEADCANNONS?🩷

They Don’t Know About Us

ugh I love dally!! my glorious king

wrote this instead of socializing at a party, this is peak loser behavior 😕

short fic + headcanons at the end!!

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It was hard to ignore your friends as they crowd you at your vanity, their eyes as wide as teacup saucer’s. You gave a smile, laced with faux-innocence and secrets, touching up your lipgloss prettily.

They all hush out little comments, small questions. None of them naming Dally, like he’ll appear if they utter his name too much. You bite back a giggle at the thought.

“But isn’t he,” your friend pauses, searching for a polite word, “brutish?”

You hum in response, mind fuzzy as you reflect back on your night prior.

Sat on the uncomfortable mattress, back against Dally’s wall, you hum against his lips. The kiss feels like flying— passionate and hungry and all things Dally. Your hands slide over his chest, up to rest on either side of his neck. His breath falters as he pulls away for just a moment. You’d have to leave soon, you have an early-morning practice the next day and you promised your girls you’d go to the drive-in afterschool. But, oh, how could you leave now?

His hair is messy, eyes intense and hazy. You grin at him, pushing his hair back with one hand as he shakes his head.

“I can’t let you do it, doll.” Dally murmurs, leaning in closer. You raise an eyebrow in response, “do what, hun?”

His eyes are set on your lips, hands scrunching into the soft fabric of your blouse. “Go.”

You laugh, breathily and happily. Here, with him, you were free.

His lips are back on yours almost immediately, swallowing your sweet giggles and pressing you against the wall carefully. Dally’s hands trail from your waist over your back, then back again. Like all he could do was breathe you in.

Yeah, you decided, you could stay a little longer.

“No.” You answer your friend simply, voice gentle as you puff your hair in the mirror. “You’d like him.”

Your friends scoff in reply.

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Headcanons:

this man LIVES for you (looking past canon material ofcofc 😕)

like the others are so tired of hearing about you.

nonstop murmurings about “his girl”

he holds you like he needs you to breathe, as natural as his heart beating

he can’t picture a future where you’re not tucked against his side, all pretty and perfect

he offers you his cigarettes bc he’s dally, but laughs at you when you accept and can’t smoke

the second you start coughing, a tease is thrown your way.

he doesn’t let you smoke after that

to save you, honestly, you looked stupid coughing like that:(

the gang likes you!!

you spend a lot of time with johnny n pony, so they think you’re really sweet.

darry sighed like an exasperated dad when dally told him he was dating you. poor darry thought he was gonna corrupt you!

two-bit and steve tease him about going soft, saying he’s “lost his edge”

soda is just grateful you’re so sweet to them. he likes that you’re easy to talk to, too.

you and soda gossip together about all the soc girls that hit on him

dally tried to take you to one of buck’s parties!! the second you got offered a beer you were uncomfortable, so he just walked you home instead

your parents haven’t met him yet obviously but the whole school gossips about you two

they js don’t understand!!

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[groversimp]

each word we spoke, the wind blew away - part one

writers are crafted through pain, and only some (the lucky ones) find love through that. think of the greatest writers: how many of them never bled? zero. because without knowing how bad the suffering is, you cannot know how good the joy is. and, we often find that joy in that suffering (though it can often turn into deformed lust).

^^^ moros is not a writer, but this is a sentiment I think he would agree with when it comes to Reader.

OLETHROS IS MOROS’ MAIN EPITHET MEANING “DESTRUCTION” (though it typically carries a positive connotation, representing renewal and the natural cycle of ending & beginning. yes this is relevant to the plot).

warnings: angst, reader keeps dying. no beta, no editing, we die like men.

You’re the embodiment of love. You’re the definition of light. He’s always been the dark, perpetually sad and hurt. His heart has failed to beat his whole life, but it awakens when he’s with you.

Your hands could breathe life into anything. With a brush of your fingers on the porous limestone, you shaped creations and gave birth to new life.

The statue stared back at you, and you cupped his face with one hand. The other hand holds your chisel, and you lean in as you form his lips. Moros, doom incarnate, appreciate this offering.

When you place the sculpture in the temple, you grin up at it— dust covering you, sticking to your face.

He was beautiful, carved to perfection. The outline of his eyes, the shape of his body. The statue could bring a warrior to his knees in worship. This is who high-priests spoke to, mortals feared. This is your creation, and you bask in the pride that swells in your chest.

You come back a few days later, only to find a strange man staring up at your statue. You blink at him, taking in his form— his grey-tinted skin, his long hair.

The rich fabrics of his clothing that did little to actually cover him, his full abdomen exposed. This couldn’t be some random traveler, too beautiful and too divine.

In your thoughts, his gaze flickers to you. You don’t notice the unsureness in his look before speaking, nor the slight awkwardness in his form.

“Hello, Mortal.” He speaks. You would’ve expected the mans voice to be cruel, cold and unforgiving. But the steady flow of his warm tone brings a smile to your lips, and as you get a closer look at him, visuals of mythos and tales flash before your eyes.

“Olethros.” You greet him, your voice ringing out as you offer a graceful bow. When you rise, you come closer to him. “Do you like the sculpture, my lord?” The note of hopefulness in your throat makes him swallow, and the look in your eye is almost ethereal— pure beauty.

But Moros has never been one for beauty. All he brings is doom, and doom is something sinister. Beauty is a form of righteousness, you cannot be good nor strong without that beauty, which then brings grace. If he dooms everything he touches, why would he touch anything beautiful? Beauty, love, is not made for him to doom.

“It’s quite nice.” He replies, and you beam. The light you exhibit could rival the sun, and he’d become like Icarus. A madman tearing his hair out as he flies towards you.

He only nods in response, because he is not deserving of such things, no trace of you can be found on him because it would only make you bleed.

Moros stays with you for a little while that day, until he is called back up to his sisters, he has more people to doom.

As he excuses himself, you reach out a hand to stop him. Moros backs away, but you ignore that. “You know you’re welcome anytime, Lord Moros. My door is always open.”

Again, he only nods in response. But, an understanding fills his mind: he won’t ever come to visit to again.

Two weeks later he finds you slaving away on a new sculpture.

You turn with a curious glance, and look victorious when you see him. “It took you long enough, Olethros.”

Moros approaches you, eyes set on the new sculpture. “Who is it?” He asks. You turn and return to your work, a quiet giggle escapes your lips. “Adonis, my lord.” You answer softly, almost wistfully.

He stays with you till his sisters call him back, when he leaves you invite him over again, and you swear you see a small smile on his face. Once again he nods, disappearing to wherever he’s been called.

Months and months past, and your relationship shifts. From god and worshipper, to (slightly hesitant) friend and friend.

It was when you were adding finishing touches to a sculpture of Aphrodite that you first touched him. You stood on a nauseatingly tall platform, when it began to shake from beneath you. You thought nothing of it till the planks creaked and you decided to get off.

In your struggle, you gripped Moros’ shoulder and helped yourself down. At the feeling of your touch, he stepped away, his eyebrows furrowed.

”Y/n—“ Moros says your name, you smile at him. “What, Olethros? Afraid of a small touch.” You reach out again, hand on his bicep, he pushes your hand off of his arm.

“I do not fear you, Doom. And I will not shy away from you. Do you hear me?”

“I hear a fools words.”

You grin at him, and only take a step closer, your chest brushing his. Moros scoffs, “you create your own ruin, you doom yourself—“

“And I will happily do so. Gods know it’s what fate has in store for me.”

Moros thought of the Fates, his sisters. Ever-lovely and so far away, his fingers twitch. They would like you, that’s not a good sign.

Moros, beautiful and terrifying to any other mortal, only bows his head. Conflicted. He leaves with his head bowed as well, throwing you a glance with a glimmer of a small smile, one you’ve become accustomed to. You grin back at him, coughing at the dust that floats through the air.

He comes back two days later, only for his soft smile to fade. You aren’t in the foyer, your Aphrodite statue is long-abandoned. With his eyebrows creased, he searches the temple and your private living spaces. Your name is the only thing on his lips, having found its home there within the past few weeks. Finally, he proceeds to check the last room— your bedroom.

You are laid motionless and cold on your plush bed. And there’s a moment of hesitation before he’s at your side, his hands hovering over you.

“Y/n.” He says, voice echoing in the dark room. “Mortal.” He says again, louder. The notes of panic in his voice is something foreign. He was doom itself, he had nothing to fear.

Except the loss of you.

When he returns to his sisters, he asks how you died— what had happened.

“Pneumoconiosis.” Lachesis answers him. Dust in the lungs. That was your doom.

So, Moros continued on. Mortals were born, mortals died, and still he doomed them with his hands. The hands that aided in your death. What else could’ve killed you?

There’s always been a shadowy crook within Moros’ soul— made not to love or be loved, but rather he is made to be evil. Because he is tainted with blood, and blood is anything but pure— and is evil not the absence of purity? This crook has never been important or dark enough to be fully recognized. But still, it follows Moros everywhere. A cut that always bleeds, a bruise that is too stubborn to heal. That crook, that wound, consumed him at the moment of your loss.

[groversimp]

BTW i see these posts all the time like "ohhh i dont know what to comment on fics.." and every response is "keysmashes! or hearts!! anything works :3" and thats GREAT!! thats helpful!!

but: consider. if u genuinely like analyzing writing.. do u know ur just allowed to go through and quote your favorite parts and ramble abt what they mean to u and the author will LOSE IT WITH HYPE?

genuinely. i felt SO WEIRD the first time i did it.. but like. holy shit authors love it. its crack for authors. the first time i did it, it was on a fic that hadnt updated in half a year, give or take, and the author made 3 updates that month BECAUSE OF MY COMMENT.

LIKE. as an author every comment is INCREDIBLE!!! but also, dont feel like your comment has to be short or otherwise ur invasive or smth!! authors ADORE long comments more than ANYTHING.

[groversimp]

[groversimp]

more outsiders shorts :3 pjo content out soon.. maybe.

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“Someday, baby.” He muses.

Darry’s hand— warm and rough— traces your spine, ushering you to lean into his side, your head falling to the crook of his neck.

You knew what he was talking about: marriage.

Someday, you dream, you two would have a life bigger than this. With Darry’s moms ring on your finger, kids with your smile and his eyes, maybe a dog or two. Pony would be out of high school, on his way to college, and you guys wouldn’t have to work so hard.

Darry would give you the wedding of your dreams.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to finally go to college.

It was bitter, but true. Someday. But not now. How many more times would he say that?

Still, you hope of a bright future with a family and kids. Something to call yours.

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[groversimp]

i <3 shitty outsiders shorts

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Dallas doesn’t love you.

So, when his forehead is placed on your shoulder, bloodied and busted hands gripping the fabric of your shirt— it feels contradictory.

After the rumble, you’d pulled him away and quietly tended to his wounds. There was no room for words, because Dally knew he wouldn’t be himself if he spoke. If he spoke, he’d tell you he was in love. But, he can’t— won’t— love you. Not when he’d have to lay himself before you, show the darkened corners of his tormented soul.

He lifts his head up, meeting your gaze. His eyes showcase a poorly-hidden softness, telling you love poems and epic tales. You only smile at him, and he knew then that he’d do anything to keep you looking at him like that.

Dally pulls his hands away, one reaching to grab his cigarette box from his pocket as he steps back. He murmurs a thanks, looking away from you.

No, he’d never let himself love you. Dally wasn’t made to love.

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[groversimp]

You Give Love a Bad Name

warnings: hurt/no comfort, ROYALTY AU, princess!reader, knight!clarisse, miscommunication (a little bit), mentioned homophobia/banned relationships :(

this was based off a c.ai roleplay I had..

NOT PROOFREAD BE NICE TO MEEEEEE

I love bon jovi btw

It was wrong, you knew that. You both did.

But, that thought subsides as Clarisse La Rue ducks through your window, sporting a sharp grin. You reach out, soft hand on her bicep, the other on her hand. You do little to actually help her, but she accepts it nonetheless.

The window shuts with a click and you immediately pull her in, bumping your foreheads together with a sweet giggle.

“My lady,” she greets, you pepper gentle kisses on her cheek. Then, you land one on her mouth. You give her a warm smile, one that could stop armies and rival goddesses.

“So formal.” You chide, hands holding hers as you pull Clarisse to the bed, she happily follows.

She presses gentle kisses to your knuckles as you flop on the bed. She carefully sits down, delicate as to not creak the bed or stain dirt on your expensive sheets.

You face her, placing your legs over her lap and Clarisse’s hands instinctively rest on your thigh. You hum approvingly, leaning into her warm body.

The stark difference between you two only shown through in moments like this: Clarisse, a battered, violent warrior having just returned from her night shift, covered in dirt and smelling of sweat. And you, the princess— clad in your delicate nightgown, looking soft and ethereal. Never could Clarisse imagine touching you, being this close.

Though, that thought is quieted as you tuck some stray hair behind her ear. Your touch was something forgiving, a thanks for her service: a sacred prayer, only to be heard by the Most High. A rejuvenation from the blood on her hands, all is forgiven when you look at her with an appreciation that could rival her devotion.

Clarisse’s tired muscles relax, even by a small bit.

“What? Would you prefer me to be informal, my lady?” You laugh at that, the feeling of your cheeks heating up is welcomed and you lean into her. It sends a wave of warmth over her whole body, an ache in her chest.

You cup her cheeks, gently shaking her head side to side as you coo at her. “No,” you speak gently, “this’ll do, brave knight.” Your nose brushes hers and she grins. Your touch marks her golden, so unlike yet similar to the blood that looms over her, the arching shadows that follow each footstep.

She would destroy the world just to consume the carbon dioxide you breathe out. Your gentleness is bewitching, overtaking her body and soul, and putting her on autopilot. She knows nothing but how you wish to be loved.

She turns her head, one of her hands wrapping around your wrist and she places a chaste kiss to your pulse point. “As you wish.” The words flow easily from her, a sacred prayer.

You look up at her in adoration, a hidden reverence. You love her like she is renewed, she loves you like an idol.

“More suitors are coming tomorrow,” you hush out. She tenses, her hand tightens on your thigh, and she brings your hand to her chest, she frowns, but it looks suspiciously like a scowl.

“Are they now?” She speaks lowly, darkly. Her gaze is something nearly animalistic, and only rage-driven Achilles could understand the thoughts going through her head currently. She hates them— the suitors— all polished princes with no idea of who you are, how you love. She would tear them apart with her hands, if she could. Scream that you were hers, fight them and eat them raw.

But, she can’t.

You smile in response, nodding. “I’ve been considering having them fight you, like a trial of sorts.” She snorts at that, and the hurt in her heart is somewhat softened. She imagines it: those pompous, spoiled men trying to face her in a duel, only to end up face-first in the dirt and bleeding.

”They wouldn’t last two seconds against me.” Clarisse scoffs, but you swear you hear a tad bit of excitement and pride as an undertone.

”You could teach them.” You say simply with a shrug. “You’re an equal— stronger than them, actually— anyone could learn from you.”

It smoothes something in her to hear you speak of her like that, like she’s worthy of being equal with royalty.

She doesn’t like being considered lowly. But, compared to the pampered princes that come in and try to court you, take over the country— she is. She’s just a soldier, with no right to be here and touching you. The smell of vanilla that seems to trail after you only smells like damnation and impending doom to Clarisse.

“Thank you.” She mutters, so uncharacteristic of her.

“Always.” You whisper back, and Clarisse’s fingers gently ghost over your cheek. Then, you swallow, eyes searching her face before you speak. “There’s one prince I have my eye on.”

Her movements still, calloused fingers tightening into the plush skin of your cheek. Her expression is grim, and she almost scoffs out a laugh. It’s almost esoteric, something she could never understand— how do you claim she owns you, yet you’re in preparation to marry another man?

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?” Clarisse knows a prince carries more worth, that she is— in the end— a lowly knight, but it hurts more than she’d like to admit.

You sigh softly, taking her hand off of your cheek and holding it in both of yours, pressing it over your heart. “Clarisse, my love, listen to me. At least hear me out.”

She lets you take her hand, and bites back her natural instinct to tighten her grip on you. She meets your gaze with cold eyes. Her heart feels heavy, a raging storm hushing secrets long-known. She will never fully have you.

If you tell her this prince is a better match than her, she may just rip her heart out herself, bleeding out on the high-quality carpet beneath you. But, your voice is gentle and loving. It calls out the gluttony within her, she wants all of you.

She nods her head for you to continue, “I’m listening.”

“If I tried to marry you, we’d be killed. You know that, my dear.” Your whispered voice is loud in the room. “I am yours. Entirely, wholly. But..” You pause, and it looks like it physically pains you to utter these words, these harsh truths cursing your dear lover. “I must protect you in the only way I can, Clarisse. And this is it.”

She listens, and she hates that this is true. If they were to find you two, you two would be executed in a heartbeat. But, if you were to die, you’d die together. A sacrifice Clarisse would gladly do, silently sworn to protect you and love you with every shadow and sin within her. She squeezes your hand, a silent ‘keep going’.

“This prince, Perseus of Elysium, he’s a good man with a secret lover of his own.” You tell her, voice a silent beg as you shift to kneel on the fluffy mattress beneath you. “He won’t lay a finger on me, he’s a good ruler— I’ll be allowed to rule my kingdom alongside him.”

Clarisse pauses as she takes it all in, bristles at the idea of this man— someone who isn’t her— being with you. Holding you like she had, touching you. She doesn’t like it, and she grimaces at the thought alone.

“You’ve spoken to him before?” She speaks, and the words struggle to leave her throat given the painful tightness within it.

When you speak, the words feel like a betrayal to utter. “Many times.”

Clarisse takes a sharp breath, a fire sparking in her cold eyes. She wishes to scream, to tell you not to go along with this. Her jaw clenches and she gently shakes her head. “What’s he like?” It’s petty, and does little to soften the hurt in her.

“Nothing compared to you.” You plead.

Her heart aches, and she yearns to believe you. She really does. But, the thought that this man will be able to love you openly, mimicking all that she had done, doesn’t let her. “Then why do you wish to marry him?” The words almost sound pathetic as she glares down at you.

“Because he’s the only safe option.” You argue back, voice quiet but in disbelief. “He will only lay with me to have children, to consumate the marriage. He will treat me as an equal.”

She feels physically ill, and she swallows back her disgust at the thought. “You’d have to be with him for life. Eat with him, sleep with him, live with him.” She tries to calm herself as to not frighten you, but her irrational anger slowly bubbles to the surface and she sees nothing but pleading and regret in your eyes.

“I have a duty to my country.” You beg. “I need this. I need to rule— Lord knows nobody else can.” Clarisse hears your words and scoffs, tugging her hand away from you and firmly ignoring the whimper that escapes you as she does so.

“This isn’t about duty.” She hisses. “You know I’d fight for you, for us. But, you just expect me to sit back and watch you marry another man as I’m kept in the dark?” Her words are harsh, cutting straight to your heart. To her, you were heaven— and yet, you were putting her through eternal torture, banishing her to the darkest depths.

“You will have to.” You say, your eyes glassed over and you speak with pain and frustration. “That or you must leave me. I can’t risk both of our lives because you made me reject the one man that would let us be together.”

She hates hearing you speak this this— so uncaring of the gap this’ll create between you two. Like it doesn’t matter.

“Fine.” She speaks bitterly, darkly. “Go marry some prince and have a perfect little life. With a man who can hold your hand in public— love you without fear—“

“Fine.” You cut her off. “If you wish to go, you may leave.”

Silence fills the room, and she pauses. The words seemed foreign, the poison behind them something unexplored. How had you two been reduced to this?

“..What?” She whispers. The anger in her tone is gone, replaced with confusion and fear. You scoff at her, “if you are unwilling to listen, to let me fight for us in the only way I can, then we should go with the safe option.” You turn from her, firmly hiding the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes. “You’re dismissed, that’s an order.”

That hurts her more than anything, more than the idea of you belonging under some man’s name. That you had reduced her— reduced your whole relationship— to nothing but your knight. Her fingers twitch, wishing to apologize and reach out for you. For a moment, Clarisse thinks she may fall apart entirely.

Yet, she doesn’t speak. What more is there to say? Instead, she stands from the bed. She fastens armor on herself again, and doesn’t notice the tearful and longing glance sent her way.

The shaking of her hands— whether it’s from anger or sadness, she doesn’t know— causes her to put her armor on more slowly. She tries to manifest words to speak to you, pleads and prayers to try, but nothing steps forward. She avoids looking at your face, but her hears your muffled sniffles and quiet cries, and she knows that your tears whisper her name.

Once she has her full armor on, her sword sheathed and helmet under her arm. She throws you a glance from over her shoulder. Every part of her aches and she has to force herself to step away.

Looking at you like this feels sinful, but a small part of her knew this was inevitable. That you two were just poeticizing the forbidden nature of your love, eroticizing the primal nature of Clarisse’s love for you. You two had both done nothing but dreamed of a love that bewitches you— body and soul— and you had gotten it. But soul-crushing devotion will never let you win. Happy ever after isn’t made for those with hearts.

Without another word, no apologies or last love confessions, she goes towards the window.

Clarisse leaves without a trace, gently shutting the window behind her. And you collapse against your bed.

Your sobs echo like the laughs you two had once shared.

[groversimp]

What happened to the like a priceless wine bot? It was an all time favorite of mine but I can't find it

hiii! heres the link!

let me know if it doesn’t work, but it is still up there, c.ai has just been a little silly with some bots lately!! I’m glad you like it :3

[groversimp]

Be Still, My Foolish Heart

fem!reader intended, but it’s written like gn

reader is a child of poseidon

warnings: implied sex? but they don’t do anything? enemies to lovers. he will never let himself love you 😞 slight angst

How had he gotten here? How had Lityerses, reaper of men, son of Midas, sunk so low?

He takes another swig of the half-empty wine bottle in his hand and continues to stare at the bathroom wall. The daunting realization hung in the air, like cigarette smoke. Affection— such a disgusting word. But, that’s what he had for you: affection.

The day he had met you was unnerving. It thrusted into his hands the weight and understanding of something he had never truly felt: Loathing.

He loathed you.

You grinned at him when you first met, and he saw a flicker of your brother in your smile. Still, he has to focus, sword-in-hand: he’s ready.

He charges at you, a quiet growl escaping him as he bares his teeth, only for your to dodge and your axe— gods, who had the mind to give that to you?— took a sliver of his arm with it.

Pushing up the big glasses that framed your eyes, the ones without lenses, you to turn to face him. The axe points at his chest, over his heart, and he could feel it beating in his ears as his muscles tighten.

“You can do better than that. Lit.” You coo his name and he only huffs, eyes narrowing. “We’ll see about that.” He replies to you cooly, readying in his stance.

For a child of the seas, you were more like Mars than Neptune. You didn’t wield a trident, you didn’t swim with the fishes. Rather, you swam in fire, fishing heroes to fight out of the underworld. Gods, you really were bathed in chaos.

Lityerses’ heart burned, and for a moment— just a moment— he allowed himself to indulge in it. The line between esoteric suffering and the timeless feeling of affection blurred.

Memories popped up, like the twine stringing him up. The smirks you’d give him, when he’s just trying to be serious. But, you’d never taken him seriously.

How your breathing was heavy and your eyes dark as you two hid, chests pressed against eachother. He hadn’t seen the way you looked at him, almost lovesick, but soon he’ll look at you the same.

Or how you lips felt against his that night as he backed you against the wall. You smiled up at him and he saw solar systems in your eyes, galaxies and meteorites. He kissed you again.

He kissed you like he loves you, worshipped you. When he woke up the next morning, he ran away— to find something new, something that’s not you. Because you felt like home, and Lityerses is not meant to have his roots grow in one place.

As he stares at his bathroom wall, only one thought comes through: he loves you. Oh, how he loves you.

In this moment, private and hidden, he swallows his pride and his doubts. Maybe, for this short while, he can let himself love you.

[groversimp]

haiii do u still do danganronpa reqs bc i saw the ishumondo bot!! Your bots r really cool and i loved talking to them!! Just a gen question btw i dont wanna overstep boundaries or just randomly dm u !! Take care of urself ^_^

I do!! I make bots for danganronpa, pjo, hades game, lotr, yuri on ice, and whatever else I feel like!:3

ty for asking, feel free to request something!

[groversimp]

what I’m working on

- lityerses: enemies to lovers - gn,fem intended reader (should be out within 1-2 days)

- annabeth: college au, barista x customer - fem!reader (will be out in like a week or two)

- moros (hades game): immortal x reincarnated - gn!reader (will be out in the next lifetime it’s very long)

and also many many bots for pjo, danganronpa, and hades :3

[groversimp]

Wich request is ur favourite?

any of the c.ai bots! I’ve been going through sm stress, work, and writers block: so small, one-onto-the-next requests like bots are nice to do!:3

plus, I LOVE MY C.AI FRIENDS!!! everyone who found or is on this account from my c.ai account is SO SO SO cute and sweet!!!

[groversimp]

If you were a pjo character'sgf who would it be?

I would WANT to be clarisse’s ofc 😻😻 that’s my baby girl 😻

but, realistically, I could not pull ANY of the characters

[groversimp]

Hi! I was wondering if you could possibly make a bot on c.ai of Clarisse la rue inspired by the song lunch by Billie Eillish

I’ve never heard this song before so I hope it’s accurate!!!:(

It should be under the bio of “dances on my tongue”!

hope you enjoy, anon!

this bot, and many others, will be found on my c.ai account!: @groversimp on c.ai