#I was there for filming that day and it was March and FUCKING COLD

[theluckywizard]

Blackwall smut? Have some Blackwall smut

Title: Unvarnished

Summary: The Herald of Andraste disappears up to the lake for a swim on the hottest day of spring in the Hinterlands. Blackwall supposes he'd better make sure she isn't prey to bandits or demons and finds himself searching the lake for her in a panic.

Clinging undergarments and more proximity than they've ever had sparks an unexpected blaze between them and unleashes parts of Blackwall he thought he'd long buried...

WC: 3641

Rating: Explicit

Excerpt below the cut 👇

After he takes a few desperate probing dives under the surface, Rose emerges just in front of him, gasping in terror while he clutches his own chest with a start.

“Maker, Blackwall!” she exclaims, collapsing forward against his chest. As she recovers herself, her shock gives way to laughter. “What do you mean by wading all the way in here like this? For Maker's sake.”

“What do I mean? I heard a scream and a splash and I thought you were being dragged under by wyverns. Maker’s balls, Herald,” he gripes, his breath settling in his chest. 

“Well I can’t blame you for that I suppose,” Rose says. “The yelp was from the cold.” He snorts a disapproving sigh and pushes his soaked hair back from his face. Considering the lengths he’d gone to retrieve her, her look is insufferably smug, a look that deserves chiding at the very least.

A wholly vulgar procession of thoughts march through Blackwall’s mind as crude punishments take shape in a corner of his mind he’s kept under wraps for years. His eyes settle rather involuntarily on the way her chemise clings film-like to her breasts, the pink of her hardened nipples pushing through, practically demanding to be handled. Her cheeks burst into a becoming shade of crimson when she notices his helpless gaze and she covers her chest with an arm. His eyes scramble for anything else to look at.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” he remarks foolishly when an apology might have been the better play.

“Oh, I have no doubt. I just—“ she fumbles, raising her eyes to his again. Her timidity flickers out as that flippant little spark returns to her eyes and then she drops her arm rather deliberately. He supposes she was never the innocent thing he projected onto her. Certainly she’s inexperienced in combat and sheltered from the horrors of the world, but she’s never been anything but a bit feisty, taking every new experience in stride, hungry for it all. Her humor has a worldly, teasing quality that makes her seem much more than the shut in noblewoman she claimed to be. Maybe he’d wanted her to be that precious creature.

He seizes on that spark and reaches the short distance between them to push away strands of damp red hair stuck to her freckled cheek. Rose watches him curiously as he does this and then catches his hand in both of hers as if moved by his tenderness, cradling it against her face. His breath is frozen in his chest by this unexpected response but he feels the pull between them. Chancing it, he draws his thumb across her mouth and a sharp exhale escapes her parted lips, the kind he’s deeply familiar with and yet denied himself for years. Heat gathers low as his breath thickens, deepening in his chest. She draws nearer and he can’t tell if she means to or whether it’s just the mindless draw of arousal, one he’s followed countless times before into the beds of practically nameless, faceless women. 

But she’s the fucking Herald of Andraste and it doesn’t seem right.

Read the rest here 😎

[salvadorbonaparte]

2024 in Films - Part I

I watched too many films again this year so here's some reviews from the first quarter of 2024

January

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1998) - Pretty much the opposite college experience as depicted in 3 Idiots and also there's a scene where a child spontaneously converts to Islam to keep a wedding from happening and that works

Rocky (1976) - I got a little too into that series this year

The Karate Kid (1984) - Turns out the original is actually pretty good and I just watched the bad reboot as a kid! Oops!

Face/Off (1997) - This feels like it should be a fake film within a different film. Why is the face transplant plan A? There are some great scenes though, like the wife not recognising her husband, that made me question if this is actually a really deep exploration of identity. And then it got silly again.

Theater Camp (2023) - Almost makes me wish summer camps were real

Gone are the Days! (1963) - I watched this for Alan Alda's terrible high pitched southern accent but stayed for Ossie Davis infectious energy

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) - Manic Pixie Dream Girl Amnesia. Joke aside, why is it that I can't stand Jim Carrey in comedies but love him in dramas

Moonstruck (1987) - This won an Oscar????

February

That Touch of Mink (1962) - homophobia stops insider trading apparently

Carol (2015) - This probably would have given me a sexuality crisis in 2015

Ay Carmela (1990) - no scene in any film will portray the horror of the civil war and fascism as well as the half eaten dinner table in the abandoned house

Rope (1948) - people only focus on the gay subtext (which is real) but can we pleeaaase talk about the politics of the film

Catch-22 (1970) - did a pretty good job in adapting a book that is really difficult to adapt

Platoon (1986) - This was another entry in my grad school watch list

Pan's Labyrinth (2006) - I wanted to watch this since forever but wanted to wait until I could understand it in Spanish. Well worth the hype.

Rocky II (1979) - a sequel that initially made me go "was this really necessary" but then brought me a lot of joy

Rocky III (1982) - Intricate Rituals

Rocky IV (1985) - A metaphor for the Cold War but also. Bad.

Rocky V (1990) - Bad

Rocky Balboa (2006) - Better but like what the fuck was that editing during the fight

March

Hannah Gadsby: Nanette (2018) - I love when stand up comedy is recommended to me with "this will make you cry and change your life" and then it's true

The Holdovers (2023) - Liked it so much I watched it twice but the guy playing Kountze looked too modern like he definitely knows what an iPhone is

The Zone of Interest (2023) - the banality of evil is kind of a cliché phrase by now but it's real

American Fiction (2023) - clever satire, if I say more it probably turns into an essay

Capote (2005) - Rip Truman Capote you would have loved true crime podcasts. Also this was a continuation of my Philip Seymour Hoffman haunting

An American Werewolf in London (1981) - I love when a werewolf film doubles as survivors guilt

Poor Things (2023) - Horrible

Creed (2015) - Pretty much just Rocky but with a 2015 soundtrack and I'm not mad about it

A Fantastic Woman (2017) - a wrote a long ass review on letterboxd about this film is about loss

Creed II (2018) - As haunted as a sports movie is allowed to get before having to add real ghosts (please tell me there's sports films with ghosts). It's about "like father like son". It's about legacy. It's about being defined by your family names. It's about fatherhood. It's about breaking the cycle.

Creed III (2023) - Finally a film that asks the brave question "what if Rocky V was good?"

Dune (1984) - I liked the worms

The Joel Files (2001) - the story of two families in the third reich and one of them happened to be Billy Joel's

Oppenheimer (2023) - Would have made me insufferable during my teenage physics phase

Shiva Baby (2020) - a film that's also an anxiety attack

Searching for Sugar Man (2012) - insane!!!

Menashe (2017) - first Yiddish film I ever watched

Fruitvale Station (2013) - haunted

I, Tonya (2017) - a film keenly aware of the unreliability and subjectivity of both interviews and biopics, this is a sports biopic but also a moving story about the human need for love and the cycle of abuse and it's also damn funny.

Nosferatu (1922) - both scarier and more boring than the novel and also uniquely blood libel flavoured

Mädchen in Uniform (1931) - people were right this is gay

Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) - Lovecraftian horror for cottagecore lesbians

I do not care if we go down in history as barbarians (2018) - history repeats itself, first as a tragedy then as a farce

La Haine (1995) - I watched this because of my professor :)

A Most Wanted Man (2014) - Philip Seymour Hoffman Haunting Continuation

Ödipussi (1988) - "Mommy calls me Pussi" is an actual quote

13 Little Donkeys and the Sun Court (1958) - Yeehaw???

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Anachronisms

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

|| Consent universe oneshot but can be read independently from the series ||

{ Fuck Yeah Holidays | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: E

Prompts: Bridgerton (+ bonus prompt matching tattoos because these two were neck to neck for so long!) | Thanksgiving

Summary: Dieter’s plan to surprise you on the set of Bridgerton for Thanksgiving goes awry when he unwittingly gets cast opposite his ex-girlfriend for a steamy intimate scene - that you have to coordinate.

Warnings: Secret relationship, mention of hair for plot purposes, fighting, jealousy, swearing, dirty talk, spitting, titty fucking, safe unprotected sex, workplace sex. These holiday fics are for fun, so not as *rigorously edited* as my regular stories, please forgive any mistakes or plot holes!

Word count: 4.3k

Notes: Kicking off the holiday season with some Bridgerton action, which came in third place in the holiday vote! This is dedicated to the amazing @nicolethered for having supported this idea since I first mentioned it months ago. You should check out the amazing Dieter in Bridgerton costumes edits she made here. Thank you Nicole for always feeding our community with your content, you are the best ❤️ 

It’s 7:03 in the morning, and it’s bedlam.

The gravel crunches harshly under your winter boots as you march towards the makeup trailers, parked outside the magnificent historical manor house where the crew is filming on location this weekend. Hooped skirts, elaborately starched wigs, a pod of six pomeranians floofed to perfection and a peacock on a leash pass you by, but none turns your head, blinkered by only one thing on your mind.

The coffee in your gloved hand has long grown cold, the steaming cup having been a mere breath from your lips when the day’s call sheet was delivered to you. It had you spinning on your heels and storming out of the break room on the other side of the expansive, manicured grounds.

It’s just your luck that the most intense filming of the season is scheduled over the long Thanksgiving weekend. While you don’t expect the British production to take a break for the American holiday, you’d at least hoped that you could make it through with as few hitches as possible.

And you probably could’ve, if not for the fact that someone had crossed out the name of the male lead in one of the intimate scenes you’re coordinating on the call sheet.

Next to it, scrawled in a messy hand, is the name of the replacement at the eleventh hour -

D. Bravo.

Spotting the very same name on one of the makeup trailers, you stomp up the rickety stairs and proceed to unceremoniously kick down the door.

Considering the fact that the crew would’ve had to scramble for a decent trailer for the last-minute, big-name casting change, it’s a surprisingly comfortable space. The furniture is a notch up from bog-standard Ikea, including the currently occupied, expensive-looking leather chair at the brightly illuminated makeup station.

In a carefully choreographed movement, the said chair turns in a lazy swivel, creaking on its axles to reveal the man you haven’t seen for three weeks, and hadn’t expected to for another few.

His curls are airplane tousled, sunglasses slid halfway down his nose, and it’s clear from his bloodshot eyes that he just got off the plane.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Dieter Bravo?’

The corner of his mouth, which was ticking upwards into a grin seconds ago, freezes in uncertainty as he wilts under your glare. ‘Sur-prise?’ he trails off into a question.

It’s clearly not the welcome he’s expecting. When Netflix came knocking about the unexpected opportunity for a two-month contract on Bridgerton, you were on a flight to London that very same evening, with only grainy videos tiding you over the Atlantic-wide distance between you since.

‘Surprise?’ you scoff with a roll of your eyes. ‘Yes, it’s a fantastic surprise to find out that the actor I’ve been rehearsing with over the past week for the big scene today has been replaced by none other than you?’

Per usual, when he doesn’t get his way, the puppy eyes come out to play. ‘But sweetheart - it’s the only way I can be with you for Thanksgiving since you’re working the whole time!’

If you were any less overworked and sleep-deprived, you might have folded. But you’ve been scraping by with barely four hours every night since you arrived on set, and you snap. ‘Oh yeah? You were so desperate to be with me that you got yourself cast opposite your ex-girlfriend in one of the steamiest sex scenes of the season?’

His eyes bug out comically as he jumps out of his chair. ‘What?’

‘Yup,’ you grin sarcastically, throwing in a slow clap for maximum effect. ‘I guess I’ll spend the weekend watching you simulate hot sex with your ex, who will probably try every trick in the book to get you back. Happy fucking Thanksgiving!’

‘But - I’m your boyfriend,’ he points out with such maddening conviction that it would’ve been endearing under any other circumstances.

You’re this close to stamping your foot in frustration. ‘Yes, but no one else here knows that!’

‘We’ll tell her.’

You shake your head vehemently. ‘Don’t you dare. If you do, it’ll be all over the newspapers by the end of the day, and I have no time or energy to handle that right now.’

He reaches for you, and you hate that despite your anger, your first instinct is to lean into him - to have him pull you into his arms and wrap you in his cozy cardigan. You catch yourself and shrink back, leaving him grasping at air, the regretful crease on his brow deepening. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know. I wasn’t thinking -’

Waving a stack of paper in his face, you cut in, ‘And you know what? Now I get to fill in this super fun, super long consent form for corporate even though you’re just in one scene I’m in charge of. To think I was getting worried that I wouldn’t have something to be thankful for this year!’

‘Baby, wait, please -’

You’re already halfway out the door, the cold winds doing little to douse your flaring temper. ‘You know what, I’m already late for my first scene. Just show up at the shoot prepared and don’t be late.’

For once, Dieter listens.

By the time you barrel into the grand library - wheezing most attractively, having sprinted full-throttle from your previous location - he’s already in full costume, nose buried in the script as a makeup artist touches him up.

And it’s not fair.

It’s not fair how good he looks in regency costume. The velvet tailcoat in midnight blue hangs from his broad shoulders, tapered at the waist, a black vest in rich brocade peeking out from underneath, unbuttoned.

It’s not fair that his thick curls and tidy moustache fit into the era seamlessly. They even let him keep his earring in - his character is a Rake with a capital R from America after all. The biggest change is his usual chunky jewellery swapped out for a gold signet ring on his pinky finger.

And if all this isn’t enough, he’s also drenched from head to toe.

It’s a shamelessly tropey scene where the Rake’s romantic interest pushes him into a fountain at the party in a fit of passion. When he emerges, soaked to the skin, cravat untied and white shirt hanging open down to his sternum, he chases her into the library and has his wicked way with her by the fireplace while the party goes on beyond the unlocked doors.

It’s not fair how he becomes the role so effortlessly, despite having just gotten off the redeye mere hours ago, no rehearsal other than a quick table read before the cameras start rolling. He’s obviously read all your notes, and he’s hitting all the cues and camera angles with almost infuriating ease.

And it’s not fair that your boyfriend’s first kiss in three weeks is with his ex.

You know it’s your fault. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Netflix must have kept the identity of his scene partner from him when he signed on. It’s cheeky, but not nefarious - up until you submitted that consent form a couple of hours ago, they didn’t know you two were dating. As far as they were concerned, it was serendipitous timing when Dieter Bravo randomly came knocking for a bit part in the upcoming season.

As it often plays out, your temper got the better of you. Now that the day has started, you won’t be able to catch even two seconds alone with him to apologise, to tell him that you love that he came to surprise you, and that you miss him so fucking much.

Instead, you’re watching him pretending to get it on with his on-screen partner with an intensity that’s taking your breath away. Damnit, does he have to be so good at every job that he takes on? Can��t he just be mediocre, just this once?

You’re so deep inside your own head that you almost don’t hear the director yell cut. He turns to you and prompts, ‘Thoughts so far?’

You’re a professional. You’ve worked with Dieter on far more intense scenes than this. But still, the words taste so bitter on your tongue you almost choke on them.

‘Listen up, guys. The top half of the frame is looking empty, there’s not enough going on above the waist,’ you speak out clearly. ‘Dieter, put your lips on her neck. Gail, you ok for him to touch your breasts?’

She winks at you, before running a finger down the hook of Dieter’s nose. ‘You know very well that I ticked anything goes in my consent form. He can do whatever he wants with these titties.’

Dieter doesn’t even look at her, instead giving you the biggest puppy eyes, a plea in his voice as he calls your name. ‘But I don’t want anything to do with them.’

Gail grins and arches beneath him, her cleavage nearly bursting out of her corset. ‘Oh please, Dee. Don’t you remember your favourite way to eat breakfast when we were together? You used to lick the peanut butter straight off my nip-’

‘Ok then!’ you interrupt in a loud panic, wanting to plug your ears before you hear anything else you regret. ‘Positions everyone!’

You’re currently breaking every single rule in the intimacy coordinator rulebook, but there’s nothing you can do to stem the hot rush of jealousy through your veins. Despite Dieter’s reluctance, his chemistry with Gail is unreal, drawing your traitorous eyes to the director’s monitor. The camera follows a droplet of water dripping off his soaked curls over his eyes and onto her clavicle, which he chases with his tongue. His coat and waistcoat have long been discarded, his smooth skin golden against hers in the firelight. There’s no denying that they’re a beautiful couple.

There’s also no denying that your nails are biting into the meat of your palms as you watch hands that you haven’t held in weeks skate over her bare legs, lips that you desperately miss drag down her neck, the familiar snap of his hips not between your thighs, but hers.

You’ve never had a problem with his other co-stars - but this? This is personal.

While promoting her memoir on Oprah two weeks ago, Gail declared that Dieter is the one that got away, promising salacious details of their relationship in her book, setting tabloids and social media on fire.

The silence on his end only fanned the flames. Not because he didn’t want to say anything, that wasn’t the issue - Rebecca had to lock him out of Instagram so he wouldn’t post anything rash - but his agency decided that any response would only help sell his ex’s book, and they will not play into her hand.

It doesn’t help that the two of you haven’t gone public. It’s not that you’ve been hiding, industry insiders who work with you both are in the know, but the press haven’t caught on yet. And while that has afforded the two of you privacy while you navigate the new relationship, it has turned out to be a double-edged sword.

A high-pitched, breathy wail shakes you from your thoughts as the scene reaches its literal climax, and Dieter’s movements stutter to a halt - with a groan that is a pale shadow of what he sounds like when you make him cum.

A possessive half-smile curls on your lips.

That is just for you.

It’s 8:37 in the evening, and it’s still bedlam.

But the day is over, and you’re alive. You somehow made it through four back-to-back intimate scenes, including one slippery (ha!) bathhouse orgy.

It’s Thanksgiving afternoon back at home now, and your phone is buzzing with messages. You flick through photos of pumpkin pies, turkeys in ovens, potatoes of all renditions. You just want a nice hot shower to wash the day off, order room service and spend the weekend making it up to Dieter - or the other way round - or both.

You’re this close to making it out of there, your finger hovering over Dieter’s number on your phone screen, when a breathless runner waylays you.

‘Costumes and hair. Now,’ she wheezes and herds you in the opposite direction of the exit.

Thanks to a bunch of extras who decided not to show up for the ball scene, you’re one of the many unfortunate backstage staff who are now standing in as background actors. You’ve been squeezed into an ill-fitted dress that’s held together by safety pins, the corset underneath biting into your ribs. The white gloves that are pulled up above your elbows are a cheap polyester that’s making your skin itch.

The balls of your feet ache from running around all day, and your neck is so stiff you can hardly turn your head, but you can’t help gawking at the set. The manor’s orangerie is illuminated in warm light, every inch of the pillars holding up the soaring glass ceiling dressed up in creeping vines and fresh, colourful blooms. A string quartet fills the airy space with lively dance music, and there’s a buzz in the air just from being in such a big set piece with so many moving pieces.

You begrudgingly admit that you’re not mad to be here. You’re actually quite happy to sip on your mocktail and be a fly on the wall while the cameras roll on the other side of the room.

But when has anything gone to plan today?

At least he has the decency to wait until you’ve polished off your drink. The second you set the empty glass down on a cocktail table, a warm hand closes around your wrist and you’re spun headfirst into a familiar broad chest.

You look up into big, brown eyes.

‘What are you doing?’ you blurt out in panic as Dieter spins you into the thick of the swaying crowd. ‘You’re not supposed to be dancing with me.’

He tugs you closer, close enough that your noses brush together. ‘I don’t give a fuck. I’ve wanted to get you alone all day. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I fucked up.’

You shake your head, fingers finding the nape of his neck. ‘No, I’m sorry. I overreacted.’

He smiles - you’ve missed the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he does - and teases, ‘I should know by now that you don’t handle surprises well.’

‘Always been too much of a control freak,’ you shoot back self-deprecatingly.

‘Just the way I like it,’ he retorts, his palms warm on the small of your back.

As Dieter glides you across the dance floor, you catch Gail glaring daggers at the two of you. You admit in a small voice, ‘It was hard seeing you with her.’

He doesn’t even spare a glance the way of his ex. Reaching up to catch your chin between his thumb and index finger, he says, ‘I’m with you, sweetheart. You know that, right?’

‘I know. It’s unprofessional of me to be jealous.’

A playful growl rumbles in his chest, and you feel it when he leans into you, hot breath on the shell of your ear. ‘But I love it when you’re unprofessional, sweetheart.’

‘Dieter,’ you chide, ducking your head. ‘People are looking.’

He hums into the crook of your neck before spinning you around, back to his front. ‘Let them. My character is a rake. I’m expected to be prowling about corrupting young ladies.’

You scoff, a smile tugging at your lips. ‘I’m not that young anymore, Bravo -’

The banter comes to an abrupt halt when Dieter freezes behind you, his fingers digging into your wrists where he’s holding them. Confused, you’re about to turn around in a question when he reaches up and traces a fingertip along the sensitive skin behind your left ear, before doing the same on the other side.

Oh fuck.

You have nowhere else to look when he turns you around. ‘Sweetheart?’

You know what he’s looking at. A tiny, solid triangle tattoo behind your right ear, the outline of an identical one behind your left - carbon copies of his. You haven’t been hiding them from him per se - you just don’t wear your hair up often and the topic never came up.

Swallowing thickly, you confess, ‘When we were broken up, I went on a bit of a crazy night in Calgary with the crew. We ended up in a tattoo parlour at four in the morning, and someone dared me to get inked.’

His eyes soften. ‘And you chose to get my tattoos?’

You nod, letting the gravity of the moment linger for a second, before you joke, ‘Don’t let it get to your head, Bravo. I just really like triangles.’

He chuckles and wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Let’s get out of here. I think I need to look at your tattoos somewhere more private.’

You arch an eyebrow at him. ‘You can see them just fine here.’

Dieter smiles wolvishly. ‘Yeah, but I need to see how well you wear them when you’re naked, sweetheart.’

You know it’s petty, but you can’t help fluttering your fingers at a flabbergasted Gail as Dieter drags you across the dancefloor, his intent clear to anyone watching. He shepherds you impatiently towards the exit and into the frigid darkness.

Having caught your exchange with his ex, Dieter he tuts in mock admonishment, teeth catching the hollow of your throat as one hand drops to squeeze your ass. ‘Such unprofessional behaviour, sweetheart, marking your territory like that in front of everyone like that.’

Glancing about to make sure there are no eyes around, you shove him up against one of the supplies trailers parked outside the orangerie, cupping his half-hard erection boldly through his woollen trousers.

You grin at the way his pupils immediately blow black and wide. ‘Oh, you’ve seen nothing yet - I’m about to get a lot more unprofessional with you, Mr. Bravo.’

Dieter has you pinned between two fake antique cabinets, stacked on top of a low table that you’re sitting on the edge of. His jacket and waistcoat are on the floor behind him, shirt unravelled and unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest - just the way he likes it - the billowy sleeves pushed up the crease of his elbows. His pants are halfway down his thighs, his hard cock bobbing as he kisses you desperately, greedy hands grabbing at anything he can reach.

The fact that you’ve been apart for three long weeks is slowly seeping in. ‘Touch me, Dieter, please,’ you breathe as he latches wetly onto your pulse point.

His curls fall over his eyes as he hovers above you. ‘Shit, your tits look amazing, sweetheart.’

You laugh. ‘Trust me, yours would too in this fucking corset.’

He grins, trailing wet kisses over the slopes of your breasts. ‘Can I fuck them, baby?’

Your chest constricts in desire and your lips part wantonly. ‘What?’

‘Wanna fuck your tits, sweetheart,’ he repeats, his teeth flashing white in the dim as he mouths at the skin under your chin. You shudder when he pushes his thumb into the gap of your artificially lifted cleavage. ‘Please?’

You nod, and before you know it, the front of your dress has been pulled down, the sound of fabric tearing making you gasp. ‘Dieter!’

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs in a clearly unapologetic tone as he leans down to run his tongue along the neckline of the corset you’re wearing, before yanking that down too. The fabric catching under your bust pushes everything up and Dieter moans at the sight you make. ‘Fuck, look at you, sweetheart. Look at those gorgeous tits, all for me.’

You plant your hands on the table, instinctively leaning forward, arms against your sides to press your tits together. With hooded eyes, you watch as Dieter bends over -

And dribbles spit all over your tits.

You whine at the unexpected wetness. ‘Dieter, what, oh my god -’

Your frantic cries go straight to his head, and he shoves two fingers into your mouth, drunk on lust. Grabbing the base of his hard cock with his other hand, he carefully drags the weeping head over the slippery spittle, slicking up his length, before easing himself into the channel between your tits. ‘Oh fuck. Fuck, sweetheart, squeezing me so tight -’

A moan caught in your throat, you suck hard on his fingers in your mouth as he begins to fuck your tits in earnest. ‘Missed you so much, baby. Did you miss my cock? Miss having it deep inside you?’

You gag around his fingers when he pushes them in too far down, brushing the back of your throat, but you chase after them when he tries to retreat, wanting him inside you, anywhere in you. His free hand spans the width of your breasts, pushing them together, eyes darkening at the way your soft curves give pliantly at his movements. Dieter groans at the snug fit and fucks you faster, the pink, swollen head of his cock - drooling with sticky precum - peeking out from between your cleavage between thrusts, and his breath stutters in a telltale sign.

Pulling your mouth off his digits with a wet pop, you warn, ‘We can’t make a mess, Dieter.’

‘Who says I’ll make a mess?’ he asks, almost in a challenge.

‘You always do.’

His hips slow, languidly sliding between your tits as he grins. ‘Not if you let me come inside you and you keep your legs closed like a good girl afterwards.’

Your eyes squeeze shut as you let his filthy words wash over you. ‘Dieter - yes, please -’

Impatient hands spin you around and boost you up onto the table so that you’re kneeling on the hard surface, legs folded underneath you. The satin of your dress is slippery, and he bunches it up and around your waist with a frustrated growl before pulling your soaked panties down your thighs, leaving them tangled around your knees.

Dieter kisses the side of your neck, fingers sliding gently between your thighs. ‘But are you ready for me, sweetheart? I haven’t even touched you yet.’

Reaching backwards blindly, you find his throbbing cock and line it up at your entrance. ‘It’s ok, I want to feel you stretch me open. Please, please fuck me -’

At your pleading words, Dieter drapes his broad frame over you, bracketing your smaller body with his as he presses slowly into you, weeks of pent-up frustration finding its home. He bites down where your neck meets your shoulder, listening intently as your tight folds part slickly for him. ‘Sweetheart. Missed you so fucking much. Missed this pussy, always so wet for me. Always.’

Your head spins at the way his cock fills you up from this angle - you’re so full of him, you whine, ‘Move, Dieter, I want you to fuck me hard.’

Neither of you will last - it’s been too long and you’re both too on edge. His hands are gripping the insides of your thighs tightly as he pounds into you recklessly, no rhythm to speak of. The table bangs against the metal side of the trailer, making a ruckus, but you don’t hear it over his harsh breathing in your ears and the desperate noises he’s coaxing from you.

Dieter’s pulling you back onto his cock, hitting so deep inside you that you’re blindsided by the orgasm that’s happening before your head catches on. ‘Dieter - I’m cumming, oh fuck, fuck -’

You’re still lost in your high when he twists his fingers into your hair, the sting grounding you to the moment as he pins the loose strands against the back of your head. You know that his eyes are on your tattoos - smaller, hidden from sight, but no less real - just like the ones branded into the skin on the insides of his forearms.

His hips start to falter as he tugs you against his chest, lips nipping at his markings on you. ‘You’re mine, sweetheart - you hear me?’

You whimper as he grabs your tits roughly while he hurtles head first towards his breaking point. You babble incoherently, ‘Yours, baby - come inside me, mark me with your cum -’

With a howl, Dieter breaks, and you feel him spill deep and hot inside you before his knees give out, knocking you hard into the table. You pant, watching your breath mist in the cold air as his tongue runs reverent circles over your tattoos. You look down at where his matching triangles press against your skin, his strong arms tight around your waist, his beard tickling your nape as he moves to kiss your shoulder.

Turning around, you smear a sloppy kiss against his lips, a sex-addled chuckle rippling through your sated body as you meet his lazy gaze. ‘Happy Thanksgiving, Dieter.’

‘Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart,’ he mumbles, burying his face in your neck, his heartbeat an irregular tattoo of its own against your back. ‘I hope you’ve worked up an appetite.’

You hum contently. ‘I could eat. Why?’

‘I might have ordered a turkey to be delivered to our hotel room tonight.’

You swat at him in reprimand before he grabs your hands and pins them to your sides easily. ‘A whole turkey? For the two of us? I told you, you should never be allowed to do the ordering!’

He grins, clearly happy at having gotten a rise out of you. ‘Okay, fine - they don’t actually have turkey on the room service menu. I ordered a chicken and asked them to cook it till it’s dry and tough so we can pretend it’s turkey.’

With an exasperated shake of your head, you sigh, ‘You’re such an imbecile, Dieter Bravo.’

He beams with pride. ‘Only for you, sweetheart.’

More notes: I hope you enjoyed this smutty interlude! I've always wanted to write a titty fucking scene and it has to be Dieter 🫠 Ngl, I was quite anxious going into the holiday fics, but I'm happy to report that these two still live rent-free in my head. Thank you for reading, as always, comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated!

While I'm not American, happy Thanksgiving to those who do celebrate it!

Thank you @firefly-graphics for the lovely dividers as always.

[good-beanswrites]

I wrote my little Purge March section for Lights, Camera, Sing Your Sins :) Since I just snuck it into a preexisting chapter, I figured I'd make a quick post with it on it's own 👍

Amane knelt on the cold tile. She watched the water trickle from the ends of her hair. She could feel droplets across her whole body. She shivered slightly in the tight space.

Before Jackalope had even finished uttering ‘cut’ , a dozen hands were lifting her off the ground. Her head spun with all the voices offering comforting words. 

She gaped from inside the bundle of towels she’d been immediately wrapped in. Kazui had pulled one tightly around her shoulders while Yuno was using another to dab at her head. Kotoko knelt in front of her, rubbing her hands between hers to warm them up. Muu held up her change of clothes, with what looked like one of her own sweaters thrown in. Shidou and Fuuta ushered them out of the set pieces. The area had been designed to look as clustered as her home, but it was much more open than the cameras caught. With just a few steps she was back in the bright, warm studio.

Amane frowned, trying to shrug off the towel. “There’s no need for all of this. I signed off on my script, same as you all. None of you were treated as such during your videos.”

Mikoto poked his index finger into her shoulder. “Yeah, because none of us went through half the shit you did. Trust me, this isn’t because you’re a kid, it’s because this is majorly fucked up.”

She opened her mouth, but all her words died out. For so long, she’d repeated her protests that this was just how things were. She was finding it more and more difficult to argue with the others. She was having a hard time knowing what was wrong to believe.

“I really enjoyed your marching band rehearsal yesterday,” Shidou said, offering a warm smile. She did not return it. She could see through his weak attempt to change the subject. “Er… that looked very fun…”

“Yes, yes!” Yuno chimed in, giving her towel-swaddled body a squeeze. “I didn’t know you could baton twirl! You need to teach me, I’ve always wanted to do stuff like that!”

“Of course.” As the others joined in agreement, Amane did manage to return a bit of their warmth. She was rightfully proud of yesterday’s work. She’d impressed them with her perfect routine. It felt good to boast of a skill that none of those older than her could. Though it was shameful to admit, Amane was really looking forward to tomorrow’s filming. She wouldn’t even mind Shidou’s attention, if he was part of the group praising her talents.

As Yuno went on about the cute costume she’d get for filming the next day, Amane heard Mahiru from behind her. She’d grown more agitated with Jackalope, and her voice raised.

“What paperwork? This is horrific. You should be able to take her out of there in an instant.”

“We’ve got some unorthodox methods here, but I am not stealing a child. Please, Shiina, I’ll tell you when we make progress. Heh, don’t let this turn you into a kidnapper.”

“Well,” she could hear Kotoko, “it’s better than a murderer. Which is what I may be after watching this. And for real, this time.”

Fuuta joined in. “If I ever see any of these fuckers in person --”

“Keep your voice down,” Kazui said, “that’s her family you’re talking about. …Not that I disagree. But she doesn’t need to hear that.”

“Why not?” Fuuta muttered. “She was gonna do it anyway…”

It was true. Though, her motivation had been righteous, virtuous. Theirs was out of vengeance. ...Though, was vengeance in another’s’ name better? What about vengeance in her name?

“Either way,” Jackalope said, “I’m doing everything I can. You’ll be the first to know, okay?”

Amane tried not to dwell on it. Today, she just needed to hold her head high and do her duty, no matter how difficult things became. 

And she had always excelled at that.

So, she sank into the warm bundle. She leaned into Kotoko beside her. She accepted a drink from Haruka. She talked with the others as they asked more questions about her upcoming routine. Conflicting thoughts about what was wrong may have plagued her, but in that moment, she knew for certain that this felt right.

[lesbiancolumbo]

Seven Days in May (bc iirc you're not that keen on it, Burt aside, & I'm curious as to your thoughts) and This Gun For Hire?

seven days in may

never seen | want to see | the worst | bad | whatever | not my thing | good | great | favorite | masterpiece

to me this is kinda textbook "great concept but what are we doing here" but then i'm hot and cold on the lancaster-frankenheimer collabs (THE TRAIN innocent). just doesn't work for me and i also think it doesn't work period. i don't like burt and kirk together! i'm sorry! they're mishmashed and i hate that man! stop making me look at his face! i don't want to and automatically kinda root against him even though here i'm not "supposed" to. also ava gardner is in this movie and yet i forgot all of her scenes. fredric march is in this? edmond o'brien? if you say so! peak "this is an Important Movie with Themes but let me totally fumble this bag real quick hi i'm john frankenheimer"

this gun for hire

never seen | want to see | the worst | bad | whatever | not my thing | good | great | favorite | masterpiece

i feel like we need to acknowledge that this movie is a fucking mess lol. i've seen it a handful of times now and listened to the radio play and it's like, i mean i guess! alan ladd's performance is great and you definitely see how this blew up his whole career, but it's not my favorite of his movies with lake even though this is probably the one where their chemistry is the best, and they're technically not even the romantic leads. lolz. robert preston is in this! solid first act but really falters off by the end for me. i don't hate it by any means, and it's probably the alan ladd film to introduce yourself to him, but it's not my favorite. though endearing in its strangeness i will admit

[cactusspatz]

March recs

I didn't read a ton in March -- between my birthday, attending SXSW Film (16 movies in one week!), and then getting over the cold I caught at SXSW -- and what I did read was mostly… Harry Potter fic? Yeah, I was surprised too. I've bookmarked only one fic in the last few years since JKR went off the transphobia cliff, so it was a bit strange, but I was pleased to see fandom is persisting in being aggressively queer and/or 'fuck canon' about it.

So I've got 1 Murderbot fic, 1 The Fugitive fic, and 5 Harry Potter fics, plus a handful more at Pinboard.

reasoning made lucid and cool by The_Onion (Murderbot, gen)

Iris is guest-teaching a PUMNT course, so it makes sense for Murderbot to go as her security. Yes, ART is doing most of the job, and yes, they are making Murderbot take a class, but it's still only there for work. It thinks? What do you mean it has to do a group project. "Really, the longer I stayed here, the more it seemed like this was all a ploy to force me into an education module."

A++ Murderbot-ART dynamic, plus Murderbot blowing its cover to save lives, as per usual.

Wikipedia: List of notable manhunts by rastaban (The Fugitive, Sam/Richard)

Categories: Manhunts | US Marshal's Office | Overturned convictions in the United States | Withdrawn drugs | Gay & lesbian figures in the 1990s

Charmingly meta fic from the POV of someone editing the articles about Richard's story. I love the details filling in the case details, and every quote from Sam sounds just like him.

HARRY POTTER

Heal Thyself by astolat (Harry/Draco)

"Are you going for the course?" Lovegood asked. "You have the NEWTs.” “What course?” Draco said, then, “No, don’t be ridiculous,” when he realized she meant the notice pinned up on the board he’d been staring at: Applicants To The Introductory Mediwizard Course For The Coming Term Shall Present Themselves In The Chief Mediwizard’s Office By August 24th. “Oh, I thought you might,” she said. “Well, goodbye.” And off she wandered again in her addled way.

Great redemption arc for Draco with fascinating worldbuilding about magical healing. And competence porn, of course - astolat always excels at that!

the dogfather by hollimichele (gen, Remus/Sirius)

“I’m not a reverse werewolf either,” says the man. “I’m your godfather.”

Wonderful AU where Harry gets adopted by Muggles and Sirius escapes early that I started reading on Tumblr ages ago and finally got around to finishing on AO3 years later.

All Our Secrets Laid Bare by firethesound (Harry/Draco)

Over the six years Draco Malfoy has been an Auror, four of his partners have turned up dead. Harry Potter is assigned as his newest partner to investigate just what is going on.

Creative and engaging plot (mystery with intermittent work disasters), and VERY hot.

that’s the art of getting by by sarewolf (Remus/Sirius)

“What do you want me to do?” Remus says, tiredly. All he wants is to curl up on his bed. Smoke a pack of cigarettes. Get drunk. He can’t stop looking at Harry. “Remus…” Dumbledore is gentle. Remus hates when he has that tone. Hates that he knows it will hurt. “There is no one else left.” A bitter laugh escapes him. “So you’ll curse the poor thing with a werewolf for a guardian?”

Wrenching, gorgeously written AU that digs into Remus and Sirius's trauma, then patiently untangles their grief and betrayal and love so they can start to heal.

Lost and Found by rosie-writes (Remus/Sirius)

Imagine a universe in which Remus never went to Hogwarts. The Marauders never became Animagi, and so Peter had nowhere to run when Sirius cornered him after the Potters' deaths. Peter was the one who ended up in Azkaban, whilst Sirius was granted custody of Harry. Fast-forward six years or so, to a sunny day in April 1988….

Wistful but startlingly sweet AU.

[hersweetrevenge]

3 movies, 3 books and 3 songs that changed my life (or that i love)

@slutforstabbings keeps giving me the impossible task of self-reflection lol. i tried to do a similar eras system (child, teen, young adult), but it's not perfect. watch me defend my choices below the cut ✌

i will pass the torch, without any pressure, to my beloved @solivagant-muse 💗 (and anyone else who feels like doing it, of course !!)

films

scooby doo and the witches ghost (1999): one of the movies i had on vhs as a kid. the first appearance of the hex girls? of course it changed the trajectory of my life. every single day i think about how cute it was that luna's dad ( a dentist) made fang implants for the hex girls to wear.

natural born killers (1994): i was an edgy teenager. i love the cinematography and the editing and how meta it is and the fucked up romance. and it was one of the films that made me want to study film, so i guess i should send my university bill to oliver stone?

halloween ends (2022): is anyone surprised? anyone at all? i've had other films i've loved in adulthood (looking at you, house of wax), but i've never become to instantly obsessed as i did with ends. i've never developed so many hcs and aus and possibilities for one thing. do i really have to defend this one? just look at my blog lol.

books

withering tights (the misadventures of tallulah casey) by louise rennison: there were so many books i loved as a kid, but this is one i come back to even now. it's about friendship, finding your passions, having a silly teenage romance. i'm glad my tweenie self read this book.

the secret history by donna tartt: another teenage cliché. i was actually recommended this book by my own classics teacher in college. i've re-read this book at least 5 times i think? i love it, it's passionate and dark and funny. you fall exactly into the trap that richard does in romanticising these dysfunctional people. no one can change my mind.

the wasp factory by iain banks: do you wanna read something fucked up? then read the wasp factory. i think about this book a lot, just because some of the images were just so weird and disturbing and visceral. it's blunt and brash and has no frills at all. it'll make you feel weird and i heavily advise reading some content warnings beforehand, but it is an experience.

songs:

the tide is high by blondie: the first song i ever remember liking. when i was a kid my dad would drive me to school and ask what i wanted to listen to on the radio and i would ask for this song (and surprisingly it actually was on the radio a lot in the early 00s?).

maya the psychic by gerard way: this song reminds me of a bright grey day in march with a cold breeze and a new found will to live.

respite on the spitalfields by ghost: my favourite song from the first ghost album i ever listen to (recommended by a friend). respite (the final track) literally makes me feel like my heart is going to explode, and the way the last riff merges back into imperium (the first track)? obsessed. i fell asleep to this album so many times at university, so respite was really the soundtrack to my slumber.

[charmac]

Ok so my idea for dtamh day, after seeing the new promo, the gang is scheming over Dennis, possibly even them behind his car not working, they are trying to cause the breakdown either to punish him for being terrible or to prove they can be as bad, Mac possibly getting his own back for the Johnny thing, possibly they may even make Dennis cry else we just get angry Dennis to the max and raging a lot. The diamonds and pressure cooker thing makes me thing the gang wants Dennis to explode.

You?

I've talked about this before a few times, but never hurts to keep going!

Nothing in the promo (besides the diamonds) surprised me. Basically since March when we got a shitty video of Glenn filming outside a parking garage I've been convinced this episode would be the Tesla Garage Story from TASP.

I don't think the Gang will actually have anything to do with Dennis' plot, other than serve as a parallel to his rage (and probably be all together in the Cold Open, setting up the fact that it's the Gang boiling Dennis' blood, and why he needs a break). And I say the diamonds surprised me, but I was certain we would have a Gang B plot to parallel Dennis' plot (which I talked about at length, but alas, verbally).

For pacing and comedic timing, they need something to "cut to" between Dennis' increasing rage. So, the Gang wouldn't actually be involved in what's happening to Dennis (nor are they actively contributing to his problems that day). Essentially, Dennis has taken himself out of The Gang's next 'stupid/insane/ridiculous' scheme and is of 'no contact' for the episode, as per the characters motives in the plot. But for the writing/audience, Dennis not having any involvement with The Gang's plot is to parallel the two and push the heavy handed metaphor that both plots are under pressure, building up to an explosion.

That brings me to this moment from the trailer that has yet to be used, and we now have Dee and Mac's outfits to connect (even though, like, 90% of takes from the trailers haven't been used at this point...).

My best guess is this is when the pressure cooker is about to explode, which should parallel Dennis' explosion but wouldn't it be so, so nice if it didn't? Wouldn't it be so fucking beautifully poetic if there is no explosion. We build and build and build, tension on the bar side, thinking they're about to destroy the place, tension on Dennis as he gets more and more frustrated with the car, and we think it's all going to explode... but then, it doesn't. And we cut to Dennis, who finds his moment of zen. He makes peace with himself and his situation somehow and we get, something (what? I don't know, we'll see soon).

We know he goes to the beach, I can only hope that's toward the end and not the beginning, that our resolution is beautiful fallout.

Basically my idea/structure is: Gang together, opening credits, majority of the episode is back and forth between stupid making diamonds scheme and Dennis' flop at a mental health day (both plots have no canon connection, but are parallel/meta heavy), climax of explosion (will it happen?), Dennis moment (hopefully beach), hopefully Gang together, end credits.

(Not sure if this needs the disclaimer, but I don't like, have any more knowledge than anyone else does about the episode, this is just all my personal thoughts and speculation, lol)

[simplynot-there]

March 4th.

I haven't felt the same since my grandfather died. A piece of me died with him and while I still live every day not letting it effect my daily life, I feel different--I always feel different. Like something is missing. I think about him daily, I miss when he would call me to tell me a movie was coming on at 6:30 and that it was "a classic". I miss when I was younger and he would have tea parties with me in the backyard or play checkers with me while Frank Sinatra played in the background.

My love for film and pop culture stems from him. We would stay up till 4am, watching movies together, talking about the celebrities we saw on the screen. He would tell me every memory he had of me when I was little and how much he cherished the moments we had together. He made me feel loved--he was the only person in my family who ever made me feel loved. He would tell me I was smart and beautiful and that my height made me look so elegant. "I don't see you enough" he would say to me every time I came home from college. I use to get annoyed when he said that. I would respond with "well I'm here noooooow!", he would nod and sigh "I know, but its not enough".

And now I'm the one, recounting all my memories with him, sighing to myself and saying "It wasn't enough".

This year I'm suppose to graduate from college. And while I'm excited to finally be finished with this chapter of my life, I think about how bittersweet it will be. Nobody was more excited for me to go to college than my grandfather. So much so that he had been paying for my tuition--something I found out after he had died.

He knew my dream was to stay at the Plaza. When I was younger and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say I just want to be like Eloise.

When I started college, my grandfather told me, "when you graduate, my gift to you will be a weekend at the plaza". As I sit here today, I couldn't give less of a fuck about the plaza. What keeps me up at night is that my grandfather will never see me graduate, he won't surprise me with flowers the way he use to after chorus concerts and birthdays. Instead, I will be visiting him, starring down at a cold slab of stone and the silence will be so loud.

I feel like I lost a parent. This pain has cut so deep. Id rather live through any other trauma in my life, then go through this.

There is a void now, a void that will never be filled.

[aoitrinity]

Why Do I Have to Feel Like a Fucking Conspiracy Theorist -- OR -- How I Find a Semblance of Peace on Sunday Night

I’m also going to start this out with a GIANT DISCLAIMER.

I am about to theorize about what may have happened to the SPN finale. I have absolutely no insider knowledge. I am merely speculating here based on the panels and a bunch of Twitter and Tumblr posts that I have been reading over the last few days. If you are not in a good place to read such things, TURN BACK PLEASE. Go take care of yourself and your mental health. You and your feelings are valid and deserve to be handled gently right now.

Additionally, if you are here to give me shit for being unhappy with the ending, please walk away as well. I am here to reach out and share my feelings with people who might be struggling to make sense of something that upset some of us in very deep-seated ways. I am not here to bother you or critique you or tell you that you’re lesser because you liked the ending. If you felt it was good, then go enjoy it.

Long-ass post beneath the cut, everyone.

Alrighty folks...I debated whether or not to do this because I have been spiraling down the hell that is the SPN finale since Thursday. The travesty of what happened to our show--to this beloved show that seemed to have been so perfectly and precisely written for at least four years that it had basically already paved its own tarmac on which to land its plane and we all thought we knew exactly what we were going to get. And then we didn’t. We had a nigh Cas-less and entirely Eileen-less ending. We had no goodbye between Cas and Jack. We had Dean dying young after finally finding his freedom, only to ascend to heaven with no one but Bobby. We had the weird, weird, weird incest-y death scene. We had the bridge crane shot thing because...sure. You do you, Robert Singer.

It was so terrible, so truly awful, and I couldn’t seem to square any of it with anything we had known going in. I tossed and turned and cried and didn’t eat or sleep all weekend. I spent hours just reloading tumblr and twitter, going to the Misha panel, reading and reading and listening and trying to figure out what the fucking hell is going on because I needed to know exactly where to direct my anger. And after a fuckton of talking with @winchester-reload, I think we have at least a very plausible theory about what happened here--I’m laying it out below as much for my own peace of mind as anything else, because otherwise all of these thoughts are going to continue to spin around in my head for weeks and I won’t be able to do jack shit.

Now to start off, unfortunately I do think Dean was slated to die from the beginning of this season. I don’t know WHY they thought that was the best way to go, and I wish they had listened to Jensen on this one. Part of me wonders if it was an order from on high based on the discussion between Becky and Chuck earlier this season--the writers knew it wasn’t a great choice, but they were trying to signal to us that we should feel free to write our own endings to the story because they’d be better (I can wax poetic on the signs of why many of the writers probably wanted Dean to live, but that’s another post). I’m not defending that choice by any means, just laying it out there that I think they didn’t necessarily all want to kill Dean like they did.

However, what I THINK I can explain now is what happened with Misha and why we got so jerked around with Cas’s story. Consider what we know (I can’t immediately source all of it, but I did my best):

At the end of episode 15x19, Lucifer has been returned to the Empty after being killed AGAIN. He talks with Cas. Maybe harasses him a bit about Dean, idk. But then...Jack shows up. New God Jack. And he picks up Cas and pulls him out of the Empty, leaving Lucifer behind, because seriously. Fuck that guy (also leaving behind his abusive father is character growth for Jack, so yay for that).

-Misha was contracted to film 15 episodes this season. He was only in 14.

-Misha told Michael Sheen he had to go back to film 1.5 episodes after the shutdown in March. (Starts at 6:13)

-Misha was in Vancouver during filming of the finale.

-Mark P said at Darklight Con that the last scene he filmed was with Alex and Misha (and Mark P was only in episode 19).

-Misha implied that he was present for various filming moments, including Dean’s death (start at 35:15), and said that it felt like a “mini-reunion.”

-Various sources have mentioned that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale.

-After episode 18, Stands tweeted a fan who was angered and hurt by Cas's death that they could talk about the “bury the gays” issue after the finale aired.

-In episode 19 we know there were takes of the parking lot scene where the only thing fans observing could hear was Dean yelling “CAS” at Chuck (fuck I can’t find this one right now, but it’s definitely out there)

-Also in episode 19, we had a very strange, awkward montage at the end of the episode.

-In episode 20, we know there were a FUCKTON of missing scenes

-We also had no opening montage, but three other separate montages.

-Carry on My Wayward Son was played TWICE, back-to-back at the end of the episode.

-Episode 20 was shorter than normal and had surprisingly little dialogue. The pacing was VERY strange.

-The cast and crew has been almost completely silent about the finale since it came out. When they have spoken, it has been with an awkward excuse of “Uh...COVID?”

-Samantha Ferris has specifically noted that, despite the Harvelle’s being back in play and a big heaven reunion having been planned pre-COVID, neither she nor Chad Lindberg received any such invitation to return.

-Cas and Dean POP Funko figures were pictured together in a replica of Harvelle’s in 15x04.

NOW with all of this in mind (and I’m probably missing some stuff too because there is so much--feel free to add on to that list), please bear with me because here is what I think we were SUPPOSED to get POST-COVID (after it was determined that the reunion couldn’t happen because of the virus):

In episode 20, we start with our NORMAL OPENING MONTAGE, like always. It traces everything that happened during the season. We are reminded of Cas. The confession. Rowena. Eileen. Jack. Billie, God, the Empty, all of it. 

Things then follow along in the episode where they did up until Dean dies and wakes up in heaven. After his conversation with Bobby, he drives off to find Cas (who, in the script, was listed as “Jimmy Novak” in order to protect against script leaks--who wouldn’t want to do their best to avoid spoilers about the finale with the wrapping of a fifteen-year show?). He does indeed find Cas. We get Dean’s end of the confession. Hell, maybe we even get a kiss. And then Dean sets up his new heaven home in the recreated Harvelle’s. Maybe Cas even fucking moves in. 

Years pass. We get Sam having his life on Earth (still can’t explain why they cut Eileen and couldn’t even have Sam signing vaguely to the blurry brunette in the background; if anyone wants to take that on, go for it). Eventually, Cas tells Dean that it’s almost Sam’s time. Dean takes Baby and goes to meet Sam at the bridge. The cover of Carry on My Wayward Son plays during this much shorter sequence. End of episode.

But that’s not what we got. Instead, much of what I just wrote about was excised from the episode. The remnants were stitched together after shooting had been wrapped. Filler was added in the form of montages and long, unnecessary extra shots to get the episode to something approaching a reasonable length. 

But why? Why would they spend all that time and money and quarantining on Misha, only to almost completely cut him out of the finale? I struggled with why the fuck the CW would want this mammoth show to go down as the greatest queerbait in TV history when they had the chance to do something truly beautiful and monumental with it? It couldn’t just be sheer homophobia, right? Well, I think that factored into it, my friends, but here is where my head is at right now.

It was about cold, hard cash.

Now I could be wrong, but this is what I’m thinking at the moment: Supernatural is going off of the air. Supernatural, the CW’s cash cow for fifteen years. Sure there is still money to be made on blu-rays and merchandise and cons...but they need people watching their shows. They need that sweet advertising revenue. And you know what show they have about to premiere? A show that could, potentially, bring with it a chunk of that SPN revenue?

Walker.

And if any of you know anything about the original Walker Texas Ranger, you know that the show was predominantly a show about a very heterosexual white man being very excessively heterosexual. And for SOME REASON over the years, many of the execs at the CW still seem to think that this show, Supernatural, is really attractive to a lot of middle-American white men...whom they desperately want to watch this new show with this guy from Supernatural that they already know.

Now here’s where COVID fucked us. I think Destiel was greenlit by TPTB, at least in SOME form, before COVID. But then the pandemic happened, and they panicked. They got the cut of the last two episodes and watched them in their original, probably queer form. And then, the execs at CW looked at the economy. They looked at their cash cow, about to make its journey to the great beyond. And they looked at this new little calf Walker that they were so desperately worried about. And they made a choice.

They decided that it would be too risky to take the step with Destiel. They were worried about frightening off their ever-so-valuable hetero male demographic with the possibility that a traditionally masculine man in his 40s could be in love with another man in an overt way. It was homophobia mixed with greed, spun up by fear for their revenues because of COVID.

So they called in Singer, possibly Dabb, although I wouldn’t be surprised if they went straight to Singer. They told them that Destiel had to go: executive orders. And the only way to make it go in a way that removed any trace of what had been there was to rewrite what happened to Cas and cut him out from the last two episodes entirely. It was too late to reshoot anything. They had to just cut and stitch and fill with bullshit montages. 

They removed the scene at the end of 19, probably because Cas and Lucifer discussed Dean. All that was left of Misha there was his voice on that fake phone call. They may have cut other things too, but I would bet my life that they cut a scene from the end of the episode and replaced it with that very strange montage. Then they moved onto 20. They cut out every scene with Cas. And left in only two platonic mentions of him, neither made by Dean. They tried to imply that Cas might show up in Dean’s heaven at some point, but that was as far as the editors could go in the time they had. They filled in with montages, awkwardly long shots, anything they could do to fill all of those missing scenes.

And they even had to take the opening montage, because literally everything in it pointed to Cas being there at the end of it all. They wouldn’t be able to leave out his scenes, they were too critical to the season. They couldn’t cut his confession without raising eyebrows. So they cut the whole thing and moved “Carry On My Wayward Son” to one of the newly-added driving montages at the end. Which is why we awkwardly had both songs play back-to-back--again, such a strange choice unless they were out of options and couldn’t exactly buy rights to a new track or compose anything else.

And so we were left with the shadow of the finale that we deserved, that Cas and Dean deserved. We were left without resolution or happiness or words. Bobo told us the most important thing about happiness is just “saying it” and our characters were silenced without anyone ever knowing the truth.

I think the writers might have known and been given the new party line that “Misha never filmed, he couldn’t, sorry, it was COVID, no one’s fault!” But I don’t think most of the cast even knew it had happened until they watched the finale on Thursday with us (though they might have been confused why the bit from 15x19 was sliced, they could reasonably have assumed it was a time thing and also BL episodes don’t make sense anyway). Why do I say that?

Well, first of all, Misha started sending out a bunch of excited texts to fans with some old BTS pictures about an hour before the show started airing on EST. He also wanted his children to see the episode, his YOUNG children. Why would he show them such a traumatic episode if their Dad wasn’t in it? What if it was because he wanted them to witness what was going to be a monumental moment in queer television history that their DAD got to be a part of? And then that was all dashed.

Which is why I think the cast and crew went almost completely radio silent the next day. I don’t think they knew. And based on how they have been acting on social media since then, I think many of them are absolutely furious, but they have been silenced because of NDAs, because they want to find work again in a cutthroat industry, because they don’t want to bring down the hellfire of Warner Brothers Entertainment upon themselves. So the most we have gotten is a little acknowledgement from the MERCHANDISING COMPANY trying to validate our pain (god bless Shirts, she is a LIFESAVER) and a response to my salty tweet about keeping good stuff in the closet from Adam Williams (the VFX coordinator) that seemed to acknowledge the validity of my complaint.

Then there was a scramble behind the scenes, I would bet my life. Talking points were fed to the boys who had panels today, to CE, to all the cast and crew:

Toe the party line. Misha never filmed. This was always about COVID. Do not mention Destiel. Do not mention Dean’s feelings for Cas. Do not promote the Castiel Project or anything that validates the idea that this was anything less than a superb ending.

And that is why we have heard so little from the cast on this front, and what we have heard has been muddled and contradictory. That is why the writers are saying nothing. That is why we have been left adrift.

Now before I close this out, I do want to say that I really, genuinely do not think this was on the writers at all. I feel like they tried to give us the best ending that they could, in a writers room that we know is notorious for splitting along party lines about the overall story (BL and Singer, who have always been about the brothers and their man-pain vs. Dabb and the rest who always seemed to want more for them and for Cas). I think they did everything in their power to at least end with Dean and Cas happy together. If they could give us nothing else, they wanted to give us that. And then the network took it from them. From us. From everyone.

For the sake of fucking money. 

And the WORST PART OF IT ALL, for me, is that in the wake of this disaster, the fans have been left to try and figure out what happened. We have had to wade through a mire of conflicting information in the midst of all of our collective anger and grief over this garbage ending of a show many of us have loved and even relied on for YEARS, all the while wondering if we’re just fucking crazy, if we have all fallen collectively into the hole of conspiracy theories. That hurts ESPECIALLY badly because we have taken so many hits over the years from other groups on social media saying we were crazy for seeing things that weren’t there (especially Destiel), for writing meta and analyzing tropes and believing the evidence of our eyes and ears. The network has made us relive that entire nightmare WHILE processing our grief for a show we wanted so badly to celebrate and which instead we now have to mourn.

So again guys, I cannot prove that this is exactly what happened at all; this is simply my idea of what may have happened. But right now, it’s the most sense I can make from this mess, and to be honest, the act of typing it out has helped me enormously in my processing of it all. I feel like I can see more clearly, like I know where to target my outrage and where to direct empathy. I feel like just fucking maybe, I might be able to do my job tomorrow without bursting into tears at random moments. 

I really hope that this post has helped some of you to, in some small way, process this too. We get through this the way that Misha told us at his panel this morning, the way the writers have told us to do all season long...we throw out the story God gave us and we make it better. We write our characters the happy endings they deserve. 

We save them.

One last thing--if you have not already, please consider channeling your rage into a donation to one of the five causes our fandom has put together to pay tribute to our beloved show and to mourn the ending it should have had:

-The Castiel Project

-Dean Winchester is Love

-Sam Winchester Project

-The National Association of the Deaf

-The Jack Kline Project

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, don’t kill me because of the ending, sebastian and reader are the definition of right person wrong time, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, also this part has some funny moments but overall it’s a big SOB

part: 6/6 (there will also be an epilogue)

(other parts)   (masterlist)

This is how it ends: broken hearts from crashed dreams.

Sebastian holds you until his muscles ache and your lungs burn from the feeling of too little oxygen. It is cold and dark, almost midnight, too dark, a starless night.

No more stars for you and I.

“Here,” Voice hoarse, eyes heavy-lid and itching from almost crying. He gives you one of the rings he wore in the movie. “I want you to keep this.”

Keep it close to your heart. Forget me not.

He takes a breath and a step back, tries to regain all the strength he still has, steady feet and shoulders fixed. He digs his nails into his palms, red marks in his skin, air catching in his throat, he’s on the verge of falling but he stays standing.

He remembers tears glistening down his cheeks, maybe they were yours not his, and the cold autumn wind hitting his face and he remembers feeling like he’s dying.

And then he closes the door of Argyris’ car and looks at you.

And his heart stretches and stretches and stretches and then somehow splits in half.

/

It goes like this:

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment from now on. In the living room. Sitting on the couch. And it has steel blue eyes and a familiar heart. And it whispers a love story, half-finished, and you cannot make it stop.

The ghost touches your collarbone and he’s gone but there’s a ring in a golden chain around your neck and a white shirt forgotten in your laundry. And it smells like him. The clinging scent of his aftershave sticking to your pores. Eucalyptus. And no matter how hard you try to wash it off, it still lingers.

How could I ever forget someone like you?

The ghost lives here, but the place is empty, so empty. And it’s hard not to cry.

/

Sebastian calls and texts a lot.

He tells you he’s tired but excited because he started filming a new movie. It’s very indie and experimental, I can’t wait for you to see it. He tells you he’s missing his days in Greece like hell and that one night he dreamt of you. Didn’t want to wake up. What he doesn’t tell you is that he’s coming back in a month, Argyris needs him for some extra scenes. It’s nearly killing him but he doesn’t tell you. He wants to surprise you, see the pure light in your eyes when they’ll meet his.

/

You try sexting. It doesn’t go very well.

23:50, sebastian: if you were here in my bed right now what would you be doing

06:51, you: probably falling asleep hahaha

06:51, you: oh fuck was i supposed to sext back

06:51, you: sorry seb i just woke up and i have a class in an hour, love you <3

23:52, sebastian: fuck timezones

/

(three weeks and 10 seconds later)

“I can’t believe she doesn’t know you’re here,” Argyris shakes his head as he’s driving home from the airport, “If I were her, I’d kill you.”

“Good thing I didn’t fall in love with you.”

Sebastian laughs and looks out of the car window. The stars. There are so many stars tonight. He holds his breath; he’s finally feeling whole again. His heart isn’t split in two anymore.

/

You don’t know how long you stand there at your door, staring at him, but it feels like a century before he grins, almost laughs, takes your hands in his and you start considering that perhaps this isn’t a hallucination. Perhaps it’s real.

“Surprise?”

Something inside of you bursts, your organs twitch. You can’t think, you can’t speak, but you can move. You don’t lose any more time, you take a step forward, attach your bodies, your face buried in his neck, your fingers clutching into the rough fabric of his jacket. You breathe him in like an antidote.

“How?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

You kiss him and it’s like poetry, like art, like honey and you can’t separate yourself from him, not even hours later.

/

(looking back, these were the golden days)

You pretending to be mad at him for not telling you he was coming back and him pressing his lips on your skin, drawing patterns on your naked shoulder. A feathery touch.

Sebastian always touches you like you’re something made of gold and porcelain, something cherished that constantly needs to be treasured. And nobody has done that before. And you love him for it.

You try to decorate your Christmas tree together. He messes with the lights for a while, eventually gives up and goes on to eat too many reindeer shaped cookies.

He massages your muscles when you write a boring essay for college.

You go with him when he has to shoot a “driving a motorcycle naked in the centre of Athens” scene and you bite the inside of your cheeks to stop smiling like an idiot.

He gives you a dress he bought for you in New York.  

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

He calls you sweetheart in the mornings, still half asleep and later joins you in the shower.

“Why are you so hot?”

“Climate change”

“Oh, shut up”

It’s tender and it’s soft and it’s human.

And that’s the saddest part.

/

Soon you realize that him leaving two months ago was merely a rehearsal and you still haven’t said your actual goodbyes. Your chest starts to feel as if it’s full of crushed glass.

And it’s ridiculous because you fell in love with Sebastian sometime between the first ten days you spent together.

Who falls in love in ten days?  

Ridiculous or not, you know you are in love with him just as you know that sooner or later, whatever he is feeling will fade and wither. Maybe it’ll be in a week, maybe it’ll be in a month, maybe in a year if you’re lucky. But there will definitely come a day when he will step out of a gala or a party or a fancy gym in New York with a beautiful model in his arms and two paparazzi’s following him around.

What will you be then?

A past small cameo in his life. A side character. Will he remember your name?

He is your whole world.

(a bottle of cheap prosecco helps you decide that)

He is your whole world.

And yet, there will come a day when he won’t even remember your name.

/

It was difficult. No, it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. Telling him how you think it’d be better if you didn’t talk after he leaves.

“I don’t agree with this.”

“Seb, it’s for the best.”

Your body doesn’t feel strong enough to carry your heart. And you’re certain it will only get worse once he’s away. The world around you will melt. You’ll obsess over a phone screen and his messages. You’ll start chasing ghosts again. You can’t handle that.

“Why?” He says urgently and his fingers dance over the flesh of your palms.

“Because this”, you motion your hand between the two of you, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t want it to become ugly.”

He nods, he understands.

“I love you, you know,” he says smiling and tugs you closer to him, “And I may not be here to show you but I think I’ll love you for a long time.”

Your hand grips his waist right to the bones and something flares in your eyes, something wild that wrenches you around.

“I know, I’ll love you the same.”

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Only if I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.”

He laughs and you look at him, fully aware he’ll be ripped out of your life like a page from a cheap leather notebook. And when you kiss for the last time, there’s a hole forming in your soul.

And just because endings don’t leave visible scars to one’s body and soul, that doesn’t mean the scars don’t exist. You know they do, because you feel the aching pain of every single one of them.

/

(every night when you close your eyes you see him)

(every night you look at the stars and think of him)

/

A month passes and Argyris asks you if you miss him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“He said the exact same thing.”

You tell him not to mention Sebastian again.

Two months pass and you need to stop stalking his instagram profile.

Three months pass and you almost text him.

Four months pass and you go to watch Endgame with some friends and you cry. You cry when Black Widow sacrifices herself and when Iron Man smiles at his wife while dying, and when Bucky Barnes appears on screen.

The others don’t understand and you don’t blame them.

Five months pass and Argyris’ girlfriend wants you to meet someone. A charming boy your age with blonde hair and a lip piercing.

And he's cute but you compare him to Sebastian even before he has the chance to say his name. His eyes are not the right shade of blue and he doesn’t look at you like you’re made of the world’s finest jewel.

And he doesn’t know any constellation names.

And then more than a year passes in a second and you learn to not look for him. Not anymore.

/

It’s early March 2020 and despite the rising fear of the upcoming pandemic, you’re doing well. Scars are starting to fade. And after spending two weeks in Prague, your best friend being there with an exchange program, Sebastian Stan is the farthest thing from your mind.

Until he literally comes crashing into you. At the airport.

No, it can’t be him.

You have your suitcase on one hand and a bottle of antiseptic gel on the other. He has two bodyguards on his sides and a black hoodie on.  And while half of his face is hidden behind a mask, you can see his eyes perfectly. A frozen lake in December. You would know those eyes in your deathbed, at the end of the world.

Your vision gets blurry and suddenly you feel cold.

He won’t recognize me, he can’t.

But then he looks at you and every memory you had buried inside of you resurfaces.

He motions to his guards to wait for him and he starts walking towards you. You breathe slowly, one breath at a time. He takes his mask off and you hesitate to take yours, not sure if you truly want him to see you.

You exchange the typical and very awkward hi, how are you, i’m glad you’re doing okay and then he smiles and it feels comfortable. Familiar.

It’s the whiff of another time that you always kept around. A reminder that you were once loved by a god.

“What are you doing here?”

“Filming Falcon and the Winter Soldier”

If you hadn’t unfollowed him on instagram, you’d known.

“Ah yes I heard about that, congrats.”

He nods a thank you.

“And you? In Prague?”

“I was at a friend.”

He looks conflicted, hurt, turns his gaze to his shoes on the grey cement. You want to say something, but you feel like throwing up.

And then he laughs.

“I was right.”

You’re confused, he notices.

“Back in Greece,” he swallows, “I told you this would happen.”

“It would have been an airport, different gates for each of us, but same waiting hall. Or a Greek island, where we’d both be for the summer.”

“I would have found you.”

You remember and you cannot help but smile. He was right. He found you.

“I didn’t believe you then.”

I barely believe you now.

He touches your hair. And his touch is like a knife. And you want to cry. Magnolias under your tongue. A love long lost is whispering in your ears until it hurts to listen. He’s like a magnetic field and you feel yourself drowning in him.

“I bet they’ll ask me a hundred questions about you later.” He says and looks at the two men waiting for him.

“And what will you tell them?”

“That you’re most probably the love of my life.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

“There’s no way we’d meet here if you’re not.”

“Sebastian,” His name sounds like a prayer coming out of your lips and you're ready to tell him you love him and you can swear he looks like he’s ready to faint, “I-”

The guards yell his name. And it's the same feeling people have just before a car crash.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

One last look.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You repeat it over and over again. But you fail.

“No, don't cry” He smiles, one last smile, “Just look at the stars and wait for us to meet again, because we will.”

He caresses the back of your palm for a second and you think your ribcage is shattering but it’s only your heart drumming frantically. Pushing your fragile bones to break. 

You want to stop him, wrap your arms around his torso, never let him go. Not again. But you don’t.

You just watch him leave, one more time, your knees weak, your head heavy and dizzy. For the split of a moment he turns and glances at you but then he’s nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was all in your imagination. Perhaps it was nothing but a wonder.

You get into your plane and you silently sob.

/

And then it’s summer.

And you overhear he was seen with a girl, the day before your vacation starts and you find a picture of them together a week later, a pretty blonde girl clinging to his side with a colorful bikini somewhere in Spain. And he’s smiling. And you feel so ashamed. And so stupid.

They say time heals all wounds but they must be wrong because you can’t forget how he used to smile at you or how he used to call you the love of his life.

Was he joking when he said you'll meet again? You bet if you asked him now, he wouldn't even remember saying it.

I’ll love you for a long time.

So long for nothing.

/

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :) also i’m really sorry if you asked me to tag you and i didn’t  but i lost a lot of asks and the urls of the people that sent them :( 

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree @sara-1705 @dorothea-hwldr @freshfreakoaftrash @drinkfantasy @christinamcdonnell ​@partypoison00 ​ @90ssantiago

[you-are-so-much-better-than-that]

Y'know what gets me about the shameless timeline??? THEIR FUCKING WEDDING.

We claim it's March 21st 2020. That's when the episode aired, that's when the wedding supposedly happened, fine, great.

HERES THE THING!!

When Debbie suggests having the wedding at the park, Ian says "it's gonna be 40 degrees with a chance of snow"

AND YET in the days before his anniversary, Ian is swimming in the pool and sitting outside with his sunbathing neighbors.

Also, in the days before their wedding (meaning EARLY MARCH in CHICAGO in the MIDWEST UNITED STATES) they're walking around in light jackets, it's sunny and there's no snow or even hint that it's winter.

My personal theory is that the wedding actually happened on OCTOBET 21st 2019, before COVID starts.

This also makes sense because when season 11 starts (~6+ months later) they're still pretty closely following quarantine procedures. Anyway, thoughts??

Oh Alicia you sweet soul boy do I have thoughts!! 😂😂 They jist of them is 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️. I'm not there yet at all, but somewhere around season four, John Wells really forgets how time works/stops giving a fuck about continuity. So by the time seasons 10/11 come around, time has no meaning. All common sense is gone.

What actually happens is the first three seasons, I think Wells preferred keeping time compact. So the first three seasons technically happened within like a year and a half, not the three years it was filmed over. What Wells didn't consider is that the children he hired will go through puberty, and the 10 year old Debbie that filmed season 1 won't look 11/12 in season 4 since she's now 14. So major unexplained time jump. It went from 2012 to 2014 in three weeks (we'll get there. This is the thing thay drives me the most crazy).

As for the wedding, the episode aired in January of 2020 and I assume filmed around then too, so therefore snow! Cold! Etc! Then the anniversary episode aired in April 2021 and filmed in March. I don't know if covid delayed things and they expected to film earlier and couldn't but the script was written and they didn't wanna rewrite. Or maybe I'm giving them too much credit and they're just lazy as fuck. I don't know. But it really wouldn't have been hard to just have them wear puffy jackets..

Unfortunately, at the very last second, they show Frank's date of death and it says March 21, so it's pretty canonically definitive that day. 🤷🏽‍♀️ I just tell myself the year of the wedding was a freakishly cold winter and the following year was a freakishly warm spring? I don't know 🙄 I have a friend here in Canada who has a heated pool and she gets it going in April 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

But you know what? John Wells did say time makes no sense, so that's canon too 😂 you are free to think anything you'd like! Time doesn't exist in Shameless!

Thanks for coming along this wild ride as we try to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense!

[sunflowerharrington]

hey, pretty stranger - k.walker x c.howard (birthday week day three two)

summary - Cassie meets Kit while she’s in Boston for the day, hoping to stay out of trouble with Maddy for at least 12 hours. And he restores her faith in men. To some extent… Also, Julia ice skates for the sake of storyline reasons and it’s something she and Cassie can bond over.

words - circa 2.3k

tags - language, fluff, mentions of violence, mentions of somebody wanting to murder someone else, daisies, one bed though neither sleep in the bed. half headcanons half descriptive writing, it’s the best i got right now.

notes - an imagine rather than a full blown oneshot. my first euphoria fic, please be nice! also, i don’t like cassie but i also don’t hate her. girlie just wants to be loved, man. these lines —— those ones, yeah, they’re the headcanon parts. also just realised asylum and euphoria were filmed a decade apart! damn…

giving credit where credit is due - divider credit goes to @bleedingthroughteeth and their meeting scene was inspired by this post by @mrs-march-ahs, i hope that’s okay lovey… and credit to rue bennett for being an amazing narrator who i basically stole her dialogue for the first paragraph :O

|not edited|

.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡.･*:｡

It was her kryptonite; somebody who showed her any sort of attention or affection at first glance. Cassie Howard fell in love with every guy she ever dated, and that was known by everybody at East Highland Highschool when she went there and all over town. Whether these boys were smart or stupid, sweet or cruel, loving or cold, it didn’t matter. None of that mattered when Cassie was in a relationship, and she held onto the label of being somebody’s girlfriend like her life depended on it. She just never liked being alone. But that is what was wrong; they were boys, not men. And she was treated like a fucking whore. Cassie needed a gentleman to sweep her off her feet…

She should have known better, though, but who could blame her for wanting perfect love? But after being fucked over by too many people, she began to lose hope, taking to the internet to make herself feel like she was wanted. Therapy was suggested to her, but Cassie, she didn’t want to go. She thought she could figure her shit out on her own.

So when she travelled to Boston to get out of town and to do some retail therapy for her car, the only therapy she thought was worth being a thing, she wasn’t expecting anything to happen, at all. Normally, Cassie would be the one to make reckless, bad decisions when she got lost in her problems, but this time, she might have actually saved her own fucked up life.

She found herself wandering around random stores, in search of something to take her mind off all the shit happening back at home, and she found it, or rather, him. In a car sales place down the street from the mall, the last store she went into, hoping to pick up some new pieces for her car while she was in Boston for the day instead of waiting any longer and her car potentially exploding. Just like her relationships.

He was bent down behind the counter, doing something; Cassie couldn’t really tell what, but that didn’t matter. She leaned against one of the shelving units, watching the man clean up, running his fingers through his brunette hair to get it out of his way while he cleaned. He began to slowly look up, his brown eyes meeting hers, and she turned around quickly, inspecting the… empty shelf… hoping to go unnoticed by the man. She heard him chuckle slightly, before going straight back to work.

He grinned at her as he kept cleaning, and she smiled weakly, not turning to look back at him. Fuck no, she felt her heart begin to flutter faster at the sight of him and his goddamn smile. She couldn’t let herself fall for someone again, no, she’d break. And he hadn’t even said two words to her.

She flinched when she felt a strong hand tap her on the shoulder, spinning around to shove whoever it was onto the ground, almost knocking down one of the shelving units. Not just the products, the entire damn thing.

“Hey, didn’t mean to startle ya, Miss!” The man apologised profusely, holding his hands up as he got to his feet, picking up a blue steering wheel cover that fell to the ground with him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Cassie began helping him pick up the other items that had fallen to the ground. He brushed himself down after the fall, telling Cassie there’s no need to apologise and it was in self defence.

Cassie blinked at him in confusion, he wasn’t mad at her for pushing him? Or even looking at him the wrong way? What kind of sorcery...?

“You’re… You’re not mad at me for pushing you to the ground? I literally assaulted you and you’re fine with that? What the fuck—?!” She began shouting, only to stop herself mid sentence. “Sorry…” she sighed. “Bad day.”

He lifted his head to meet her eyes, mahogany meeting the ocean, the windows into each other’s souls; one broken and wanting to be loved and one wanting to give their all to somebody. The man watched as Cassie’s pupils began to dilate ever so slightly, and he was on the verge of heading into a deep trance he’d never want to ever leave before she looked away, glancing at the ground.

“Of course I’m not mad at ya,” he said, while putting a container of screws back up on the top shelf, his shirt lifting up a little, revealing soft, pale skin. “Always nice to see a woman able to protect herself. Wouldn’t wanna get in a fight with ya anytime soon,” he chuckled. God, just wait until he meets Maddy… If he ever does, hopefully not, for Cassie’s sake.

—— Cassie gave Kit a weak smile and apologised once more, and they parted ways. A few minutes later Cassie heads up to the till and pays for her stuff but Kit stops her, telling her again that it was alright. Cassie said she should do something for him to make up for it and so Kit asked her to ask him on a date, basically. So she did.

—— They went to a nearby park after Kit locked the store up for lunchtime, and Kit brought his ‘emergency date kit’ with him; A blanket and some snacks that he kept out the back of the store. (Snacks that go missing whenever his kids are around and when he’s not looking, hmm…)

—— Enough about kids for right now! Kit made Cassie a daisy flower crown, smoothing Cassie’s hair down before placing it on her head. He let his hand linger on her cheek and smiled at her, and her breath caught in her chest. Never had she thought that a man with some fucking respect would be so much more hot than ones who did not.

Cassie caught herself nervously giggling, as did Kit, and after their nervous laughter died down a little he asked her, “Can I kiss you, Cassie?” And she nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

His lips gently hovered at hers as he leaned in, his nervous, shaky breath ghosting over her lips before he brushed his lips against them, pressing them against hers in a soft, sweet kiss. It was only two seconds or so but it was the best two seconds of Kit’s entire year, five years, eternity maybe? He hoped to God she wouldn’t leave him.

Cassie’s chest bursted with butterflies and she was just as happy as the day her dad got her her first pair of ice skates when he could afford lessons. When he kissed her it felt like she was floating on cloud nine itself, or taking a long stroll on the beach by herself with the wind fluttering through her hair and the sound of the calm ocean being the only sound to hear for miles.

As they both pulled away, the moment was ruined by Cassie’s phone pinging with a text telling her to not come home as shit was going down and Maddy would kill Cassie if she got within ten feet of her.

—— Kit noticed Cassie beginning to get upset and offered her a place to stay at his place for the night after she briefly explained the best she could through her sobs and tears.

—— She was a bit hesitant at first but felt a sense of trust with Kit, so he drove her there in his car, which smells like cedarwood and pine, where she meets the lesbian ICON, Lana Winters, who is just the absolute sweetest to Cassie. Lana was on her way out the door to collect Thomas from his friend’s house and Julia from her ice skating lessons.

—— Kit told Cassie he has kids but that if they make her uncomfortable he’ll ask Lana to take them out for a while or that they can sleep over in their friends’ houses. Cassie said to him that no it’s fine, but she doesn’t want to be around kids after having to get an abortion after McKay forced her to, but she won’t kick them out of their own house to be comfortable. After all, she doesn’t even live there.

—— Cassie obviously didn’t have pyjamas so Kit lent her one of his t-shirts. Kit slept on the couch and Cassie slept in his bed (not wanting to argue with Kit over sleeping arrangements), until memories from home came flooding back to her and so she went into the living room and asked Kit if she could have a hug, he obviously said yes and pulled her into his loving arms.

Kit looked down into her glassy, tear-filled eyes, her lips shaking as she tried to speak, but she couldn’t.

“Cassie…?”

Cassie choked on her tears, now streaming down her face, and Kit listened carefully as she tried to speak. “Nobody’s… Nobody’s ever been this nice to me before… K-Kit…”

Kit used his thumb to run under her eyes, collecting the fallen tears, stroking the side of her face with his knuckles. He then pulled her into a cuddle and could feel her melting in his touch, her poor battered and bruised body shaking as she sobbed violently into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kit.”

“There is absolutely no need to be sorry, suga’ plum. You’ve done nothing wrong,” he cooed, running his hand down her hair repeatedly, and swayed the both of them, twisting slightly both ways. “And even if something happened, you know you can always talk to me. I’m here, suga’, I’m here.”

Kit’s swaying eventually lulled Cassie to a calm, and the sweet nothings he whispered in her ear made her tear up inside even more. Why is he being so nice to me?; was one of the thoughts circling her mind in that moment. And she fully melted into the embrace, their bodies moulding perfectly together as if they had been made for each other, warmth radiating around them like a force field to keep out all the bad things and future events.

— He unwrapped Cassie from the embrace for a brief few seconds to move some of the pillows off the sofa. He lay with his back against the sofa board and scooted up against the back so there would be room for Cassie to lie in his arms.

— After lying down, Kit kissed her temple so soft it could have been imaginary, just barely touching her skin but touching enough to make her melt in his arms.

He brushed her blonde hair out of her face, leaving small kisses where her hair once lay at her temples. The smell of sandalwood mixed with his soft breathing put her to sleep almost instantly, and her dreams after that were filled with nothing but happiness, and the nice memories. All of the nice, happy things.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep next to him but she couldn’t help it, Kit was just so… calming, refreshing, and a hope that there were actually good guys out there. (You picked well this time, kid <3 )

Cassie awoke the next morning to quiet talking in the kitchen, though it was loud enough for her to hear and to wake her up from her slumber. She was surprised to find out that Kit didn’t want to use her for sex, in fact he too hated men AND women who used people for sex. Okay, feminist, okay! Instead, he said, “I just want somebody to love, y’know?”

“Someone like Cassie, you mean?” Lana chuckled. “From what you’ve been saying I think she’s a lovely woman. She’ll be good for you, Kit.”

“I already like her, Lana. ‘N I don’t wanna end up pushing her away or her thinkin’ I’m some freak ‘cause I’m a single dad of two kids. Beautiful kids at that, but I don’t know how she’ll be around ‘em and I don’t know how they’ll be ‘round her.”

Cassie felt very conflicted and confused by all this, she thought all men were assholes. At least the ones she had relationships with… Pretty much.

She stretched her arms, yawning as she got up, after having one of the best sleeps in a long time. She stood up and ran her hands through her hair to smooth it down, making her way into where she heard Kit and Lana talking.

Kit smiled when Cassie entered the kitchen in his shirt, she looked beautiful, like a goddess to him, saying that he hopes she’s hungry because he made fruit salad with help from Julia… While Lana watched Thomas practising football in the backyard from the kitchen table.

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After breakfast, Kit noticed Cassie beginning to sniffle, the bad memories flooding back into her mind again, disturbing her peace, so he led her out of the kitchen and up to his bedroom for some privacy. She asked him to stay with her a while and in an instant she was wrapped up into a bundle in his arms once again, breathing in his distinct scent of sandalwood and the strawberries from breakfast.

Cassie sighed, sitting up in the bed, tears slowly filling her still glassy eyes. “I’m gonna get called a slut when I get home… When they all find out I was at another man’s house” she sniffled, wiping her blotchy face with the back of her hand, blinking back her tears.

Kit’s hold around her tightened, and he pressed a sweet, soft kiss to her forehead. “If anyone calls ya anything other than a beautiful angel, imma beat them up, okay? Nobody is allowed to talk to ya that way.”

“But I—”

“Cassie,” he said, much more sternly this time. “Ya don’t deserve to be called a slut, you are not one, okay? And I will keep telling you that ‘till ya believe me. Even if it takes months, years, eternity, I’ll keep on telling ya that you're not a slut. Don’t let anyone tell ya that ya are, alright?”

She sniffled again, nodding with a sad smile. What did I do to deserve such a beautiful soul like Kit?, she thought to herself. Even more so at his next words; “And you can stay up here ‘s long as ya like. I’ve only got one bed but we could make it work. If ya want?”

“God, Kit,” she sighed, the small smile on her face growing and the tears rushing to escape her eyes. “Why are you so nice?”

“What can I say? Kindness costs nothing, ‘suga. And whoever those people are… we can forget them right now, ‘kay? Just us two right now, hm?”

“Just us,” she repeated back to him, and fell back into his embrace, never wanting to leave his arms for the rest of eternity.

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taglist - @sympathyforher, @xxlangdon, @unlivingdreams my lovelies <3

wanna be added? dm, comment or ask to let me know :)

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[honeyspidey]

lovely. | tom holland

summary: after a long day on set, tom says the wrong name during a scene.

warnings: fake argument

–

It’s the sort of evening that would usually force everyone inside; a dark and cloudy sky, cold wind, the promise of a storm later. Some on-and-off downpour has left the pavement slippery and wet. The air is thick with the scent of rain, and yet it’s the perfect day to film. You suppose it fits with the feel of the film, as it’s rather heavy and the premise focuses on loss and the ramifications of pent up grief.

You march out into the cold evening air and hit your mark at the edge of the pavement, knowing that Tom is following you out of the restaurant. You struggle slinging a coat on while still holding a large handbag.

The current scene takes place near the crescendo of the film, when things get all too much for the protagonist’s girlfriend - Holly, played by you. After Tom in his role as Jude calls one of the waiters a ‘sucker’, Holly decides that she’s had enough.

“What the fuck are you doin’?” Tom yells once he rushes outside after you.

You don’t say a word nor send a single glance his way. You just put your hand out to try and signal for a taxi. You’ve done this before already so many times (all shot in different angles) that your shoulder is beginning to radiate a dull ache, like an ignored student in the middle of class with their hand up in the air.

“Are you kiddin’ me? Don’t do this to me, baby, come on,” Tom complains. “Let’s go back inside, everybody’s worried about you.”

His voice sounds hoarse, a telling that you’ve been trying to get this scene right for far too long. You’re both tired. Cold. And so bloody sick of crying. This take has to be it. You decide to do a few things that you didn’t do during the several takes, and pray that Tom can meet you halfway. You’ve been lucky enough to work with him on multiple Marvel films in the past, so you know that he’s more than decent at improvising and rolling with the punches.

Tom reaches out to grab your arm and you recoil. “Don’t you fuckin’ touch me.” you snap, pointing a perfectly manicured fingernail into his face.

“She speaks!” Tom roars loudly, throwing his hands out in the air on either side of him. He draws some some of the extras’s attention to you both, seeing as that line was improvised. Rather convincingly, too. “What the hell happened in there? You made me look pretty fuckin’ stupid by leavin’ halfway through dessert.” Tom sneers, steering back to the script.

“I couldn’t be near you any longer.” you say.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you are such a drama queen!” he yells at you, sounding exasperated. “You really couldn’t wait till later to be like this? You just had to do it in front of an entire restaurant full of people?”

You scoff and shake your head. You look into his eyes and you open your mouth like you’re about to speak your mind, but then a yellow taxi drives by right on cue. You turn back out towards the street and throw your arm out to signal it. You miss it narrowly and curse when it goes around the block.

“What is it, Holl? Might as well say it.” Tom laughs humourlessly, stepping closer to you. “Now look who’s lackin’ in the communication department.”

“Yeah, that’s right, keep throwin’ my words back in my face. Just know that you’re only diggin’ yourself deeper.” you argue, but there’s a pang of sadness sounding behind your words. Here come the waterworks. For the umpteenth time.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” his voice is still full of frustration and violence, but it’s quicker now, alluding to some worry somewhere deep down.

“It means that you’ve changed. I used to think that I was enough and that we could work, but I guess I was wrong,” you tell him, unshed tears glistening in your eyes while you look past him into the incoming traffic. “I don’t think we fit anymore, Jude.”

“Wait, what?” Tom’s voice cracks, his anger dissolving as turmoil takes over his handsome features.

You bottom lip begins to quiver and you refuse to look at him, still on a futile mission to signal for a taxi. “You need to be with someone who’s happy with you pickin’ fights left, right and centre just because you’re mad at the world. I mean, it’s your birthday and we’re in New York. If there was one day where we both should have been carefree and happy it should have been today. But we couldn’t even do that! I was losing my mind trying to do nice things for you but you decided to complain as usual and I just can’t keep on putting up with shit like that!” your voice raises as you go on.

“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down.” he reaches out for you and tries to hold your cheeks.

“No!” you rip yourself away from him and glare in a way that you probably meant to be intimidating, but turns out to be a teary mess instead. “Don’t tell me to fuckin’ calm down, I’m so beyond pissed off!” Tears start to fall down your cheeks. “I’m sick of the fights and the lies and you pretending that everything is okay in front of other people but then throwing all of your shit onto me when we’re alone!”

Tom’s heart shatters as he watches you try not to sob freely in the middle of the pavement. He knows you’re acting, but fuck. He’s never seen a person look so sad before in his life. He’s so caught up with staring at you that his next line comes a little late.

“I know... I know I keep fuckin’ up and I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. Well, I do, but it’s stupid.” he feels an emotional lump forming in the back of his throat, the beginnings of tears make his eyes sting and his vision cloudy. He didn’t think that he’d be able to cry so easily during this take, but things feel different with this one. It’s definitely stronger than the last. The air around you both has a certain electric feel, the eerie sensation before a storm.

“What is it?! Talk to me! All I’ve ever wanted to do is help you!” you shriek desperately.

“I’m freakin’ out, alright?! Freakin’ out that I’m gonna lose you, too! You’re the only person left on this entire planet that I can stand to be around, Y/N!” Tom’s eyes widen as he realises what he said. His voice switches seamlessly out of the spot on Massachusetts accent to his normal way of speaking. “Not Y/N, I mean Holly. I, uh, shit.”

Tom buries his face in his hands upon hearing the crew behind the camera laugh and chatter amongst themselves. He makes an exhausted sounding groan before pulling his hands away and looking at you apologetically. You’re smiling now, but your cheeks are still wet with tears and Tom can’t tell if your nose is a little pink from the cold or all the crying. Probably both. It’s endearing seeing you this way, now gorgeous and smiling brightly after performing the most convincing breakdown Tom has seen throughout his entire career.

“I’m so sorry, that was so unprofessional. You were practically on a roll and I went and it messed up.” he says.

“Tom, it’s fine! Don’t be silly.” you assure him, falling out of your memorable Massachusetts accent as well. You squeeze his bicep when you notice just how bad he appears to be feeling about the little mistake. You flicker your eyes over to the crew and Tom keeps looking at the side of your face. You really are the most captivating thing he’s ever seen. “Are we still rolling? Can we keep going?”

The director gives you the okay and enthusiastically mentions how she adores the subtle changes you and Tom are making this time around. She’s positively over the moon. Tom’s eyes find his brother amongst those behind the camera, and Harry promptly gives him a thumbs up, to which Tom offers a tight, yet grateful smile. He takes a deep breath before preparing himself to say that line once again, only this time hopefully saying the right name.

–

It’s nearing midnight and is about to rain again when you wrap up for the day. Instead of going to the hotel suite you booked throughout the duration of this project, you decide to stay nestled up in your trailer to go over your lines for tomorrow before eventually going to sleep. You’re in a pair of polka dot pyjamas and you’re sitting comfortably on your trailer’s bed as you read the chunks of dialogue that are highlighted in pink.

About an hour passes when you hear some knocks on your trailer’s door. The loud patter of rain has already begun to hit the trailer’s roof, blurring into one long whirring noise that you find some peace in. After glancing at your phone, your eyebrows furrow at the time that shines back at you but you get up and answer the door anyway. The cold wind that hits you is immediate, making you hug your arms close to yourself.

“Tom?”

You recognise his pink hoodie first. He’s underneath a black umbrella, a couple feet lower than you as he’s standing on one of the steps that lead up to your trailer. He tilts the umbrella up and dips his head down to make eye-contact. His brown hair is hidden underneath a grey beanie that he has on beneath the soft pink hood. He surpasses how tired he looked earlier, now that all the makeup touch ups for the camera have been removed. You still think he looks wonderful.

“Hi.” he breathes, his warm breath mingling with the cold air to create a visible puff in front of him. He grins a lazy looking grin when he notices your sleeping attire, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling slightly.

“Hey,” you smile. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t at the hotel.”

You get the image of him trudging in the rain looking for you and it makes you feel a little bad. “Yeah, sorry. I just thought that I’d stick around here for tonight.” He nods in understanding. You grimace up at the black night sky where the rain is falling without the possibility of stopping any time soon. “Please come in, it’s freezing out here.”

His face slowly drops. “Thanks, but I only came to tell you something.” He speaks louder than usual so that you’re able hear him over the heavy rain.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just... If I don’t say this I’m worried I’ll go crazy,” he laughs at himself. You look at him, bright and feminine eyes urging him to continue. How is he supposed to put into words all of his feelings towards you after burying them deep for too long? Although he’s just gotten off the phone with one of his best female friends for advice on how to approach this, he’s still uncertain that he’ll be able to do you justice. “Y/N, I wanted to let you know that I didn’t mess up just because it’s been a long day—”

“Oh, that really wasn’t a big deal at all, we all screw up sometimes. Stop stressing about it—”

“Darling, please let me say this,” he sounds desperate, taking you a little by surprise. For as long as you’ve known him, Tom has always called women ‘darling’, yet tonight it feels like it means more. This little late night drop by is feeling more and more important as the seconds pass, and it makes butterflies start to fly all around in your abdomen. “It wasn’t because I was tired, it was because you’re always on my mind. I care about you a whole lot more than you think.” he confesses, a weight lifting off him by finally speaking his inner most thoughts out loud.

You stare at him, blinking like a fool as the meaning behind his words sink in. What in the world is happening right now? You and Tom are friendly, but have never been particularly close. God knows you’ve always wanted to be, though. Sure, you have exceptional on screen chemistry and never fail to like each other’s posts on Instagram, but you’re strictly friends from work and neither of you ever went out of your ways to change that.

Until now.

When you don’t say anything, he continues spilling his heart out to you in order to fill the silence. “I’ve always believed that people deserve to know how great they are, so I came here to tell you that I think you’re lovely. And to also apologise that it’s taken me this long to say so. I should also say that I’m really not expecting anything, but I just had to get this off my chest because you’ve been on my mind for six years. And I really don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

Tom thinks you’re lovely? Your heart soars in your chest and you feel the exciting rush of a new possibility. You also aren’t entirely sure what to do next. You might seem like a glamorous, poised and sophisticated actress to the world, but really you’re quite unsure of yourself in the world of love. “Wow.” You exhale, and feel as if all the air has been knocked out of you.

Tom squints up at you. “Is that a good wow or a ‘I-Can’t-Believe-You-Had-The-Audacity-To-Say-That-To-Me-Right-Now’ wow?”

A crack of your laughter shoots through the air and Tom decides that it’s one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard. You give him a knowing smile, standing in silence for a few beats. Then on a surge of confidence, you decide on something. Tom blinks and all of a sudden you’re getting closer, stepping down the metal trailer steps in your socks that slowly get wet from the rain. Tom hastily raises the umbrella to shield you from the downpour. You’re both standing underneath the umbrella now, your sock clad feet on the step above him. You can smell Tom’s peppermint gum in the cool air. You gently rest your palms on his shoulders, feeling his muscles tense then relax underneath your touch.

He holds his breath as you lean forward, pressing your velvety lips to one of his cheeks. Your nose brushes up against the soft fabric of his hood when you pull away after a meaningful, lingering kiss. A short lip smacking sound reminds him that this is in fact real and not something his exhausted brain has conjured up. The terrifying chance he took didn’t blow up in his face like he was expecting. Relief takes over him like a warm blanket.

“Does that answer your question?” you murmur so quietly that he probably wouldn’t have heard you if you weren’t standing so close.

“Yeah, actually, I think it does.” he smiles a smile that could probably give the Cheshire Cat a run for it’s money.

“You know,” you pause, grabbing one of his hoodie strings and twirling it around your fingers. “If I had known all along that this is how you felt, we might have been able to have some fun getting up to no good on the sets we’ve been on.”

“Well, we can always start now.” he says a little too quickly.

You hold in a laugh, shaking your head. “What about tomorrow? It’s an early finish on the schedule, maybe we can have dinner together. See where this goes?”

“I’d love that.” Tom replies, meaning every word.

Then, after deciding that dinner will be authentic wood fired pizza at a tiny Italian restaurant you’ve been meaning to try out, you bid one another goodnight. He doesn’t hesitate to go on his tip toes and kiss you on the cheek in return for the one you gave to him. You keep your dainty grip on his hoodie string as you ascend the steps back inside, letting go at the last possible moment. You look back one last time and see Tom raising his hand in a silent adieu. He waits before your door shuts and he knows that you’re indoors warm and cosy before he walks away.

You and Tom happily fall asleep to the sound of rain some time later, both each other’s reasons for the smiles against your pillows and the bubbly anticipation in your bellies.

[thiswasinevitableid]

For monster March, 18 indruck nsfw?

Here you go! #18 was Satyr.

CN: There are mentions of harassment in this, but nothing bad actually happens and nothing graphic is described.

Duck fucking hates dark and stormy nights.

Every time they roll around, some group of yahoos–or several groups–drive down to the bridge to “look for the goatman.” None of them actually believe he’s here, they’re just looking for an excuse to climb some trestles or draw pentagrams while filming it on their phones and giving themselves the creeps. He’d rather not be found, but sometimes they do something so boneheaded he has to appear and chase them off before someone gets killed.

He hoped tonight would be different; the summer storm is bad enough it’s been flooding the rural roads. But no, there’s some VW van parked under a tree. Duck peers in through the windshield; no one’s home. At least he knows it’s not a group; if it was, their shrieks and laughs would be ringing off the trees by now.

In a flash of lightning, he sees it; the human figure trudging up the slope towards one end of the bridge. Duck follows him from the trees, grumbling the whole way. When he gets close, he steps on big twigs, crunching through the brush. The human stops, listens, keeps moving. Duck cups his hands around his mouth, let’s out a low bleat-scream thing that he’s learned scares the hell out of most humans. This one jumps, head whipping around to show an angular face beneath the hood of a sweatshirt, red glasses slipping down a narrow nose.

“Go away!” The human wraps his arms around himself, “find someone else to bother!”

Duck pauses, engaged in a game of chicken only one of them knows they’re playing. The human sighs, continuing his trek upwards. Duck is running out of time.

He gets as close as he can while staying hidden, barks, “Hey, kid, get the fuck off my land.”

The human looks into the trees, “I hopped the fence. This is the railroads land.”

“You go up on that trestle, you’re liable to not come back down.”

A bitter smile, “I am aware.”

It’s alarming, how calmly he says it, and so Duck adds, “Not just from a train or a fall. Goatman might get you.”

A laugh, high and sharp, “Yes, maybe that is how they’ll explain it. I can see it now; Indrid Cold, lost soul, outsider, is the latest victim of the monster. Ah well, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, it does matter to me.” Duck steps from the treeline into full view. The man across from him goes still. Duck sets a hand on his hatchet, the small one he uses for firewood, “you can either go quiet, or you can go loud.”

The human sprints up the hill.

“Fuck–I meant back to your car!” Duck tosses the hatchet on the ground and takes off after him. He knows these hills and he has hooves; the trespasser has neither and so slips in the mud, sliding backwards to land at Duck’s feet.

Duck reaches down to help him up and gets kicked in the chest for his trouble.

“OW! C’mon, man, I don’t even got the hatchet anymore, look, see?” He holds up his hands, palms out, and the human stops flailing his long limbs.

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I ain’t gonna. I’m tryin to stop you from dyin’. I been around these tracks a long time and I know that there’s a train comin right around the time you’d have made it up and out onto the trestle. I just wanted you to get back to your van and get gone.”

“I…I can’t. I ran out of gas, I thought I could rest here a few days and get some from further down the highway but people from town keep, keep coming to the van and bothering me.” He looks away from Duck, “I don’t have anywhere to go. I thought at least the bridge would offer a nice view, even if I slipped and fell.”

A train whistle in the distance cuts through the fat, heavy drops hitting the man’s pants and Duck’s overalls. Duck suspects that if he leaves him here, he may just lay in the mud and never get up.

“C’mon, Indrid. Let’s get you dry.” He holds out his hand, watches Indrid study his hooves, his horns, meet his yellow eyes, and then make the choice to take it.

They slip and slosh down to the fence, Duck pausing to pick up his hatchet on the way. He shows Indrid the hidden gap in the wire and guides him back to the van as thunder rattles the air.

“What about-”

Duck holds up a hand, “I’ll hang around awhile, in case anyone tries to fuck with you.”

“Oh. Alright. Ah.” Fingers sporting chipped, red nail polish fumble a key ring, “please, come in Mr…Goatman? Satyr?”

“Duck is fine. It’s a nickname.” He climbs into the back of the van. There are no seats aside from the driver and passenger ones, the back occupied by a sleeping bag, pillows, a mini-fridge, a camp stove, and boxes crammed with art supplies and clothes. Indrid plugs in a string of white lights, rendering him ethereal when he pulls back his hood to reveal silver hair.

Indrid strips off his soaked sweatshirt, looks around, and then hangs it on the dashboard, “Would you mind, ah, covering your eyes for a second?”

Duck rests a hand over them, rolls up his pants so the fur on his legs can dry faster. When he has permission to look again, the human is in a loose, black tank top and pajama pants.

“Thank you.” He sits down cross-legged across from Duck, drumming his fingers on his legs.

“You’re taking the goatman thing well. Even when you ran there was way less screamin’ than normal.”

“I’m at a point in life where I feel, “well, this may as well happen” about most things. And not to be rude but, ah, you’re not as alarming as urban legends suggest. You’re cute. I, ah, I mean” he blushes, “I’ve always thought goats were cute so maybe that’s why?”

“Kinda a nice change from the whole scary-wrinkled-bloodstained thing most folks describe me being. Oh, thanks.” Duck reclines against the wall as Indrid points a tiny space heater his way, “how’d you end up here? You doin’ one of those, uh, uh” he snaps his fingers, trying to conjure the words, “van life things?”

Indrid laughs, a real one that warms Duck’s chest, “No, though I'm flattered you think I’m stylish enough for that. And I suppose I do want to take photos as I travel. Mostly I just didn’t want to stay where I was. My only friends left town when we graduated high school. I spent two years getting to a place where I could but then I planned poorly and I can’t even make it to my friends in Kepler. And I didn’t get far enough away from the people who like tormenting me and so I’m stuck. Just…stuck.” He tucks his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them and staring at something Duck can’t see. Red lenses cautiously turn his way, “what about you? Were I a cryptid, this isn't the place I’d choose as my stomping grounds.”

“Didn’t really pick it. I got framed for murder in 1869 and hung. Heard a voice when I was prayin for the rope to snap my neck, it asked if I wanted a second life. I said yes and it went, uh, sideways.” He taps one horn, “got stuck here as a guardian.”

“I’m sorry. Wait, if you’re from that long ago, how on earth do you know what #Vanlife is?”

“Got a couple of friends in Kepler too. A cabin with some decent wi-fi. Just cause I’m old don’t mean I gotta be stuck in the past.”

“That’s a relief.” Indrid’s posture relaxes instantly, and he crawls to the fridge, “do you want a drink? I mostly have Mountain Dew and some bottled tea.”

“Tea me.” Duck catches the bottle, pops it open as the human digs through a bag.

“I have a lot of food. It’s not healthy per say but it’s good.”

“Got any apples or anythin?”

“....I have fruit roll-ups.”

Duck chuckles and accepts the worryingly blue candy, chewing thoughtfully as Indrid pushes more shiny packages his way. The human asks if he’s ever had any memorable encounters on the bridge. Duck obliges him with stories about misguided youths, ghost hunters, and one very determined nest of bats. In exchange, Indrid regales him with tales of small-town life and his dreams about becoming a well-known artist. By the time Duck gets to the one about scaring a particularly awful kid into spray-painting himself, they’re both giggling like school kids on a summer afternoon.

“Honestly, what kind of person antagonizes all their friends while at the foot of a haunted bri–oh damn it all.” It’s wild gestures catch one of the boxes, sending drawings cascading onto the carpet.

“Holy shit, are these all yours?” Duck lifts a sketch of three knives stuck through a bleeding heart dove.

“Yes. I dabble in tarot and decided I wanted to make my own deck. This whole box is what I’ve come up with so far.”

“I better be careful with ‘em, then.” Duck gingerly gathers the papers nearest him, handing them off to their creator.

Indrid taps the lid of the box, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in modeling for one?”

“Depends on what it is. If I’m a devil or somethin, that’s a no-go.”

“I think…I think you on the trestle, maybe. Looking up at a particularly bright star, woods stretching out peaceful and dark beneath you.”

“That sounds-” His ear twitches and he turns his head toward the crunch of gravel and splash of puddles. Voices slip through the windows and Indrid recoils, grabbing the nearest blanket.

“It’s them. Here, quickly, they were threatening to smash my windshield last night. If we hide at least they’ll only break that instead of my nose.”

“I got a better idea. Lay face down, all splayed out like you been knocked there.” He grabs one of the ketchup packets strewn under the front seat, “keep quiet and don’t move until I give you the all clear.”

Indrid nods, grinning as Duck smears ketchup on the head of his hatchet. Then he flops dramatically on the floor. Duck bends down as the voices close in and whispers, “I’m gonna take your glasses off okay? Make it look like you were asleep when I got here.” He waits until Indrid nods, then slides them off and sets them just out of the human’s reach.

He sneaks out the front door while the quintet of trespassers bang on the back of the van.

“Cooold, c’mon out and say hiiii!”

“Bet he’s hidin’ from us.” Another scoffs as Duck scales a tree. Great thing about a weird demon protector spirit or whatever he is; he can be dead quiet when he needs to.

“Hidin’ ain’t gonna save you!”

“No, it really ain’t.” Duck drops from the tree onto the roof of the car, hooves sending a metallic thud through the trees. There’s a flurry of curses, the men scurrying back as he takes another leap onto the ground, side door opening as he lands. Indrid lays still in the stormy darkness as Duck nonchalantly twirls the hatchet, “that fella was just sleepin' on my land. Imagine what I’m gonna do to you for raisin’ a goddamn ruckus on it.”

The men don’t stick around to hear more. Duck watches them sprint through the darkness to a pair of lifted trucks he’d bet money have never seen a day of farm work. He doesn’t climb into the van until the taillights are gone.

“All clear.” Duck shuts the door as Indrid opens his eyes.

“Hearing them scream like that added five years to my life.” He shakes out his hair, sets his glasses in place with a softer smile, “really though, thank you for that. I’ve been their target for years, and apparently getting outside the city limits wasn’t enough to change that.”

Duck sets his hand on a bony knee, Indrid relaxing instead of flinching away, “Glad I could help. Now, believe you were sayin something about how I should pose for you?”

Indrid directs him into position and Duck tries not to focus on how nice it is when the human moves his limbs, tips his chin this way and that, or runs his fingers through his hair.

Indrid steps back, cocks his head, “Are you, ah, willing to remove your overalls? It’s alright if not, I can work around it but I think it would look more in line with what’s in my mind oh, oh thank you, alright then, ah, I’ll just g-get my things.” Indrid turns his flustered face away as Duck pulls the denim from his ankles.

“Thought goatmen wore underwear?” Duck teases.

“Yes, yes I did. But it doesn’t bother me, as long as you’re comfortable. Though I probably won’t include, ah, it.”

“Fine by me.” Duck smirks as Indrid’s gaze keeps flicking back to his dick. That getting bigger was a side benefit of the whole transformation. Too bad he doesn’t get to use it much.

Indrid gets less jittery as he draws, eyes flicking to Duck’s face, chest, or arms, but his blush stays put. Duck’s happy to let the conversation ebb and flow as the artist works, his enjoyment of the situation now tied very closely to the way Indrid studies his body.

After a half hour, the pencil pauses. Indrid looks over his glasses at him, biting his lip, “You know, you’ve potentially saved my life twice tonight. And all I’ve given in return is some processed food.”

“And the chance to see your cute face for hours.” He winks.

“You really think that?”

Duck smiles, “I’ll let you in on a little secret; I can’t lie for shit.”

Indrid sets the sketchpad down, crawls the short distance to sit at Duck’s feet, “It only seems fair to pay you back for protecting me.”

“Only if you want to.” Duck cups Indrid’s chin, guiding his face up so their eyes meet, “I’m serious; you don’t owe me a damn thing.”

“I want to. I really, really want to.” His eyes dart down to Duck’s lap.

Duck kisses him once, gently, laughing as fingers tenderly pet his legs, “Tickles.”

“I’m sorry. You’re just so soft.”

“Glad you like it, darlin. How do you wanna do this?”

“I’m good at blowjobs.” The answer is automatic but oddly lacking in desire. Like he’s learned that’s the answer that keeps the other person happy.

“Hmmm. Now, far be it from me to turn that sweet mouth down, but I’m a little worried you’d have trouble, nngfuck, fittin’ it in.” He strokes his dick for emphasis, Indrid making pleasingly excited sounds as it swells, “And I’m awful fond of hearing those little noises outta you. So howsabout we do somethin else?”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

“Want don’t even begin to cover it.”

“I, it’s not that I don’t, it’s just…if your preference is for men I might be a bit different than you like.”

Duck nudges him back enough that he can join him on the floor, “Think I get your drift. That don’t bother me none. Ain’t even that foreign an idea; lotta things in the past that got left out of the history books.”

“Ohthankgoodness.” Indrid’s hands are already on his shirt, swiftly tossing it and his pants into a heap by the passenger seat. Skin-toned fabric compresses his chest, and Duck takes that in along with the damp spot on his boxers.

“You been thinkin about this for awhile, darlin?”

“Ever since your pants came off. Or, ah, well, actually before then. I felt so safe once you joined me here. Maybe that was foolish.” He tilts his head at the hatchet, stowed safely on the dashboard.

“Nah. All a cute little thing like you has gotta worry about when it comes to me is takin’ my dick.”

Indrid moans, legs spreading in welcome as Duck crawls between them.

“You like that, darlin? Wanna give up life on the road to spend hours a day in my lap with my cock in you?”

“That depends on how good you are with it.” Indrid flashes a playful smile.

“Guess I better make my case.” Duck pushes the head in and moans; it’s been years since he was inside anyone and fuck, it’s even better than he remembers. Then again, that might just be because he’s with Indrid, who is busy moaning happily even as his legs try to close around the intrusion.

“Uh uh darlin” Duck grabs under each knee, holding those long legs open as pushes all the way in with one, slow thrust. By the time he bottoms out Indrid is babbling the word “yes” over and over into his palms.

Duck reaches for him, “Show me where it’s okay to touch. Think my hands are gonna fall off it I don’t get a hold of you but I don’t wanna do it wrong.”

“An-anywhere but here” Indrid waves a hand across his chest. Duck nods, dives down to kiss him while pinning his hands near his head. They don’t stay there long, the urge to tangle them in silver hair too strong.

Indrid wraps his arms around him, running them along his back, thumbing at the sensitive patch where skin gives way to fur so Duck moans into his mouth. When they hover near his horns, Duck murmurs, “just don’t tug on ‘em” and smiles when Indrid’s eyes widen.

“They’re such a lovely tex-textureOH, ahnnngod.” His feet kick along the floor as Duck snaps his hips. The temptation to fuck him hard and fast grates at Duck’s mind, but he pushes it aside. He wants this slow, wants Indrid to understand he’s Duck’s lover, not some quick backseat fuck where one body could be swapped out for another. So he keeps his thrust slow, only adding force right as he bottoms out to hear Indrid squeak.

After an eternity of kisses, Indrid begins working his hips more deliberately, chasing his pleasure on Duck’s body. And if he keeps it up, Ducks’ going to be finished in ten seconds.

“Hold those hips still, darlin.”

“But-”

He presses down on the right side and growls, “I said keep ‘em still. Wanna see you cum on my cock, but that ain’t gonna happen if you keep wiggling like that.”

“AlrIGHT, ohmygoodness, Duck, yes, yespleaserightthere.” The human fights to not squirm as Duck works his fingers on his dick, finding a pressure and shape he makes with his thumb produces the loudest groans. He’s big enough that when Indrid tightens around him he can’t help but feel it, growls at him to be good and cum a few seconds before he does.

“That was perfect, darlin. Now keep behavin yourself and lemme cum on you.” He waits until Indrid nods with a comically bright grin before pulling out and straddling his hips, “fuck, fuckin you is the best fuckin way to get slicked up for this, ohyeah, fuck, you’re gonna look so goddam good, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He aims down so the cum spatters on Indrid’s stomach, the human watching with fascination as it pools on his stomach.

Duck means to say something clever. What he does instead is collapse forward, bonking his head into the floor and making Indrid laugh. Good enough.

“That was amazing.” The human sighs.

“No kiddin. You’re so fuckin gorgeous when youOOooh yeah, yeah that’s a good spot.” He nearly bleats as Indrid rubs his ears.

“They’re so soft and fuzzy, goodness, I wish I had these around whenever I was stressed, petting them makes me feel so calm.”

“Nmmmhmm.” Duck forces his bones to stay solid long enough to lift him up to his elbows, “I, uh, I, look you can tell me to fuck off but if you make it to Kepler, could I see you again? Figure you don’t wanna live in a van by the tracks forever but I’d, uh, I’d feel real fuckin lucky if you paid me another visit.”

Indrid pauses, surprised, “Really?”

“Gotta at least finish posing for you, right?” Duck kisses his nose.

A knowing smile as Indrid cuddles him down into his arms. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

[gingersnaaps]

at your window

hanahaki: the fictional disease where a person, afflicted by unrequited love, grows flowers in their lungs and stomach. unless the love is reciprocated, the disease will grow fatal. there's one workaround, though - one that issei matsukawa is very interested in: the plant can be physically removed.

wc: ~3.8k

tags/tw's(PLEASE PLEASE READ): n*fw, masturbation only(no sex), stalking, snuff, gore, blood, yandere!matsukawa, sorta necro(attraction but not sex), noncon filming, fem!reader but no mention of genitals

a/n: for @suedebunn's april showers collab // this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written and i spent way too long on it. it's supposed to lean towards horror?

i don't want minors interacting with my content

March 8th, 2013

[12:47 am]

The longer Issei sits outside your window, the harder it becomes to stop himself.

His face is pressed up against the dusty glass pane, peering inside at the outline of your sleeping body, and he finds that he can’t help but fixate on it. You look so peaceful, so tranquil, completely at rest as your mind flits between the shadowy realms that dreams inhabit.

He wonders what kind of wonderland you’re in right now - if it’s cotton-candy pink and delightful, just like you, or dark and hazy and spun with danger.

You’d look beautiful in any setting, he thinks, and finds his hand inadvertently drifting downwards.

His gaze rakes over the rise and fall of your chest, taking in the flashes of bare skin where your sheer nightgown rides up, his breath catching as his palm glides over his clothed cock. The friction feels so good - there’s no question that he wants this, needs this - and he wastes no time unzipping his pants and reaching in to free his dick. He doesn’t need to fantasize much, not when you’re mere feet away, instead making sure he sears every detail of your sleeping form into his mind: your fluttering eyelashes, your shallow breaths, the soft glow of your skin in the moonlight.

Issei quickens his pace, stroking up and down the shaft of his cock with purpose, thumb flicking over the slit. His breath huffs against the glass, clouding the surface until it’s dripping with condensation, but he still sees you as clear as day in his mind even as the real image of you blurs. You’re blissed out and relaxed, shoulders free of tension, your lips curving slightly into a smile.

He closes his eyes, rolling his head back as he works his cock, every single brush of his fingers leaving him twitching with sensitivity. You look like an angel, picture-perfect and frozen in time and consciousness, as if you were a framed picture or a museum exhibit preserved just for Issei to admire. Just for Issei. He lets out a quiet groan at the thought as he cums, his hips stuttering and cock jerking up.

You turn over fitfully in your sleep.

Looking down at the cum dripping off his fingers, he wants nothing more than to crawl in through your window and wipe it on your face. It’s an unmistakable mark of ownership, a sign that you belong to him alone, but he hesitates. He’s a bit of a shy guy, you see.

He can wait.

-

March 14th, 2013

[10:01 pm]

He has to conceal himself a bit better tonight than he would on his normal visits. This time, he’s a bit early, and you’re still awake.

His back is up against the siding of your house, right beside your window, but he can still see you in the periphery of his vision. You’re sitting at your desk, bathed in the warm light of your desk lamp, hunched over some math worksheet and scribbling furiously with the pencil in your hand.

Forget the moon; you glow even prettier as the world around you fades to dark.

Just like every other night, he takes in every detail meticulously. Your hair is messier than it was the previous day - maybe you hadn’t washed it in a while? He doesn’t mind, because it’s endearing when you’re messy and imperfect, barefaced in your pajamas, a little rough around the edges.

He thinks it’s similar to the way you’d look after being fucked stupid, if he closed his eyes and tried to picture you being ruined.

Issei tries very hard to ignore the way his cock strains in his pants at the thought.

-

March 23, 2013

[11:30 pm]

The mild spring breeze carries the sweet scent of fresh blossoms and green grass, leaving behind the wintry chill that he had to shiver through each night to be at your side - well, as close by your side as he could get.

These little visits have become a part of his life now, as ingrained as waking up in the morning or eating three times a day. It’s comforting for him to watch you from his spot outside your window each night, admiring you as you go about your nighttime routine, puttering from your desk to your bathroom to your bedroom.

He’s started to take some pictures, maybe even a shaky, pixelated video or two, just to tide him over when he’s alone by himself. They’re no replacement for the real thing, obviously, but it’s enough for him to be able to carry around a reminder of the way you look and sound all the time, even if it’s just a shadow of what you’re like in person. He’ll scroll through his camera roll, fingers trembling with excitement, hissing as he brings his hand down to stroke at his cock.

It’s always better in person, though. He sees you more clearly, hears the sound of your voice muffled through the walls, and most of all, he’s closer to you.

Issei likes to make it last, likes to prolong the pleasure as much as possible, so he always starts off with slow, gentle, pumps, gliding up and down his cock with his index finger and thumb curled into a circle. It’s honestly a miracle how you haven’t noticed yet, because he always tends to lose himself after he starts.

Face pressed close against the window in order to get the best view possible, his warm huffs of breath cloud up the cold glass as he strokes himself faster. His eyes rolling back into his head, his two digits of measured stimulation give way quickly to full, hard, pumps of his cock until soft moans start to spill from his mouth.

It’s hard to resist when you’re right there.

Tonight, you’re sprawled out on your bed, phone held above your face as you chat with your friend on video call. You’re shaking with laughter at some silly joke your friend’s telling, head thrown back and chin tilted upwards, face shining with joy, and he suddenly feels a warm, warm feeling of arousal course through him.

Seeing you happy turns him on, makes his cock so hard even though he just came minutes prior.

The sound of your voice carries through the walls, carefree and bright, chattering on and on about some assignment - or maybe it’s a complaint about the teacher, he’s not too sure - and he smiles contentedly at your silly little worries. Too cute, really.

You suddenly cough.

It’s an ugly sound, dry and strangled, and he cringes at the way your body tenses up and shakes. The coughing fit feels far longer than it actually is; every second of your hacking and wheezing is compounded by the panic gripping him. He watches, helpless, as your face turns ashen and grey, his heart seizing with dread and pounding in his chest.

It’s over as quickly as it begins.

You smile weakly, brushing it off as you apologize to your friend, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settles at the pit of his stomach. He tugs up his pants, bare thighs and dick feeling awfully exposed in the night wind, and scurries back home. Maybe another night, then.

-

April 1st, 2013

[12:09 am]

You’re not in your room today.

Issei leans his head against the cold glass of your windowpane, hands shoved into his jacket, his mind clouding at the edges and overrun with possibilities. He doesn’t recall seeing you making plans with friends the previous night, and there’s not much you could be really doing right now - you have no boyfriend, no plans that he knows of, no real reason to just be gone.

He’s always thought of himself as a calm person. He doesn’t fall victim to temporary urges and flights of emotion the same way that Oikawa or Iwaizumi might, doesn’t do anything reckless on whims he knows will disappear just hours later.

But there’s just something about you that always makes him lose himself, isn’t there?

The window is fogged up with condensation, obscuring his view inside your room. He reaches out the sleeve of his jacket, wiping away the dew clinging to the surface, and squints as he tries to make out the scene in the dim lighting.

On the floor, awash in a pool of moonlight, lies a yellow flower petal spattered with blood.

-

April 4th, 2013

[4:46 am]

Issei’s not stupid.

He knows what the flower petal means, knows what your sickness means. He’s read about it in books, heard the tales from his parents friends, the whispered legends and hushed myths that make one thing clear:

You belong to someone else.

It’s a thought that fills him with revulsion. You already have Issei; is he not enough for you? Are you such a whore that his devotion falls short of what you’re so clearly greedy for?

He’s stopped restricting himself to just his nightly visits. They’re not enough, not when he can’t seem to go five minutes without his thoughts inevitably drifting to you - you in your fluttery, sheer nightgown, lying in your bed, your frame growing sicker and frailer as the blood drains from your cheeks and your coughing fits grow more frequent.

You can hide it from the prying eyes of your friends at school, from your teachers, even from your parents(as long as you make sure to roll your eyes a few times and lean into that murky, illusory persona of teenage angst), but here in your bedroom, your sanctuary, all your vulnerabilities crawl out and bubble to the surface, bared to your four off-white walls and his eyes only.

You can’t hide this from Issei; not the symptoms, and certainly not the disease.

He sets his alarm every day early enough to hear the nighttime croaking of frogs, the shrill, insistent chirping of cicadas, hours before the sky bleeds daylight, making his way over to your house. He stands outside, silent, his fingers pressed up against the window.

He doesn’t know why he goes anymore. You look ugly when you’re sick. Your healthy complexion has given way to grey, and his dick goes limp every time he tries to jerk himself off. It’s a reminder of the fact that he can’t ever have you the way he used to dream about: lively, healthy, and wholly devoted to him and him alone.

At this point, the pictures and videos of you are the only thing he has left, a pitiful reminder of everything you used to be. He has no use for those other girls from porn sites online, or even the scantily clad social media posts of his classmates. Issei only wants you, but you aren’t quite who you used to be, and every time he trudges home after staring through that stupid window, there’s always a bitter aftertaste in his mouth that makes his blood curdle.

It’s not that he’s jealous, exactly. He doesn’t really give a fuck who you’re pining after, because it’s you he cares about. He wants to own you, to possess your body, mind, and soul, wants you to end up at his side one day, acknowledging him with tears brimming in your lovely eyes, voice raw and hoarse as you chant thank you Issei, thank you, thank you for watching over me, Issei, i’m yours, Issei, i love you, Issei

Maybe it’s no wonder he can’t stop thinking about you.

-

April 19th, 2013

[11:52 pm]

He finds you passed out on the floor, surrounded by crumpled piles of faded carnation petals. They’re a sickly yellow, browning at the edges, tinged with blood and vomit and spit. It’s a scene straight out of a movie, illuminated by the waning moon, the cold, pale, uneven light casting shadows that dance across your body.

-

April 24th, 2013

[2:03 am]

Issei is nothing if not a practical man. If there’s a problem, he’s going to fix it.

He’s had enough of waiting, anyway.

-

April 25th, 2013

[12:00 am]

He’s never actually been inside your room before. It’s eerily quiet, save for your shallow, rapid breaths, all outside noises absorbed by the walls and curtains. It almost feels like he’s dreaming as he makes his way over to your bedside, his shadow stretching and bending in the distorted light like those funhouse mirror reflections.

Your lips are parted slightly, mouth agape as if in waiting, and he can’t help but run a finger along your cracked, ashen lips.

Issei shivers.

He’s never been quite so close to you before. It’s almost anticlimactic, the way he ends up at your side. He won’t lie; he had been hoping for a different ending, one with more sunshine and roses, one where you’d be smiling happily by his side as he tenderly holds your hand.

But he can’t change the way things are, and he’s more than willing to make the best of what he’s got.

He doesn’t have any surgical tools that might’ve been more fitting, but he supposes a kitchen knife - one he’d sharpened just yesterday - should work well enough. He runs a finger along the back of the gleaming metal, admiring the way it glints, brilliant and blinding, even in the midst of the dim room.

The old, worn, bed creaks beneath him as he climbs carefully on top of you, straddling your torso, taking care not to place too much pressure on your body. He reaches out to caress your face, brushing a loose strand of hair aside as he appraises you. In sickness, you were nowhere near as beautiful as you were before, but your proximity almost makes up for it; Issei can feel your heart thrumming beneath your skin, can feel the huff of your breath on his hand as your chest rises and falls.

He almost regrets having to do this.

Bringing the blade up to your chest, he begins to cut through your paper-thin nightgown. As the fabric rips, it falls to either side to reveal your chest, and his breath catches. The soft curve of your tits are stained with red, little green buds of growth peeking out from your chest and between your ribs. Blood blooms across your skin, thorns and stems pricking out from the smooth surface of your skin, standing out in stark relief as the sick, twisted, unnatural growth threatens to burst out of your body.

He flutters his fingers along your delicate skin, trailing gentle touches down your stomach, completely absorbed in the way you look and feel.

So absorbed, in fact, that he almost doesn’t notice the way you tense, eyes blinking awake, as pain lances through your body.

Issei’s quick, though - far quicker than you, at least, and by the time you open your mouth to scream, fear catching in your throat, he shoves a large hand over your mouth to muffle any of the unpleasant noises that threaten to spill out.

“Shh,” he whispers, voice hoarse and foreign in his own chest. He’s not used to speaking to you. “If you don’t hold still, it’s going to hurt even more.”

You freeze in terror at the implications of his words, eyes catching on the blade pointed at your chest. There’s a sudden urge to lash out, to fight back - but it quickly passes. You’re not stupid.

You know that he’s far stronger than you, far faster, and as his calm, remorseless gaze latches onto your body, you realize very quickly that any resistance would be futile.

He begins his work as soon as he feels you go limp beneath him. You’re still trembling slightly, shivering from both the fear and the cold, completely exposed, completely at his mercy. You’re still not sure who he is; maybe you’ve caught a glimpse or two of him in your classes in the past, but for the most part, he’s still a complete stranger.

Issei, on the other hand, knows you very well.

As the knife slips beneath your soft flesh, your bed quickly turns into a sea of scarlet, of vermilion and ruby, of wine-red blood that grows from a trickle to a stream to a rushing, spurting mess that stains your sheets and spills onto the floor. He can feel the spatters of your blood on his face, his clothes, can see the periphery of his vision growing red as the blank, white walls turn crimson.

He finds it’s a bit difficult to hold himself back.

Cutting you up feels like catharsis to him. He’s never seen you quite like this before, but he thinks this version of you looks very pretty, your eyes rolling back into your head, your chest shaking uncontrollably as he rips his knife through your flesh over and over again. A small, barely audible whimper slips from your lips, and he feels a shuddering mix of pleasure and revulsion wash over him.

The stark white of your bone peeks through the ripped, bloody mess. Perhaps he’s finally gone far enough.

There’s no slit or hole for him to find - he wasn’t quite so careful - but he reaches a hand in to dig around at what used to be your stomach, and begins to pull out the flowers from the roots. They’ve spread to your lungs, climbed almost all the way up your throat, the green stems and yellow flowers twisting and threading between your organs and ribs. He removes them one by one, meticulous and careful, tossing them aside as he searches and prods and kills every last trace of your disease.

The lungs are by far the hardest for him, the branches of tissue packed densely with blood vessels and capillaries, and he has to pry the clusters apart to remove the growth that’s embedded itself within the organ.

If you think about it, he’s really doing you a favor.

A wave of relief courses through him when he’s finally finished. It’s unfortunate that it had to end this way, with your face screwed permanently into that pained, tortured expression, but it’s nothing he can’t fix - he brings a bloody finger up and adjusts your features until they resemble something slightly more pleasant.

There’s no heartbeat anymore, he realizes, no rhythm thrumming and pulsing beneath your skin.

He climbs off of you awkwardly, swinging his legs back over the bed. The quilt, pooled around your ankles, is still remarkably clean considering what the rest of the room had been through, and he pulls the soft, white cover over your mangled body until it comes up to your chin.

If he moves backwards a little and squints, it’s almost like you’re still asleep.

And if he tries really hard, uses his imagination to fill in the gaps and blot out the unnecessary bits, the blood smeared on your cheeks and lips almost seems like makeup, covering up that ugly, ashen complexion from your sickness, like a rosy imitation of what he used to find so beautiful.

Maybe it’s all in his mind, but he thinks you really do look better dead than sick.

He knows it’s not right.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He also can’t quite bring himself to care.

Cursing softly under his breath, he hand wanders until it finds the growing outline of the bulge in his pants. It feels so good to do it right in front of you, especially when you look better than he’d seen you in weeks(as long as he sort of squints), and he shudders with pleasure as he palms his cock slowly.

He usually likes to hold back a little, but there’s really no point this time - it’s the last time he’ll ever be this close to you, so he might as well make the best of it, right?

His cock is rock hard and dripping with precum by now, straining with arousal against the pressure of his fist, gliding and stroking along his curved, thick length until he begins to feel that warm heat coiling in his stomach. He kind of wishes that you were still alive to see him jerking off to your perfect face, pumping his cock desperately as he fixates on the fake blush of your skin. It’s almost exactly how you look before you fell sick - minus the gore splattered on your sheets, of course - as long as he pretends that you’re still breathing, that your pulse is still thrumming steadily beneath those soft, white quilts.

He fists his cock a bit faster, rhythm increasing as he feels his balls growing heavier, his dick flushed and desperate for release. Although he’s sad that you’d never be able to fully participate, he supposes it’s for the best.

Better dead than hung up on someone else, right?

As he turns his gaze back onto the flowers he’d ripped out from your chest cavity, he feels a perverse burst of pleasure coursing through him. He can’t help but feel proud of the way he’s made everything right, how he’d gotten rid of that annoying little crush you’d been harboring for weeks. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the way you’re thanking him from the afterlife, tears of gratitude and joy in your eyes at the freedom he’s finally given you.

Issei finishes with a low, pleasured, groan, his cum spilling into his waiting hand as he strokes himself through his orgasm. It’s one of the strongest orgasms he’s had in quite some time, and he can’t help but think it’s the commemoration you deserve.

As the blood rushing in his eardrums slows, the hazy, uncertain world around him seems to stop spinning, and he feels himself being pulled back down from his high. If he strains his senses, he can hear the nighttime din through your walls, quiet and ever-present. He looks outside, the streetlamps flickering dimly, staring off into the inky stillness of the star-lit night.

Funny that he’s finally on the other side of your window.

Maybe he should leave you one last present.

-

April 26th, 2013

[9:00 am]

When they find you in your bed the next morning, your mother screams and your father cries.

They never saw it coming, did they? You were a good girl, someone who always did what they were supposed to do, said what others told them to say, acted exactly how they expected you to. Never got yourself into the slightest hint of trouble.

It’s a horrific scene: their precious daughter, limbs mangled and organs torn up, stomach and chest cut wide open as if straight from a horror movie. The room seems to swirl with hostility, and the four walls, once your sanctuary, had turned into an image of brutal, bloody, violence - with your body as the centerpiece.

It’s not until they step closer that they realize the dried, white, glaze on your face is cum.