#Like I get that people are allowed to do re-imaginings but I hate when people rewrite Amy into a tomboy with a secret crush

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[austinsastrology8991]

> Neptune IN the HOUSES < How your DELUSIONS find you RESOLUTIONS

Neptune in the First - You act so naive, and now people actually think your naive. But you hate it when people treat you this way, but your always swaying around and acting oblivious to everything around you, but ik its all a front, and people find you to be mystical and now everyone is entranced by this dance you make acting oblivious. its obvious its an act, but then the more you get to know them you realize its not and thats actually who they are, and you wonder why no one has bonked them on the head yet Neptune in the Second - you dont really value anything, you think everything comes and goes, and your just like a paper bag flowing through the wind tbh. But this quality of letting things be and go, allows you to be molded by life and that can be a useful tool for artisty, but man yall just give up easy tbh. also your voices are like ethereal - kiddd cudiiiiiieee Neptune in the Third - you guys talk like a movie character, and its never the villain but the naive protagonist who just believes in a bunch of bullshit. but everyone thinks your so amusing to lissten to and i suppose you are but sometimes you guys really are playing up this movie trope and well im done watching the same movie i want a re-cast. then next week you will re-cast yourself as a new protagonist and well everyone just loves to watch you be an idiot so keep it up Neptune in the Fourth - Your literally 'good will huntings robin Williams'. you act like you figured out emotions because you let them come and go, but when someone questions whats going on with you, you find a million reasons to explain why you behave this way, and why others do, whilst completely avoiding letting your emotions out because your way too sensitive youd rather keep it at them at a distance that way you can handle it Neptune in the Fifth - You guys are the embodiment of a amusement park. YOu perform a million different acts, and never run out of ideas on how to entertain. Very amusing to watch, but people tend to take you for granted since your always so fun to be around we just expect yalll to keep performing, and you can, but this eats you up inside. then you perform again showing us how you feel as usual, and how it feels being used, and well i guess its all good because you have a never ending source of material - yourselves

Neptune in the Sixth - IMO the real mvps of delusions. No one is as delusional as them but they dont even care because they have thought of so much bullshit and have found so much evidence for their bullshit that they now realized that what most people believe in is bullshit, so they just think everything is bullshit. They dont even give a fuck anymore because to them everything isnt real, and everything is real, they have trouble understanding reality, because they have seen things no one could ever believe exists Neptune in the Seventh - Hopelessly projecting what they want in the world just for it to never come to fruition. This is actually how they pull, so dont hate their game. but they tell people how they wish things would be, and people want to save them by showing them how the world works, or giving into their stupid delusions and pretending what they believe in is real. Kinda a lot to deal with. But they'll never admit that they act so innocent but then your basically taking care of a baby Neptune in the Eighth - They make the universe bend to their will whether it wants to or not. They will pull every magic trick they know to make sure that their delusions are not delusional anymore. And its impressive how much they believe in there imaginings that it does tend to become real, but i would warn them and whoever is around them; That their fantasies tend towards the dark. so if they want something to be real (and they gonna do everything they can to get it) they may or may not resort to black magic or some shady ass shit Neptune in the Ninth - They believe in god a lot, maybe too much to appear normal. They are the type to make up a cult and behave liek mormons and say it was the will of god. The people ive met with this are strange, and their beliefs alter quite a bit, and for some reason they always have met deities and angels. But they are so delusional in their beleifs that if you hear them out, its so far fetched youll get lost in them because your so curious how someone got so lost in their own religion you wonder if they'll ever return to the real world Neptune in the Tenth - They are openly strange. Bro dennis Rodman has this conj his midheaven and its just iconic really. These guys are the strangest most ethereal beings and everyone gets lost in their cult of personality. Always switching up their identity, they think reality is bullshit and well we are all here for it because yall do the strangest things and i just wanna watch what your gonnna do next. but im still trynna figure out how close i wanna get to you because being seen with you is a risk for my reputation, because you clearly dont give a fuck about yours Neptune in the Eleventh - How many acid shirts do you own. Its like your the public personification of 'make love not war and peace bro' and its cool everyone wants a freidn like you, but no one takes your advice seriously. Because your so lost in the make believe that you think your make believe can actually make someone make believe..... But like cmon how the fuck do you think thats going to change anything. WHen has 'peace bro' ever actually worked. do your charities or whatever but i do not see it working as much as you think it can. sorry not sorry. But i do love you. But get a haircut Neptune in the Twelvth - Your literally the type to lick your finger , put it up in the air and say 'yep it going to rain wednesday' then it actually rains wednesday. And your so cooked no one believes you (because why would you) but then it does happen and now eveyrone thinks your even more cooked because what you had cookin is a real recipe. Now everyone wants to know how you have your third eye or whatever open and now you just want to hide again lmao. Also incredible artists, i recommend you guys keep your intuitive insights to yourself because you are right a lot but why tell people when everyone is just going to question how you see signs rather than heed your advice

[sadhours]

God I neeeed this written. It's been in my head after I re-watched season 2 🥹🙏🏼 Angsty and ends maybe smutty? Idk

Imagine:

Billy is a bully because of his dad. The abused becomes the abuser, right?

He hates how he lashes out but he can't handle everyone else's perfect little lives.

He meets you and everything changes. You're not stuck up. You get it, you get him.

One night the beautiful family facade fails. You witness it, you see his dad throw a punch in Billy's direction.

You don't think, you just lash out. Teach HIM a lesson. If Neil gives it, he can take it, right?

When you aren't fed love with silver spoons, you learn to lick it off knives.

I have been sitting on this too long, I apologize. I hope this is kinda what you were looking for!

warnings: Neil, obviously, violence, loss of virginity, p in v, unprotected (billys the pull out king)

He’s rough around the edges, but he’s dastardly handsome. You see him getting in peoples faces in hallways, chest puffed up and a look in his eyes like he can't believe he has to share air with such scum. He talks back in class, rolls his eyes when they send him to the principals office and you witness the cycle repeat day after day. When you notice a busted lip and bruised eye, you chalk it up to another fight at first.

You’re quiet, keeping to yourself everyday. At lunch, you shove headphones over your ears and turn the Walkman up so loud, you can’t hear your own thoughts. Walking through the hall, your tape skips and you pull it up to inspect if it split. Not watching where you’re going, you walk right into Billy Hargrove’s chest and stumble back onto your ass, the hard linoleum stinging as it makes contact. At first he looks furious, boring down at you with fire in his eyes and you stutter out an apology, rambling on about how your tape skipped and you weren’t looking ahead of you. Surprisingly, he softens, almost immediately and reaches out to grab your hand.

You take it graciously, allowing his strength to lift you up and he grabs your Walkman, popping it open and inspecting the cassette. As he pulls it out, the tape unravels and you curse.

“Hold on,” he soothes, “Not a lost cause yet.”

He walks over to a club table, ignoring the glares he gets from the Chess club. You follow curiously, watching as he swipes a pencil from the sign up sheets and ravels the tape back into the cassette with it. He hands it back with a smile.

“See? Easy fix.”

He makes you feel all dreamy with his attention focused on you. You might actually float away if you don’t rush off immediately. “Thanks!” you yell back, hurrying off and sliding the headphones over your ears again.

Slowly, Billy keeps popping up wherever you go. He even shows up at the record store you work at, weekly. You’re not even sure how it exactly happens, no words are spoken about it but you’re pretty sure you’re Billy Hargrove’s girlfriend. He’s taking you out on dates that end in heavy petting and eager kisses in the backseat of his Camaro.

He’s so incredibly sweet to you but not to anyone else he crosses paths with. You’ve even witnessed heated arguments with his friends. You don’t understand why until one night you’re hanging out in his bedroom and Neil comes barreling into his room and screaming about how he wasn’t supposed to park in the driveway.

It funnels into an argument about everything. Billy doesn’t do anything right, apparently. You’re sitting there, stunned all the while fuming at this asshole. His complaints of his son are laughable at best, none of them really a problem.

Then, it happens and you jump up off the bed. A hard sucker punch to Billy’s cheek, a thundering sound clapping through the room.

Before you realize what’s happening, you’re throwing punches left and right at Neil. As your lifted off the ground, Billy’s arms wrapped tightly around your waist, you see the absolutely dumbfounded look on his fathers face.

“Get the fuck out of my house,” he says behind clenched teeth, his eyes dark and terrifying.

Billy grabs onto your wrist, pulling you out of the house and to his car. He’s peeling out of there, the house getting tinier and tinier in the rearview mirror and you look down at your bloodied knuckles. You don’t know how it happened, you saw red in the moment. You’re silent. You feel as if you should apologize but you don’t regret what you’ve done, even if your punches didn’t hurt him like his hurt Billy.

“I…” you open your mouth and close it.

“I know.”

Billy drives out to a field, at least an hour from town. He turns the car off and sits there for a moment, staring out the windshield. Then he’s grabbing his hand and intertwining your fingers.

“Thank you,” he mumbles and you know it’s difficult for him to say those words.

And everything makes sense, now. Why he’s so broken, why he’s such a tough guy at school. But what doesn’t make sense is why he’s so nice to you. Maybe because you’re the only person who reacted to Neil that way. He brings your hand up to his lips and kisses your bloody knuckles.

“I’m ready,” you tell him, not sure why now is the time you want to lose your virginity.

Billy laughs and you fear it’s out of cruelty. Your panic subsides when you see the sparkles in his eyes. He leans his head back against the seat and peers over to you, “You try to beat my dad up and now you want to have sex for the first time. What has gotten into you?”

“That makes it sound weird,” you point out, “I guess I just realized I love you.”

“Took ya long enough,” he snorts and you glare up at him. “C’mere,” he scoots his seat back and pulls you into his lap.

You straddle him, though it’s a tight space. He kisses you tenderly, fingertips barely holding your jaw, “I love you too.”

Your stomach does a flip, deepening the kiss once he mumbled the words against your lips. Billy reaches his hands up into your top, pushing your bra up so he can get a handful of your breast. He licks into your mouth as he squeezes you in his palm, making you squirm in his lap. You can feel as he smiles into the kiss before he pulls back.

“I can’t take your virginity in my car,” he admits and you whine, looking down at him with disappointment etching your features. He’s got you all worked up just to shut it down so quickly and he looks amused as he stares back up at you.

“Yeah, you can,” you retort, matter-of-factly.

He laughs, moving your hair behind your shoulders, “I want it to be special. It’ll be a hell of a struggle in this small space.”

“It is special,” you argue, “I want it.”

Billy bites his lip and looks at you under his thick lashes, “Would it be too seedy to take you to a motel?”

You shake your head, smiling at him hopefully, “I’d do it anywhere with you.”

“Get your ass over,” he smirks, “Let’s go.”

You scramble over the center console, squealing when Billy plants a hefty smack to your ass as you do so. You swear he’s never driven faster.

The motel room is seedy but you don’t blame Billy, he pulled into the first one he’d seen and you were more eager than ever. You stand awkwardly beside him as he purchases the room, trying not to look the clerk in the eyes but you can feel the older woman looking you up and down. Billy doesn’t seem to notice or care, grabbing your hand and leading you to the room. Once he unlocks the door and gets you inside, he’s pushing you against it and presses sloppy kisses all along your neck and collarbone. You feel electric, your body tingles all over but especially between your legs. Billy’s hands are firm on your hips where he’s pinning you against the door and his lips and teeth brand you with bruises descending from your jaw to your collarbone.

You guys have messed around a lot, almost any chance you got you would touch each other eagerly but it never got very far. Billy knew he was the first guy you’d done anything with so he never pressured you to do anything more than hand stuff. You’d always been sure you wanted him to be your first, though. It was just a matter of when, neither of you imagined it would be after you’d punched his dad. Perhaps Billy feared this would be his only chance, since there was no way in hell Neil would let you around again. He usually didn’t go against Neil’s word too drastically.

“Bed?” you pant out, pushing on Billy’s chest slightly. You felt like you were going to melt into a puddle on the floor, light headed from the way he mouthed at your sensitive skin.

“Yeah,” Billy nods and lifts you up, hands on your ass. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you let out a little squeal. He squeezes your bum before walking you towards the bed and laying you down before hovering above you.

“You’re sure?” he asks, grabbing a hold of your hand and his breath smells uniquely him, you’ve got no other way to describe it. It’s pleasant, almost sweet but unlike anything else. You want to taste it so your hand grabs onto the back of his neck to pull his plump lips to your own, slipping your tongue in between them. Billy moans into it, hands snaking up into your blouse and pushing your bra up like before so he can squeeze your tits. His hands are warm and a bit rough, contrasted to the soft, supple skin they’re flush with. His thumbs and forefingers pinch your nipples hard, pulling on them while he licks sloppily into your mouth. It sends electricity straight to your clit causing your hips to roll up at him uncontrollably. You’ve never felt so starved for something in your whole life, so instinctually needy for him to ravish you.

“Billy,” you plead, squirming under his touch, “Need you so bad.”

“I’m right here,” he mouths against your jaw still kneading at your breasts.

You lower your hands to the hem of his t-shirt and lift it up and over his head, tossing it aside before grabbing his torso every way you can. He laughs softly, pulling back so he can rip your top and bra off but his hands quickly return to your tits.

“I really, really need you,” you repeat, scratching at his tanned skin.

He stares down at you in awe, never in his life has he seen a woman so desperate under him. They usually played it cool, if they’d felt this horny for him they would usually try to hide it. You can’t though, it’s so evident on your face how turned on you are. Your wide-eyed, pupils dilated and your cheeks are flushed pink. It’s captivating. He grabs a hold of your cheeks, squeezing them together and slaps your tit with his other hand. You cry out, arching your back to feel some kind of relief.

“You want my cock so bad,” he pouts down at you, “poor baby.”

“Need it,” you whimper, voice distorted by the way he’s gripping your face.

“Aw,” he teases, “are you begging for me to fuck you?”

You nod frantically, his words only making you wetter, “Please!”

He lets go of your face and starts unbuckling his belt, pulling it through the loops before he kicks his boots off. He inches to the edge of the bed, unlacing your shoes as quick as he can. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, the firm grip he has on your ankle makes you whimper. Once he’s got your shoes off, he roughly pulls your jeans off. He positions himself closer and presses his palm hard against your pussy, the barrier of your soaking panties frustrating you.

“Fuck me, Billy,” you mewl, “Pretty please.”

His eyes go dark, mouth opening slightly as he exhales hard. You switched something in him, he’s pushing his jeans and briefs off quickly, freeing his hard cock. The sight of it makes you drool, the tip angry red and leaking which lets you know he’s in the same boat you are. He tugs your underwear down your legs, spreading your legs and scooting himself up between them.

“You wanna feel my cock, baby?” he pants, fingers circling around his length.

You nod eagerly, “Please, Billy.”

He strokes himself, biting his lower lip as he brings his free hand down to feel through your glistening folds. Billy’s touched you there hundreds of times, seen your pussy plenty but never with the promise of being able to stick his dick inside. He presses his tip your entrance and then slides it up through your folds, rubbing your clit with it.

“Oh God,” you moan out, toes curling as you anticipate what’s next.

“Fuck,” he grunts out, “I’m not gonna last long. You’re too fucking perfect.”

The compliments sends you spinning.

“Just want to feel you,” you whisper, “have been since I first saw you.”

Billy leans down to kiss you, hard. He brings his tip back down to your hole, pushes inside slowly. You feel no pain like you’ve been told. It’s electric, actually, makes you feel all kinds of warm and wonderful. Until he pushes in deeper, then you tense, hands grabbing into his waist. Billy kisses your jaw tenderly, tells you to breathe with him. His voice soothes you. It’s the most decadent sound you’ve ever heard.

“Keep going,” you choke out through clenched teeth, “I can handle it.”

You know the more he moves, the easier it will be. You’ve been told. But Billy moves slowly, holds you like he’s scared to break you. You’d happily let him. He sinks in deeper and it’s like he’s pushed passed a barrier, the pain subsiding completely and instead you’re flooded with a rush of pleasure.

“Oh, god,” you pant out, face etched in shock.

“Too much?” he asks, panicked as he looks down at you.

You shake your head from side to side, “Feels so… nice. And warm.”

He chuckles at that bending lower to pepper your face in kisses and he starts to pick up a steady rhythm with his hips. Your legs shake slightly as you try to spread them wider, wrapping your arms around his middle. It’s tender in a way you’ve never seen Billy, he’s delicate and reserved. Then he exhales sharply, his cheeks turning red.

“I’m gonna fucking cum, already,” he mumbles, pressing his forehead against your shoulder.

“Is that bad?” you wonder aloud, wiggling your hips slightly and he’s pulling out of you and spilling onto your stomach with a hiss.

He collapses onto the bed next to you and covers his face with his hands. You look down at the mess he’s made on you, feeling as it starts to cool. You’re tempted to touch it, smooth it over your skin but you fear that would be weird. After heaving a sigh, he sits up and looks down at you.

“Not bad, you were so tight it just felt too good. Give me a break and we can try again,” he whispers, standing from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. He returns with a towel and cleans you up, pulling you into his lap when he’s done. You’re already eager at the promise of doing it again so soon.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Delta anon here again and I have a wonderful angst idea

(Tw: violent lash outs, s/h)

So obviously, Delta and Beta have anger issues. This is a known thing among the fandom, due to him canonically being a hothead.

But due to the more recent headcanons about them being able to mask their emotions and fake it to the point of being able to hide their glow internally, what would they do when they can finally let it out?

I'd imagine they'd lash out at the nearest object or person. And God forbid Color or Epic try to stop them from lashing out - or even go near them in that state.

If one of them tried stopping them or touching them, then Delta, who is running on fighting instinct and adrenaline at this point, would lash out at them and probably harm them. Grabbing at them, punching them, accidentally burning them - they're not thinking at this point and just need something to attack.

(We really gotta invest in getting this man a punching bag that won't break on the first punch lmao)

Obviously, whichever one isn't being attacked at the moment immediately runs to help and at least get Delta far away enough so that they can get the other out of there. Delta doesn't even realize what he's done until a while after, probably after he's done destroying whatever room he's in.

Eventually, after he's calmed down, Delta would remember what they did and immediately get wrecked with guilt. Did I hurt them? How badly did I hurt them? What did I do? Why did I do that? Why did I hurt them? I didn't mean to, I didn't want to. Why did I do that?

Imagine the panic, not just from him, but from Beta as well. Will they leave us now? What if we hurt them so badly, that they hate us now? Do they still like us? Do they still want us around? What if they don't? Will they leave? What if they think we're too dangerous or violent to be around, and then they finally leave us?

The angst of them frantically wanting to apologize, horrified of what they've done, yet freezing up, unsure if Color and/or Epic even want to see them right now, much less be around them. Should we wait? Should we let things calm down for a little? But what if they think we meant to do it? Are they okay?

Now, this thought process would probably lead to a panic attack. And what makes it worse, is knowing that they're entirely alone, have no one to call for help, and might never have anyone again. Because all they can remember is that they hurt someone - they can't remember how badly they did. Oh stars, what if they killed them? What then? The only people who ever really cared about them, their best friends, and yet he hurt them. How could he? They must hate him, surely. How dangerous really was he? Are they really too dangerous to be around?

And when they finally get over the panic attack, probably multiple hours later, they're able to pull their shaking body off the floor they collapsed on and push the door open to go check on whoever they hurt. Afraid to find out, but afraid to not.

(And at this point, I'd also imagine that due to the intense emotions and the idea that the burn appears based on the intensity of his emotions, they'd most likely have hurt themselves by now. Purposefully burning themselves, genuinely believing that they deserved it after all the pain they put their friends through.)

Eventually, he'd be able to find them. I'd imagine he'd be anxiously peeking the door open, trying to subtly glance in the room without raising alarm, not wanting to scare or hurt them further but being too afraid to not check.

Would Delta/Beta allow themselves to be comforted, or would they immediately seek isolation after checking on them to make sure they're okay, out of the fear that they'll hate him and want nothing to do with him - so they take care of it themselves. Not to guilt trip them, but out of genuine concern and fear. He doesn't know if they want him around anymore, and are too afraid to ask and find out.

And if they did hurt themselves, would they allow themselves to be healed (reguardless of how serious the burn is) if Color and Epic found out, or would their insecurities and fear take hold and stop them from allowing anyone to help them, and also from reaching out? Would he force himself to endure the pain and refuse to heal himself, especially if it's a serious burn?

And when Color and Epic finally did find them (let's be real, they probably had to seek him out and hunt him down), do you think Delta would put the offer of hurting him in revenge up for them to take? Because surely, that's why they came here, aside from an apology. Wouldn't they want revenge against them for what they did? They deserve to be hurt and in pain for what they did, don't they?

(How horrified would Epic and Color be at this offer? How would they convince Delta/Beta otherwise?)

What do you think the aftermath would be, depending on who they hurt and how badly? How would they move on?

(Also if Killer caught word of Delta doing this, and Delta had accidentally hurt Color, would Killer go after him immediately while Delta is still in his rage? How bad would that fight get? How would it get stopped, if it did?)

Thoughts?

You know, this actually made me think of a scene similar to a fanfic i read. Where Killer hunts Delta down with intent to kill if he had hurt Color, only to come across Delta and Beta in a very not good state and feeling a sudden sense of deju vu, and before he knows it hes triggered into Stage 1 or like, gently “nudged” aside.

Someone crumpled and curled up, hurt and bleeding, alone and afraid and guilty after hurting someone they didn’t mean to or want to. Afraid to face the world and the consequences. Killer’s been there, even if the reasons for hurting people/loved ones are vastly different.

Perhaps this is the moment where they gain an understanding. Where Killer can take everything he’s learned from Color and therapy and his healing and his own experiences, and help someone else now.

Or perhaps Killer doesn’t switch into Stage 1 fully, but that eyelight glows in his right eye socket and hes uncomfortably aware that the sight is familiar. Which can be a jarring experience for Stage 2, not really known for such empathy, and the moment is very likely fleeting and he likely experiences something like emotional amnesia towards the moment later.

Maybe Killer decides to help Delta and Beta treat their wounds, which also gives them some time to pull themselves together before facing Epic and Color. If Delta and/or Beta tries to pull the “I hurt them, i don’t deserve it, you should be trying to kill me,” card, Killer reminds them of what Color always says: “It’s not about deserving. Do you want it?”

So would they want Killer’s help? If even Killer can offer this moment of what seems to be forgiveness, understanding, then Color and Epic definitely would. Do they want it?

[wildemaven]

Sweet Creature: Chapter Seven

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (Nicknamed Poppy)

WC: 6600

Warning: 18+ Blog/Minors will be blocked; Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

A/N: We’ll, there’s a lot here. This week was draining with a teething/no sleeping babe— but I was determined to get this finished! I don’t have a lot to say, but I’m excited for this part of their story! Thank you to @gnpwdrnwhiskey again for her support and proofreading every week! And thank you to everyone who has continued to stick with these two dumb dumbs as they figure their shit out. Love you all!!

Series Masterlist / Playlist / Main Masterlist

Previous/ Next

Breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

Dieter wills himself to regulate the adrenaline surging through him, it has his muscles tingling as its increasing levels spread through every pliable fiber. 

Breathe. 

In. 

Out. 

He takes in his surroundings, a steady attempt at grounding his mind, assuring him, keeping him present, giving him a chance to regain his composure. 

He Sees…

The ornate tile that dresses the front steps to your Spanish Revival home, the perfect backdrop to the ‘welcome’ mat that greets him the minute he arrives to your place. 

The sturdy wooden door attached to your home that keeps you protected, allowing you to live comfortably and securely without a bother from the outside world. 

The well maintained landscape, no real knowledge of the specific varieties of plants that decorate the front, he senses a low maintenance and drought tolerant feel— a few things he had never heard of until moving in with Diem. 

The way the sky begins to shift from its golden orange and purple hues to an even shade of deep blue as the sun tucks behind the horizon line, welcoming the stillness of the night. 

The way he is actively replaying an episodic memory of you from just an hour ago when you had joined him at Diem’s house to read over his lines for his upcoming movie role. 

*

“Are you sure you even want me doing this? I don’t know a single thing about acting. Can’t Diem help?? I don’t want to mess you up.” 

It’s been a few days since the Capri re-grand opening. And a few days since yours and Dieter’s almost kiss. 

There hasn’t really been a discussion on what had happened, or almost happened, only due to the fact that you hadn’t seen each other since Dieter had to leave to take Wren home. 

Now you find yourselves sitting in Diem’s living room, on opposite ends of her sectional couch, ignoring the residual heat that is currently reigniting as you both look over the scripts you’re each holding— alone together, zero distractions. 

“This scene is between two people who are navigating a new relationship, dancing around the sexual tension between them—“

The coincidence not lost on you. 

“So, there’s no fuckin’ way I’d read through this with my sister. And I doubt she’d want to anyways, she hates this kinda shit, so I don’t even bother.“

“Okay, I’ll try my best, but if I fuck up—“ 

“You’re not gonna fuck up. I highlighted your lines in pink, just focus on those and you’ll do fine. Besides, you’re a teacher— you read stories for a living, just think of it like you’re reading to your class.”

“Dieter, it says right here at the bottom of the page in bold type, ‘HER EYES CLOSE AT HIS TOUCH FOLLOWED BY LOW SENSUAL MOANS’— there’s no fucking way I can imagine myself reading this to my class.” 

You look up from the paper, his eyes already on you. You note the way his neck muscles flex as he swallows, the grip on his paper a little tighter— you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this. 

*

He touches…

The weight of his chip, the brass cool against his warm clammy skin, pulling it from his pocket, it sits heavy in his palm— a quick reminder that who he was doesn’t define him now. A few light tosses, before gripping it with his thumb and his forefinger, one last look before returning it to his pocket. 

The compact device that connects him to everything important to him in a single touch, his finger navigating back and forth between the home screen image of Wren and him eating donuts then to the text you had sent not long after leaving Diem’s house — Poppy💐- I have that easel ready, if you still want it. You’re more than welcome to come grab it — Then double checking the numbers on the house match the ones that you sent after he text back asking if he could come over tonight— a perfect match. 

The silky strands of his ruffled dark brown hair as he tries to tame his wild curls, the cottony fabric of his gray weathered shirt pulling at it in such a way so it drapes over him just right, the rough texture of his faded jeans against his sweaty hands as he rubs them several times over where they hug his thighs— a blind once over of his appearance. 

The way his hand skims over the velvety skin above your knee, the hem of your dress delicately dancing over his fingertips, the faint scar that now lives on the side of your thigh from a biking accident as a kid lays uneven under his gentle graze. 

*

“Is this okay?” 

Somewhere between shared lines, and fiery dialogue, Dieter finds himself sitting closer to you, his knee brushing against yours—hand so effortlessly placed on your thigh as he checks in with your comfort. 

“Y-yeah— it says ‘HIS HAND REACHES THE APEX BETWEEN HER THIGHS’, so she would know that his hand is moving up her leg—.” Your voice trembles as you try to concentrate on the words printed in bold on the current page. 

Looking up, you see Dieter’s focus solely on you, his folded script tucked between his leg and the couch cushion. 

“That’s not what I asked.” There's a deep husk to his voice, his movements halted as he draws your attention away from the pages and up to him. “Are you comfortable with this, not what the paper reads or act is telling us to do. Is this okay with you?” Your consent, regardless of what the characters are doing, his number one priority. 

“Y-yeah…” You murmur as you look down to where his hand is still subtly holding your leg. Your attention drawn back to his handsome face, placing your hand on top of his, encouraging him to continue his efforts. 

*

He hears…

The symphonic resonance of the nightfall harmonics drifts through in the crisp evening air, a modest breeze carries the lilt of the chirping crickets throughout the stilled neighborhood, the rustling of the leaves scattered and swirling across the sidewalk, the faint cries of coyote pups awaiting the arrival of their mother who’s been in search of a hearty meal. 

The way his heart beat reverberates against his eardrums, the thudding of his heart an emotive chorus, its pace evening out with each grounding thought. 

The way your breath catches, its auditory staccato floats through the air and nestles somewhere deep within his mind, storing its melodic rhythm away as an echoic file, never wanting to forget how it sounds. 

*

Dieter shifts himself forward, the crunch of the leather puckering as he settles a knee on the cushion, a hand gripping the back of the couch as he angles himself closer. 

The crackle of paper startles you, Dieter grabbing the crumbled heap of papers and tossing it over his shoulder, removing any distractions that might be bothering. 

Bit by bit you allow yourself to fall back onto the mound of decorative pillows in the corner of the couch. Dieter following your lead, keeping a close distance between you as he settled himself between your legs. 

“When is Diem going to be home?” You breathed, a warmth spreads through your body as you fixate on the fact that this is really happening. 

“Don’t know, at least an hour.”

A few loose curls fall into Dieter’s face, you lightly comb them back, the movements unhurried and attentive. Your fingers catching the frames of his glasses in the process, you gingerly remove them from his face, carefully tossing them to the side— producing your favorite lopsided grin from him. 

Dieter pauses to study every little detail of this moment— the flash of want in your eyes, the way your fingertips skim over and around his taut biceps, the deliberate way the tip of your tongue wets your bottom lip before it’s drawn in between your teeth, the way your lungs continue to fill with the air you’re both sharing— he’s never felt more alive than in this moment. 

*

He smells…

The night brings a refreshing scent of calmer air, the aromatic warmth of the citrus  groves meld with the fragrant lavender farms that accumulates throughout the day, the herbal aroma that triggers a distinct nostalgic smell of his childhood. 

The way your perfume mixes with your natural pheromones, the unmistakable notes of musky vanilla and orange blossom paired with your own unique scent stimulates his olfactory nerves, his spine tingling with pleasure as he breathes you in. 

*

Dieter takes his time, deliberate in his own way, he wants to take his time— savor the moment. 

He lowers himself down to the open space where your shoulder meets your neck— warm, delicate and inviting. 

You angle your head, allowing him more space to move, your hands wrapping themselves around his neck, twisting his hair between your fingers. 

Dieter places a soft tentative kiss to your shoulder, then slowly dragging the tip of his nose up the column of your neck, mindful of how responsive you are, nudging at your jaw before stopping.  

“You’re so fucking soft.”  His lips ghosting over your ear, voice honeyed and thick, his hand now situated on your bare hip, thumb toying with the seam of your underwear. 

You nuzzle into the side of his head, his scent provocative in the way you crave it immensely. The smokiness of the sandalwood and cedarwood compliment the spicy musk and floral base— it’s Dieter, wild and delicious. 

*

He tastes…

The ache for sustenance, a morsel of pleasure activates his taste buds, a palatable desire that he craves in hopes to fight off the hunger that plagues him. 

*

A fieriness burns through your body, causing you to lose all ability to properly handle the way Dieter is making you feel— ravenous. You need more, something substantial that satiates the emptiness and the yearning. 

The unfaltering look in his eyes, an unspoken feeling of infatuation that has you melting under his gaze. 

Dieter leans in, gradually closing the gap between his lips and yours, sparking the immediate surge of oxytocin actively flowing through your veins.

 His breath fanning across your lips, warm and minty, a brief remembrance of your almost kiss— several times over. 

This position offers a new approach, angle of motion, feeling the fullness of his bottom lip catch your top lip, your fingers gripping tightly to his hair in anticipation as the weight of his lips begin to slot gently over yours. 

*CLICK* 

“Dieter? I’m home!” Diem announces her arrival. 

Releasing the breath you were holding, grip loosened, warmth lifted— another moment gone. 

“Fuck me!” Dieter grumbles, his forehead falling to your shoulder, your chest vibrating with a silent laugh. 

Dieter places a kiss to your shoulder then pushes himself back from where he had been hovering over you seconds before, helping you to readjust the flowy fabric of your dress, a silent look to you asking “are you okay?”— you nod yes. 

His body slumps back into the cushioned backrest, head falling back as he pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away his annoyance at Diem’s horrible timing. 

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were here too, Poppy. I dropped Wren off for a playdate and picked up some dinner on the way home. You hungry?” 

“Umm, no I’m good. Actually, I’m going to head out. I’ve got— there’s some things I need to do. So, yeah— I’m gonna go.” 

You feel like two teenagers who were caught by the other’s parents. That awkwardness that looms over afterwards, not really knowing what to say or do. 

You give his leg a light squeeze, pulling his attention back from his sulking, propping himself up with his arms on his knees, grabbing your hand and returning the faint gesture. 

“I’ll text you later.” You mouthed to him before grabbing your items from the coffee table and making your way to the front door. 

“You still on for this Friday?” Diem asks you as she’s unboxing the pizzas she had picked up, arranging a few slices nicely on plates. 

“Yep— yeah! Friday is still good! See you later.” Your response short and to the point as you close the door behind you. 

Dieter can hear the rustling of the wrappers and then a stillness hangs in the air. His back is to where Diem is standing in the kitchen, but he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. 

“What?” 

“Why didn’t you mention she was coming over? I would have grabbed more food, we could have all hung out together.” 

“It was a last minute thing. I asked her to come read lines with me.” 

Diem rounds the couch and places the food on the coffee table, before sitting and making herself comfortable. 

“So… Did you finally kiss her?”

That gets a laugh from Dieter, face falling into his hands at the ridiculousness of Diem’s question. 

“No, I haven’t kissed her.” Tilting his head towards where she’s sitting, chin resting against his clasped hands. 

“Oh my god! You haven’t kissed her yet? What the hell, Dieter!”

“Trust me, it’s not for a lack of trying.” He assures her, picking at the toppings of his pizza slice that had fallen onto the plate. 

“I don’t get it. If you’ve been trying, then what’s stopping you from actually doing it?” 

“You are! Literally every chance I’ve taken, you stroll on in and fuckin’ cockblock me.”

“Wait— you’re blaming me for you not kissing her?” The shocked look on her face is priceless and equally hilarious. 

“Yeah, I’m definitely blaming you. You have the worst timing ever!” He laughed, because even as annoyed as he is, the whole situation is a little funny. 

*BUZZ* 

The vibration of his phone cuts into their conversation, a text from you pops up on to the screen, he swipes it open.

Poppy 💐- I have that easel ready, if you still want it. You’re more than welcome to come grab it. 

Uncle Dude - What’s your address? Be there in a few. 

He wipes his greasy fingers with a napkin then tossing it onto his forgotten pizza. He stands to his full height, placing his phone in his pocket and makes his way to the door. 

“Where are you going? I was going to turn on that one show we’ve been wanting to watch.”

“I’m— going out. Go ahead and start it without me.” He shouts as the door clicks closed behind him. 

*

Uncle Dude - What’s your address? Be there in a few. 

Poppy 💐- House number 402. White house on the left side of the street. See you soon!

The distance from your house to Diem’s is a short one, 3 minutes if you’re a fast Walker, 5-6 if you take your time. 

Dieter was on his way— to your house. 

You toss your phone onto the counter, and run to the bathroom. Not knowing how soon he was leaving after stating he’d be here in a few, didn’t leave you much time to freshen up. 

You literally just saw him, so you kept it simple a few swipes of deodorant, clean away any mascara flakes and opting for a fresh coat of chapstick instead of lipstick— less is more approach. 

2 minutes down. 

Running through the house, you do a quick once over, grabbing any loose items, out of place items or kind of embarrassing items and tossing them into your hall closet— making sure to snag your copy of ‘My Pleasure: An Intimate Guide to Loving Your Body and Having Great Sex’ off of the coffee table. 

4 minutes down. 

Heading into the kitchen— Maybe he’ll want something to drink? You grab two tall glasses and fill them with ice, sitting on the counter waiting to fill with whatever Dieter wants. 

5 minutes down. 

Nervously, you stare at the front door, your nervous tick of picking at your fingernails keeps your hands busy. Should I turn some music on? Should I have put on a little more perfume? Maybe I should have brushed my teeth? 

*Knock Knock Knock*

You grab for the door handle, pausing for a minute to take a deep breath, then cracking the door open to see Dieter standing on your front porch, hands in his pockets, casually looking down at his feet then up to you at the sound of the creaky door hinges— his face lights up instantly. 

“Hey! Hope you found it okay?” You can’t help the dopey smile that grows on your face. 

“No issues at all. Didn’t realize how close you lived this whole time.” He says, gesturing in the direction of Diem’s house. 

“Yeah, almost neighbors.” Your smirk is laced in flirtation, your head leaning against the edge of the door in the most 90s rom-com way. “You wanna come in?”

“Sure.” 

“Are you thirsty at all? I have sparkling and regular water, Diet Coke, and some beer— I haven’t made it to the store this week so I’m running low on things. I’ll be more prepared next time.” You ramble as you lead him into the kitchen, your nervous energy spiking just slightly. 

“I’m good for right now, thank you. So, there will be a next time?” He asks, observing the way you bite at your lower lip when he mentions the prospect of a “next time”.

“Yeah,” You shrug your shoulders, noting the way the corner of his mouth quirks up and the light flutter in your stomach that follows. “I think so, if that’s what you want?”

“Yes, definitely want that.”

There’s a beat of silence, sans the sounds of home— the tick of the clock, the clinking of ice falling into the tray, a faint sound of music coming from another room. 

“Oh! I—I have your jacket, I keep meaning to bring it over and then it would slip my mind…” Very much a lie, you were wearing it early this morning while you sipped your morning coffee, reading the latest chapter of ‘My Pleasure’… and you also might have worn it afterwards, when you needed a little— relief. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s totally fine. I mean, a little Birdie has been asking about it— it’s not a big deal.”

“Let me go grab it so I’m not tempted to hold it ransom for longer. Umm, help yourself to whatever. Then I can show you the easel, see if it’s something that will work for you.”

“Okay.” 

Dieter takes in your home, it’s very much you. 

Your love for plants extends inside, dozens of potted green plants, in varying shapes and sizes grace just your living room alone. 

There’s a hint of a modern flare to your style, clean lines and lots of wood, a very neutral aesthetic— most of the color living as art work on your walls. 

The art hanging throughout your home, he can only assume is your own. He’s drawn to the texture and the style of each painting— faint lines formed into human figures , landscapes resembling the world outside of these walls, and vivid abstract strokes of color adorn canvas everywhere he looks. 

A soft glow catches his eye and like a moth to a flame, he’s lured to a dimly lit room— your art studio. 

Large windows flank the walls, he imagines the natural light in the daytime is ideal in a space like this. 

Tattered empty tubes of acrylic paint, evidence of being overly pinched to extricate every last bit of paint, strewn across a large table against the wall. Empty glass food jars repurposed as storage for your massive collection of paint brushes, while spatulas and other painting instruments lay haphazardly across the tabletop. 

The table seems to double as a desk, once  light colored, now coated in layers of colorful dried paint drips and spills. He runs his fingers over the surface, a balance of smooth and irregular textures, imagining the years you’ve spent standing over this table deliberately colors and mixing new ones. 

Dieter thinks you must have been painting recently, a clear palette holds fresh dollops of paint in the center with a few experimental strokes on the side. He dips a finger into one of the little mounds, rubbing the emulsion between three fingers. It's cold and wet as it glides over his skin. 

The wall of windows behind him he finds an easel, it too covered in coats of paint— a newer canvas sits in the support bar, a rough sketch of something just barely visible. 

Next to where the easel rests, there are canvases  stacked neatly against the wall along the floor. He analyzes each painting with regard, taking in each deliberate stroke and use of color— intently connecting with the emotions you’ve experienced in creating each piece. 

He admires your tenacity. Through your long days of teaching at the school, little humans requiring so much of your attention for hours. To volunteering your time to help others explore their creativity at the gallery, planning and teaching weekly. And yet, you still find time to cater to your needs by doing something that makes your life more fulfilling, not allowing any roadblocks to deter your endeavors. 

There’s an ache in his chest, a deep reminder of how different his life could have been had he not been bound by the shackles of Hollywood and the dark world that surrounds it. 

Dieter had only ever dreamed of having such a space like this of his own, where he could chase a creative high and drown out the loud noises that followed him daily. 

Stopping his thoughts before they begin to spiral, he thinks back to a motivational speaker he listened in on while in rehab. There were a lot of valuable words shared during the speech, but he remembers the line that really stood out to him— even through the darkest moments and afflictions that overpowered all his memories and people closest to him, it didn’t mean he is less worthy of a good life, a great life, moving forward. 

Dieter realizes that with everything he’d lived through and how much hurt he had caused, he knows those things led him to this point in time— they led him to you. 

“I ended up washing it, read the care instructions on the tag so I wouldn’t fuck it up. I found some melted Kit-Kats in the pockets and a few condom wrappers— this jacket has definitely seen some things…” You stop talking when you realize you’re met with an empty room, Dieter not where you had left him. “Dieter?” 

There’s a slight movement that pulls your attention in the direction of your studio. 

You find Dieter standing in the center of the room, the flicker from a burning candle emits a diffused light, washing his sharp features in a soft glow. There’s almost a pensiveness to his expression, hands tucked in his pockets lost in his thoughts, you watch him quietly take in the room around him. 

“I see you helped yourself to a house tour.” You announce your presence as you enter the room, placing his jacket on the overstuffed chair in the corner then turning around to walk in the direction of your large art table, the skirt of your dress shifting from side to side as you walk. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep—“ He starts to apologize, realizing you both hadn’t set any boundaries with each other. 

“It’s fine, I’m just messing with you. I hid all my incriminating things already.” You joke, but there’s something about him that makes you feel like you don’t have to be guarded. 

“Are these for your showing?” He asks, pointing to the canvases he had just been studying. 

“Yeah,” You say as you turn to face him, lean back against the table. “They’re all pretty much done— I’ll probably fine tune some things before the big day.”

“Can I ask what they represent?? I can see two figures— a man and a woman in some sort of intimate setting. I see the woman is fully fleshed out in color with distinct features, similar to your own— but the man looks like a shadowed figure, starting out blank, then slowly gaining color and personality in each painting— like an evolution of some sort. But what’s the narrative behind them?” 

The way he’s analyzing your work, makes you feel even more captivated by him. 

“I was having this dream— a nightmare maybe? For weeks, it would come to me every night, always starting out in the same way. I would feel him all around me— his hands, lips, everything. I would try to speak to him, but he would never respond, and I could never see his face, didn’t know who he was. Then he would vanish, like I had lost him and I would wake up in a panic. But as the weeks went on, it was like I could start to see him a little clearer…”

Dieter hangs on to your every word, he’s drawn in to your openness to share your thoughts so freely with him. He steps closer to where you’re standing, wanting to know more about these dreams. 

“Go on.” He says softly, encouraging you to share more details. 

“Some nights his face was a blur, but I could see his features, more clearly each night. And as his face became more visible over time, the dreams didn’t feel like I was losing him— it felt like I was gaining more of him. The last week or so, I can see his face— I know who he is.”

At some point in explaining the story behind your paintings, your eyes fell to the floor— the way he was watching you so intently felt overwhelming the closer he got. 

“Who is he?” He asks, placing two fingers under your chin to slowly lift your gaze up to him. 

“You.”

It’s a fierce softness in the way his mouth molds to yours, the gentle press of his lips is breathtaking— punching the air right from your lungs. 

His touch is meticulous and thoughtful, resting his hands on your bare thighs, fingers lightly graze over your soft skin leaving a trail of tiny goosebumps. 

Your hands snake up his body, settling back to where they were not so long ago— cupping the back of his head, slow drawn out scratches to his scalp. 

“Is this okay?” He murmurs against your mouth. 

“Y-yes— more than okay!” You breathe out— you’ve  literally dreamt of this moment. 

Experimentally you slowly swipe your tongue across his plump bottom lip, silently begging for a little more and he obliges, allowing you to slip your tongue into his mouth. An equal exchange of feelings and yearning as the kiss alternates between a tangle of tongues and sweet pecks. 

Dieter pulls back, resting his forehead on yours, his breaths ragged puffs across your warm face.

“Why did you stop?” Your breath equally as ragged, chest heaving as you question his halted movements. 

“Be-because—“ His throat dry as he tries to regulate his breathing. “If we don’t stop, things will get— more serious.”

“I-I’m failing to see the problem in that.” You tease. 

“I don’t have any condoms— I didn’t think we’d get this far with our track record.” 

“I locked the door, after I let you in— didn’t want to chance any interruptions.” His chest vibrates with a soft chuckle at your response. “I’m clean and on the pill— but only if you’re comfortable.”

“I am, clean I mean— I’m clean, plus haven’t been with anyone in, well, awhile now. Might be a little rusty in all actuality.” He confesses, his thumbs still moving in sweeping motions over the tops of your thighs. “You sure you want this?”

“Very, very sure.” You whisper against his lips, grabbing one of his hands and dragging it slowly up under your dress to the throbbing ache that has settled between your legs since he started kissing you. 

“Fuck!” His eyes flutter shut at the sensation of your bare cunt, nearly choking on air— his fingers start to tentatively swipe through your wet folds, watching as your eyes start to roll back in pleasure. 

“I thought I had felt some kind of underwear earlier?” He asks, as his fingers coated in your slick start to draw lazy circles over your sensitive clit. 

“Ah!— I-I did. But I was so keyed up when I — left, I came home and had to— Oh! I had to— Fuck I can’t think straight when you’re doing that!” 

“Did you come home and touch yourself?”

“Yessss— Oh god!” You whine breathlessly as two of his fingers enter your heated core, remnants of your earlier orgasm fully welcoming him. 

“You’re so perfect.” He exclaimed,

his free hand cupping your face, keeping you close, his thumb lightly tracing across your lower lip. 

His two fingers continue to move in and out of you, working up so effortlessly. He presses a long slow kiss to your lips, followed by a few short light ones. 

You can feel yourself moving closer to the edge, there’s a tingle running down your spine, converging with the fire that’s beginning to break within you. Your velvety walls begin to flutter around Dieter’s fingers,  prompting him to kiss you a little deeper and it’s just the push you need. 

“Oh my god! I’m gonna come—“ Your body begins to shake, your hands slamming done on your table— paint splattering into the air. 

It’s an inferno of ecstasy blazing through your body, you wrap your arms around Dieter’s waist, clinging to him as you ride it out— letting the embers cool down. 

Without a single breath, you grab for the button on Dieter’s jeans as he tries to pull at the straps of your dress. It’s a jumbled mess of limbs, but finally working in tandem to rid each other of clothes. 

Dieter crowds you against the table, the edge digging into your lower back causing you to yelp. 

“Are you okay?” His eyes etched in concern, as he scans over your blissed out features. 

“Ye-yeah! The ta-table is digging.” You say, pointing to show him. 

He bends down to grab onto the back of your thighs. “Jump.” He says as he helps guide your naked body onto the table. 

His hands rest on the table as he leans in to kiss you again, unhurried as he licks into your mouth as he guides your body to lay down on the table. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, Poppy.” He says as he leaves a trail of kisses down your neck and over your chest, stopping and pressing his lips over the spot that he hopes to hold on to for a while— your heart. 

The gesture has your eyes welling up, blinking rapidly to fight them off. You feel so completely overwhelmed by him, you have to actively stop yourself from telling him how in love you are with him. 

He lifts himself off of you just enough to reach between the two of you, giving his cock a few hasty strokes before notching its weeping head at your entrance. 

“Fuck!” He gasps as he slowly pushes his full length into your warm cunt— the slightest ghosting of your climax now pulsing around him. 

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in as close to you as possible, silently begging him to move, but he grips onto your leg to halt your movements. 

“Wait— I need a minute otherwise this is going to be over before it even happens.” He says, resting his head on your sternum to give himself a moment. 

“Dieter, it’s fine. Just take what you need— I’m— I’m good.” You feel more than satisfied with the two orgasms you’ve already had, you just want to feel him. 

He slowly states to move his hips, several purposeful thrusts, wanting to savor the way you feel, the warmth already starting to bloom in his belly.

Dieter lifts himself off of you, sensing this new angle is pleasant based on how you start to arch your back off the table, his steady thrusts working you both up in a desired frenzy. 

“Fuuuuck, you feel like a dream., Poppy.” His voice is hoarse, glancing down to watch the way your arousal coats him, his hands gripping your waist as he thrusting into with a little more earnestness. 

“Dieter— I think I’m going to come again— oh god!!” You announced into the lust filled room, the tell-tale signs barreling through your body. 

You try to grab onto something, hands looking for something to anchor yourself to, Dieter too far away and too lost in his own pursuit— each thrust is a little deeper producing your muscles to tighten on their own accord. 

An unexpected swipe of Dieter’s thumb over your clit is blinding, sweet erotic sounds pouring from your mouth, hands slamming back onto the table, you're met with wetness, your brain registering where you are and that your hands are covered in paint. 

The thick emulsion is cold when it hits your skin, your nipples pebble at the sensation of the paint gliding over them, your hands kneading the weight of your breasts— paint building up between your fingers with each calculated squeeze, each roll of your nipple sends you closer to your third orgasm. 

You look up to see Dieter’s slack jawed expression, which only makes you emphasize your movements, giving him a little show. You’re arched back putting your chest on display, your hands working over your exposed skin covering your upper body in a rainbow of colors. 

“Oh shit— shitshitshitshit— I’m gonna— fuck!” The sight of you sets Dieter off, folding himself over the top of you, face nestled into the crook of your neck as his thrusts begin to falter at the way your cunt begins to contract around him. 

A gravelly moan against your damp skin and one final thrust, his hips still as he’s spilling into you. 

The room is still again. The faint scent of your oud and  sandalwood candle is overpowered by the sex hazed aroma. Chests moving against each other simultaneously, lungs begging to properly breathe, skin slipping with each pull of air— this might become your favorite way to create art. 

A soft kiss to your shoulder  as Dieter lifts himself up into his forearms, resting his temple against your jaw to give his arms a chance to regain their strength before giving you a softer kiss to your lips. 

“That was—“ He’s still trying to regulate his breathing, words jumbled in his brain and not quite producing properly. 

“Amazing!” You finish his sentence for him. 

“Yeah— amazing.” He says, one more kiss because he doesn’t think he’s given you enough yet, then he’s slowly pulling out of you and helping you sit upright. 

“What a mess we made of ourselves.” You laugh as you examine both of your colorful torsos. 

“Worth it.” Dieter replied with a slight shrug and a quirky smile on his handsome face. 

“I’m going to go grab some stuff to clean us up. I’ll be right back.” 

Hopping off the table to head towards your bathroom, Dieter grabs you by the wrist, spinning you back towards him, your bodies flush against each once more as he gives you a toe curling kiss. 

“Alright, hurry back.” He says, giving your backside a few taps. 

*

You take a few minutes to freshen yourself up, wiping away as much of the paint as you can. 

Throwing on a clean pair of underwear and a loose shirt, the hardwood cool against your bare feet, you make your way back to your studio where you’re met with an unexpected sight when you get to the door, Dieter sitting in front of your easel where your last canvas sits. His naked body wrapped in his fuzzy coat, his brow furrowed in concentration as his hand moves around the canvas with a paint drenched brush. 

You take a moment to just watch him, leaning into the door frame, watching how he looks so relaxed and happy. 

“You snoop and you help yourself to my painting, you sir are a menace.” You jokingly say to him, it earns you a generous laugh. 

“Sorry, guess I’m two for two now. I saw you had it roughly sketched out and thought I’d paint you the way I see you.” He explained, leaning back into the small metal chair. 

“And how do you see me?” 

“Beautiful.” The word floats out and around you, its weight settling into that little space in your chest that has felt empty for so long. 

“That’s two times you’ve painted me now— I think those would be grounds for someone to fall in love.” You tease, but there’s truth wrapped up in your statement. Pushing yourself off the doorframe, making your way over to where he’s sitting. 

He places the brush in the glass of water, his hand reaching out for you to come closer, softly grabbing at your hips he’s pulling you down so you’re straddling his lap— fully aware he’s  still naked and covered in paint under his jacket. 

“Do you?” He has to know if you’re feeling the same way as him. “Do you, love me?” 

“Yes.” Your voice a little wobbly, your emotions bubbling up in your chest. 

But you do, you love him without a doubt and it’s the most terrifying and thrilling feeling you’ve experienced in a long time. 

“I love you too, Poppy.” He whispers to you, his eyes glossy as he fights back tears. 

“Why are you crying?” Wiping the single tear that has started to fall down his cheek. 

“I’m scared— that I’m going to fuck this up. And you’re going to resent me. And I’ll be back to where I was a year ago— alone.” 

Your heart nearly breaks at his confession. 

“That’s not going to happen though.” Brushing his wild hair away from his eyes, caressing his face and hoping he hears the sincerity in your voice. 

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. But a wise man once told me— we’ll figure it out as we go.” 

His arm wraps around your waist as his other hand cups the back of your neck, bringing your face to his, your nose bumping into his. 

“I love you.” He breathes against your lips. 

And before you even have a chance to reciprocate, he’s kissing you with so much love and feeling. 

“Will you come? To see my showing on opening night?” You ask between feather-like kisses. 

“I wouldn’t miss it, Poppy.”

*

It’s a few hours later when Dieter walks through the front door of Diem’s house, ready for a shower and sleep. 

“You’re home late.” Diem’s voice sounds from the same spot on the couch he’d left her in. 

“Uh, yeah. Lost track of time.”

“Were you at Poppy’s?” She asks with herround of motherly questioning. 

“Yeah, I was. She had that easel, so I went to get it.”

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The easel.”

“Oh, I— I must have forgot it. We were talking, lost track of time. I’ll grab it another time. I’m gonna take a shower then head to bed. Night.” Hoping to throw her off his scent, the last thing he wants is to hear her boast about what you and him were up to. 

“Night. Oh hey, Dieter.”

“Yeah.” Turning back towards her. 

“Make sure you wash that cute hand print on your neck.” Her devilish grin beaming at him. 

He gives her a middle finger for good measure, then heads to the bathroom. 

Next

[hellfiremunsonn]

Stuck With Me. Eddie Munson x Reader

AN: At the end of each chapter will be a picture of ‘your’ Journal. Photos, and writing of a little bit from each chapter. 

(THIS IS A REUPLOAD ALL CHAPTERS WILL BE RE UPLOADED ONE BY ONE)

I do not allow my writing to be republished anywhere other than my own blog without my consent.

WARNINGS: Nothing serious I don’t think in this first chapter.

WORDCOUNT: 2k

Chapter 1: I Made Pasta

It’s 6:35pm when you finally make it through the threshold of your shared apartment with your best friend Robin. After a terribly long shift at a coffee shop just down the road you could barely make it three steps before dropping all of your belongings and laying flat on your back on the cold hardwood floor.

Soft music from the radio in the living room echoed around and you could smell something with garlic cooking. Bare feet thumping loudly down the hallway; stopping only a few millimetres from your head. You opened one eye, squinting the other while looking up and an upside down robin. Her hair a curtain around her face. 

“You didn’t even make it to the carpet today” She said, voice soft with sympathy. 

You groaned and closed your eyes again, pushing out your bottom lip in a hefty pout. 

“I’m making pasta, do you want any?” she asked, her footsteps retreating into the kitchen.

“Please?” you said finally sitting up off the floor. You hated complaining about working at the coffee shop because if you were being honest to anyone other than yourself, you were really lucky to have it, and really lucky to actually like the people you worked with. The past retail jobs you had with snotty coworkers, and middle-aged women forming cliques; the coffee shop was a breath of fresh air in comparison. It was just always hard. Being too nice for your own good and often got taken advantage of which leads you to constantly be overworking, and so sometimes, coming home and laying on the floor is the only thing you can manage for about twenty minutes. Ten if robins cooked something. 

You and Robin have lived together for about two years now, but you’ve known her for three. You met at some shitty bar with a bunch of college kids you didn’t know and ending up sticking together and getting high in the girls bathroom. You fell in love with who she was instantly. The way she talked so quickly and passionately, her thoughts tumbling out her mouth before she could even process them. The insane amount of knowledge her brain could hold, constantly blurting facts about almost anything, being able to keep them all within relevance of the conversation was something you almost envied. She had this really good friend Steve. Steve Harrington; they had apparently gone to school together but when they showed you old pictures of them you would have never imagined them ending up as friends. They became close after working together at some ice cream shop in a mall back in their old town that apparently burnt down, and they kind of trauma bonded from that. 

Steve was funny and quick witted, often called you out on your own bullshit before you even saw it. He was a delight to be around honestly and if you and Robin had an extra room you know he’d stay here. His parents are rich apparently, but he was quite adamant about paying for his own shitty apartment instead of having his parents rent out one of the nicer ones down town. He stayed down there most days. 

There was another kid who came around every once in a while; Dustin… something. You could never remember his last name, but Steve looked after him like he was his younger brother. Dustin was also from Hawkins along with the other two, and it was sweet knowing they all kept in touch as often as they did seeing as they were so far from their home town, and all grown up. 

You was jealous sometimes. Jealous of the life they had before, and the friendships they kept. You never had the opportunity to stay anywhere for very long. You lived with your aunt Jean, and money was hard for her. She adopted you after your mom died when you were six, even though she already had four kids of her own that she was raising. It was hard raising us as a single parent, and her kids didn’t exactly like you.

So with Jean often unable to pay rent, you moved from place to place every couple years. It gets tiring being the new kid, so when you turned eighteen you moved out here you decided to stay as long as you could; and every year you’ve been here since Robin has made it worth it. (Although you would never hold it against her, you do miss her when she goes back to Hawkins for the holidays to visit her parents) 

Those first couple of years on your own were terrible until you met that chatter box of a woman named Robin. 

Finally lifting yourself off of the floor you walked towards your room, putting your things away and ridding yourself of your old work clothes. Dropping them to the floor you searched through your dresser pulling out a pair of pyjama pants and an old baggy Metallica shirt. You never wore it out in public because their music wasn’t exactly your thing, but Robin had given it to you; saying it was an old friends and she didn’t want to keep it but felt guilty if she threw it away or donated it. So naturally you took it in happily. It was too comfy to throw away, so it became a regular sleep shirt. 

Sliding your way back into the kitchen Robin was placing two bowls of pasta onto the counter. Grabbing both you brought them over to your little rounded kitchen table that you stuck in the corner. It was a tight squeeze but you made it work. “Have I ever told you that I love you?” you said to her with a mouthful of noodles. 

She laughed and slid into the seat across from you, placing two graciously full glasses of white wine. “Once or twice, usually not through a mouthful of food, but still meaningful nonetheless” she quipped. “I am a really good cook though” She admitted. 

“You are, I don’t know why Steve is always so shocked about it" 

“Because I could barely make toast without setting something on fire when I was in high school" 

"I just find that so hard to believe” You said. “I always picture you as this person” you gesture towards her. “Just maybe a little smaller, and maybe more shy”

“Oh I’m still shy” she pointed at you with her fork; half a noodle dangling from it.

“I know, I’ve seen the way you talk to women remember?” You laughed. “You’ve gotten better though, and you’re back together with vickie right? That’s gotta be good for something”

“Yeah I guess” Sighing she poked around her bowl.

“Trouble in paradise?” You ask while raising an eyebrow. 

She rolled her eyes at the cliche phrase. “I don’t know, I think I’m just worried that maybe the break wasn’t enough for her and that she’ll realize I’m not that great and she can do better, even though I personally think were perfect for each other, I mean we literally fit together like a puzzle piece, and I don’t know how or why but we do and I-’

"Robin” You say cutting her off. “Sometimes taking a break is really beneficial for bother parties you know? Distance makes the heart grow fonder or some shit; whatever that saying is, anyways” You said swirling your hand in the air. “If vickie doesn’t see how fucking incredible you are, even now after the break, or even when she locked eyes on you for the first time, then she isn’t worth it…” You paused. “I know it’s not exactly what you want to hear, but you are more and you deserve more”

She looked up at you, eyes  bleary with tears. Smiling she wiped at her eyes, a small chuckle escaping her. “You really are the best of best friends a girl could ask for” Her eyes widened at her words. “Don’t tell Steve I said that, he might have a mental breakdown”

“Oh I’m absolutely telling Steve you just said I was the bestest of best friends. I need to rub it in that little twerps face” You said grinning. 

“Oh!” She exclaimed. “I told Steve we would go back with him to Hawkins on Friday for the week, because I know you’re off work, and I can take my work with me anywhere really, and Steve said that the gang really wanted to get together for the Corroded Coffin show at the bar, and I couldn’t exactly say no so” she stopped to take a deep breath. “You’re gunna see the lovely little shit hole that is Hawkins Indiana” She smiled brightly in anticipation. 

You really didn’t want to spend two hours in a car to go visit a town you had never been to, to see a band you had never heard of, but you couldn’t deny the curiosity you had to finally being able to see Robins home town.

“Friday?” You asked and she nodded. 

“But that’s tomorrow" 

She bit her lip and gave you a pleading smile. And when your best friend gives you that ‘please do this for me I need you there and I made you noodles’ look. You just can’t say no.

"Fine” you groan. “But we’re taking my car, Steve can drive himself, I’m not getting stuck in the backseat with you and your stinky feet again" 

"That was one time!” she argued. 

“One time too many if you ask me” you fake annoyance.

“Also thank you, I really appreciate you coming… I didn’t want to see Vickie for the first time since the break alone, and Steve isn’t the best wingman”

“I’d kill a man for you” you said taking another mouthful of noodles. “Just give me the word baby”

“God no wonder Steve always thinks we’re secretly dating with the amount of flirting we do” she said shaking her head. 

“Hey if you don’t flirt with your best friend then what’s the point in even having a best friend?”

“I don’t flirt with Steve” She pointed.

“Yeah cause you’re a lesbian Robin”

She shrugged in agreement and you both went back to eating your pasta. 

Around 9pm you decided to head into your room to start packing your small suitcase. Robin said to pack something for every possible scenario, including the bad ones. Whatever that means.

It was mid July so you decided on half the clothes being okay for hot weather, and half of them being for cold weather, with a few extra cozy options for good measure. You threw an all too new looking copy of The Lord Of The Rings, on top (Something you had been meaning to read for a while) and then fumbled around for toiletries. 

“Hair brush, hair ties, headband?” You questioned looking back at your dresser. It was covered in all types of jewelry and hair accessories mixed in with the endless amount of paint supplies. “Nah no headband” You decided. “toothbrush and toothpaste? I’m sure Robins parents have toothpaste…” You bit your lip. What if they were the type of people that just didn’t share toothpaste? “Whatever” You rolled your eyes.

Robin knocked lightly on the doorframe of your room. 

You give her a quick glance while continuing to move around your room. She crept in and sat with her legs crossed on your bed. “You’re talking out loud again” she said reaching over to grab one of your stuffed animals, cuddling it to her chest.

“Shit” you mumbled. “I really gotta stop doing that” An embarrassing habit when you were nervous. You even used to have to grit your teeth together to stop myself from looking like a crazy person when you were out in public, but at home, it didn’t really matter all too much if Robin heard you. After a few more minutes of shoving things into your suitcase you stood back to look at it, hands on your hips. “Do you think your parents will like me?” You say abruptly looking up at Robin. 

She raised a brow “Yeah probably, why?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t want them to think you’re living with some weirdo roommate" 

She laughed. "They already know who you are, they don’t think you’re weird. They have me as a daughter, their perception of weird is much different than any ‘normal’ humans”

“Yeah I guess you are a big weirdo huh?” You tease. 

“The best in the bizz” She said with a yawn. “Alright I’m gunna try to sleep, I’ll wake you up in the morning” Skipping out of your room and to her own she yelled a “Goodnight!” Before closing her door. 

You sighed looking at the time. Not feeling tired enough to sleep yet so you decided to journal a little bit to pass the time. Scribbling doodles and words all over the pages, adding as many stickers as you saw fit. It was one of your favourite pastimes because not only did you have your own words to look back on, to remember fond moments, you always slapped a couple of Polaroids onto the pages for extra nostalgia. The process of it all was calming, and often soothed any anxieties from the day whenever you got to sit down, and glue, and tape a bunch of stuff onto the lined paper. 

Finally deciding to crawl into bed before your week of 'vacation’ started. Wrapping your blanket tightly around you, shutting off all the lights except for one and closing your eyes. Naturally sleeping didn’t come easy, and you tossed and turned all night until around 12:30 am. You fell asleep sometime soon after that, adding another page to your journal in the process.

[repairgirl]

michelle || leo valdez x fem!reader songfic

a/n: #2 in songfic series! song: michelle- sir chloe

t/w: alcohol, cursing, substance abuse, mention of vomitting, super smutty and super nsfw

word count: 1.2k

You swayed back and forth to the boom boom boom beat of the music, sipping the raw, bitter alcohol. Travis's party was just what you needed: shots, random boys you didn't care about to grind on and distract yourself with, getting blackout drunk, and basically anything to make you get your mind off of him.

Just thinking about his name made you want to vomit. You were reminded of walking in on him with that other, terrible, Nemesis girl, the half-assed breakup, never getting closure, and endless nights of sobbing and feeling sorry for yourself. Two weeks later, and his words were fresh in your mind like a fresh cut he had just re-opened yesterday. You drank more, feeling dizzy, praying the alcohol would numb your brain.

Fuck him, anyway. You'd show him you could do better. 

"Woah, calm down," a random boy said, approaching you. The darkness and flashing lights of the cabin made it hard to see his face, so you could barely make out his gleaming brown eyes and sepia skin. "You might wanna be careful with that much alcohol."

"You don't know what's best for me," you snapped, your words slurring. The bass pumped in your ears, making your head feel like it was going to explode. 

To your surprise, the boy laughed rather than acting offended. "Okay, I guess you're right. I shouldn't be talking, anyway. I just finished shotgunning this beer,” he answered, showing you his tattered-up Natty Lite can.

Lightheaded and unphased, you allowed yourself to plop on the tattered sofa, the boy crashing next to you. His breath smelled of beer and straight tequila, and you only imagined that yours did too.

"Why?" you asked, inching close to him. His hand rested on his thigh, barely grazing yours under your ripped denim shorts. 

"Why what?"

"Why do you drink? I mean, we all drink for a reason. We're either mad at someone else, or ourselves."

He paused, tapping his leg. 

When you got drunk, you got angry and philosophical. Mad at the world, hyperaware of everything wrong with everyone, the reason why many people couldn't handle you drunk. The reason you usually drank alone. 

The boy leaned back, resting his head against the seat. "I'm lonely. I'm fucking tired of being the seventh wheel, and always feeling like everyone's life is better than mine."

"Hey, I'm lonely too."

"You?" he asked. "Once everyone heard you were single again, they all wanted to get with you. Thought you would even be taken by now."

You scowled. You hated your reputation at camp: the pretty girl who everyone thought they could take advantage of just because she was from Aphrodite. You were tired of being treated like a sex object, especially by your ex, and you wanted to prove them all wrong. "That's exactly the point. All anyone ever wants me for is my body. But apparently even that wasn't good enough for... him."

The boy paused, almost looking sorrowful, and like he regretted saying anything. What was that look he was giving you? Pity? 

"He cheated? I'm sorry... That's rough."

"Yeah, but it's whatever. That's why I drink, anyway," you said, gulping down more of a Coors bottle someone handed you. He looked concerned. 

"You and me, we're opposites. I have to rely on my personality to get me anywhere. All my friends have amazing good looks to rely on.  I have to work for that shit, to even be slightly noticed."

The strobe light shined on him, and you could see his features more clearly this time. Unsure of whether it was you or the alcohol speaking, you noticed his chocolate brown hair, beautiful curls you wanted to pull. 

Most guys repulsed you, especially after the breakup. You wanted them to get their hands off of you, because no one felt right the way your ex did. But every move this boy made, every hungry look he gave you, all of that just made you want him more. He made you feel different. 

"Then we would fit together perfectly," you said, inching towards him. 

He moved his hand to your thigh, rubbing your leg with his thumb. The lights dimmed as the party entered its peak, and the sexual tension between you two increased. 

The boy inched oh-so-slightly to the left so that his hot breath was on your ear, close enough to bite it. "Maybe we would."

Agonizingly slowly, he put one hand on your waist and used another to cup your face. You stared into his eyes, mesmerized by his gaze, your ears and head buzzing from the alcohol. Finally, you both shared a drunken kiss. You didn't even think about what you were doing.

He gripped your waist, and you climbed on his lap. He bit your lip, then sloppily put his tongue in your mouth, not bothering to ask for permission to enter. You kissed back, your tongues swirling together, making out like you were running out of time, running away from the world, running away from your ex, running to each other. 

Once you slowly started grinding on him, he pulled away and whispered in your ear. "Let's take this to a room." 

Once you got to an empty room, the boy twirled you around and pressed me against the wall. He tightened his arms around your waist, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, having to stand on your tiptoes. You pressed your body as close to his as possible, sticking your knee in between his legs for extra friction. 

"Jump," he growled.

You did as you was told and jumped up so you were face to face, straddling him. He connected his lips with yours and squeezed your ass as he held you, making you moan into the kiss. 

You urgently ran your fingers through his hair, feeling his curly locks. You grinded into him, and he moaned into your mouth.

He set you down and pushed you onto the bed, never letting your lips disconnect. 

One you were on the bed, him towering over you and shoving his tongue in your mouth, he finally put his hands under your shirt, feeling and squeezing your tits. He grinded his member against you, and you shivered in delight, running your fingers over his well defined muscles. 

He started trailing kisses down to your neck, trying to find your sweet spot. Once he did, you let out a loud moan which you had been holding in, which of course only encouraged him to suck harder. Once he was done covering your neck in red spots, he pulled back, giving you that lopsided grin, then he finally hungrily kissed you again. 

Whatever you felt- buzzed because of the alcohol, eager to get a rebound to prove your ex wrong, or solely just sexual attraction, you knew it felt right.

He was taking off your shirt after already discarding his on the floor when you stopped him.

"Wait," you panted. "I don't even know your name."

"Leo. Leo Valdez," he responded, and as he did, you watched his lips, wishing they were back on yours. "You?"

"Y/N L/N."

Leo trailed kisses down your chest, seductivley looking up at you with hungry eyes.

"Y/N L/N, you are a monster from hell."

leo valdez taglist: @slytherindaughterofposeidon0​ @persephil​ @mmmelanie-blog1​ @blue-violin​ @goldengoddess​ @dee-zbignuts​ @animes-trash​ @nottherealslimshady​ @cellias​ @lovemss​

[verfego]

The UK government has put in place an emergency ban of puberty blockers to any person under the age of 18 while under the conservative government. A recent statement by the new Labour Secretary of Health Wes Streeting indicates transphobic intentions and views; regretting saying that "trans women are women" and has displayed intent to extend the current emergency ban of puberty blockers to minors past September 3rd 2024, and enforce the ban permanently.

People under the age of 18 cannot legally receive puberty blockers under private healthcare services and if they want to receive puberty blockers from public healthcare (the NHS) they will need to do so in a clinical trial environment. The NHS notoriously takes a VERY long time to get things done due to understaffing and underpaid workers, meaning that almost all trans minors are going to be unable to access puberty blockers for extended periods of time, and they will do so under clinical conditions and nowhere else.

This is an attempt to eradicate trans youth.

A recent post on presidential candidate and convicted felon Donald Trump's website explains how he will, on Day One of being re-elected for president 2024:

- Ban all forms of HRT for any and all ages in the USA

- Pass a law allowing all "victims of child sexual mutilation" to sue doctors who have provided gender affirming care to trans people.

- Push an act of congress to make sure the only legally recognised genders in every state of the United States of America are male and female, and these are to be assigned at birth.

This is an attempt to eradicate trans people en masse.

This is an attempt to eradicate trans people from the US population entirely.

This is an attempt to make America as it was years ago before trans people were allowed to live publicly and freely.

I cannot imagine what the entire trans population of the US is feeling at these statements, especially under the conditions that Biden is running for president under. Biden is unfit for a state position, and should not be allowed to run for president. Biden is not likely to be elected president at all, as the recent presidential debates showed his mental decline and removed faith from the Liberal party he is the face of.

I urge almost all people who are trans to try and find safety in countries outside of the UK and US respectively, as both countries' governments have shown time and time again who they stand for and what agendas they will try and act upon - regardless of political alignment and personal politics. They will do what they can for power and for control, regardless of the toll it takes on the people of the countries they seek to "protect."

The changes the UK are making are devastating to not only trans youths, but to young people experiencing symptoms of early onset puberty that puts their health at risk. This does not just damage trans people, but others as well.

The changes Trump seeks to enforce in the US will cause countless deaths of trans people on a nationwide scale. These changes are catastrophic, and the effect that they would have upon the entire trans population of America would be devastating.

Please. Do everything that you can to stop this attack on our lives, our happiness, and our community. Do everything you can to prevent the trans healthcare crises that both the UK and US are imminently facing, because the changes will take years to revert and will have lasting effects on our rights and health for years to come.

Send letters and emails to your local representatives and any relevant government authorities, residents of the USA if you are legally allowed to, please do not stay quiet or neutral on this. If you are of the legal age to when the presidential election comes around; VOTE. Vote for anybody but Trump, ensure that you vote against Trump to save lives. DO NOT VOTE FOR TRUMP.

I hate that this is happening anywhere but two of the largest countries in the world with some of the most diverse populations of trans people are regressing at a rapid rate. Save trans lives and do your part, because this is the start of an attempt to eradicate us from the world, starting from the young people of our communities in the UK, and aiming to remove any hope of basic gender affirming care in the US.

Trust me when I say, this will not end here if these laws are allowed to pass through in any capacity. After they take away any hope for gender affirming care in the USA, they will begin criminalising trans lives entirely. If the UK is allowed to ban puberty blockers to "save childrens' lives" we will follow the US swiftly, and our lives will be in jeopardy just as the trans community of America's is right now.

Do not stay apolitical, do not let them kill us, do not give up.

I send love and appreciation to all trans people, and I believe that we can get through with this. We cannot give up and let them remove us from the world. Trans Lives Matter.

[its-the-sa]

I'd love to hear your interpretations on those dreams at the end of artificer's campaign, the ones where you're trapped in a hallway with a scav and you have to kill them.

Personally, it's very interesting to me that in some of them, the player is the one controlling the scavenger (imagine a dream where you're someone else and it's you that's the killer, that's fucked up). I like to imagine that they began as basically arti's bloodlust carrying over to her dreams, but over time they got more complex, more detailed. Less of a violent fantasy and more of a reoccurring nightmare, maybe a symbol of her regret or a general disgust for senseless violence.

I have a headcanon where the dreams eventually make arti so sick to the stomach at the idea of violence she decides to give it up entirely, only fighting to kill something to eat. It's how I felt after finishing her campaign- I was so exhausted from the fight with the chieftain that once I won, I didn't have it in me to go around killing any more scavengers. I just felt bad for them and watched them run away from me. I couldn't do it anymore.

THIS THIS THIS!!! seriously, so many people seem to think that arti just genuinely enjoys murdering scavs, and... i mean i kinda get where theyre coming from, but to me it seems pretty clear that she is just constantly re-traumatizing herself.

like yes, she is consumed by rage, and im sure she does get satisfaction from killing them in the heat of the moment. but afterwards, i think it definitely haunts her. i imagine she tries to tell herself that 'they're all the same' and 'they deserve it', but she knows deep down that isn't true. she just keeps choosing violence because it's easier than accepting her loss. just like some people try to drown their sorrows in drugs or alcohol, arti tries to drown hers in blood. it's a self-destructive coping mechanism. as long as she is out there fighting for her life, finding enemies to hate and kill, she doesnt have to sit with her pain. but, once she goes to sleep, she cant run from her demons anymore. she has to relive her trauma and her grief, and she has to face the twisted monster she's allowed it to turn her into. theyre called 'nightmares' for a reason, after all-- they aren't fantasies about something she enjoys doing. even in the ones where she is still 'herself', she is trapped as surely as the scavenger is. theres no going back at that point. she has already dug herself into a hole where there is no choice but to keep killing.

and the ones where she is dreaming from the scav's point of view? that is like... the most perfectly brutal representation of repressed guilt i have ever seen. it shows that she on some level sympathizes and identifies with the scavengers she kills, that she's horrified at what she has become, and that she is inevitably destroying herself. all just by simply changing who the player is controlling. its freaking brilliant tbh.

anyway, i think that ultimately arti just feels guilty. she blames herself for not protecting her pups. she didnt watch them closely enough, she dropped them when she was running away, she didnt realize the blue pup got left behind at first, and she couldn't dive in the water to save the green pup. she feels like she failed them. so i think that once she took revenge on those toll scavs, the only person she had left to punish was herself. and she did it by going on to project her guilt onto every scavenger she saw. she chose to become a monster because thats what she felt she deserved to be treated like

[literaryvein-reblogs]

A Writer on Writing: Italo Calvino

Italo Calvino:

A fine thing it is to have a distant friend who writes long letters full of drivel and to be able to reply to him with equally lengthy letters full of drivel.

The poet turns in on himself, tries to pin down what he has seen and felt, then pulls it out so that others can understand it. But I can’t understand these things: these discourses about the ego and the non-ego I leave to you. Yes, I understand, there’s the struggle to express the inexpressible, typical of modern art, and these are all fine things, but I …

I’m a regular guy, I like well-defined outlines, I’m old-fashioned, bourgeois. My stories are full of facts, they have a beginning and an end. For that reason they will never be able to find success with the critics, nor occupy a place in contemporary literature. I write poetry when I have a thought that I absolutely have to bring out, I write to give vent to my feelings and I write using rhyme because I like it, tum-tetum tumtetum tum te-tum, because I’ve got no ear, and poetry without rhyme or meter seems like soup without salt, and I write (mock me, you crowds! Make me a figure of public scorn!) I write … sonnets … and writing sonnets is boring, you have to find rhymes, you have to write hendecasyllables so after a while I get bored and my drawer is overflowing with unfinished short poems.

I’m still too ignorant to write articles and as for my output of short stories, a famous summer of overproduction has been followed by years of crisis. … All the ideas currently in my head are subject to a strange phenomenon: while I work on them and perfect them continuously from the philosophical point of view, they stay rudimentary and barely sketched on the dramatic and artistic side. In my creativity thought has the upper hand over imagination.

When you’re working you get buried, drowned under things. You’ve no more friends nor art. Only when you’ve an evening or afternoon free can you roam the streets or court a girl. That’s all. In short, working is pointless. I mean, from the point of view of education. But it’s essential. I cannot — and I don’t want to — live the writer’s life, that is to say write for a living. The novel I was writing, which for months and months had sucked all my blood (because, stubborn as I am, I was determined to finish it even though I no longer felt it was going anywhere), is dead, awful, full of wonderful clever things but desperately bad, forced, it’ll never work and I must not finish it. And I must not write for some time now otherwise I’d make more mistakes. I hope that Einaudi will publish my short stories eventually, they’re the only thing I believe in and which I believe are useful.

For seven or eight months now I’ve been mucking about with a novel that I began in a moment of weakness and it’s turning out to be very bad, causing me to waste lots of my time. But at least it’ll get rid of my desire to write novels for four or five years, which is what I dream of doing, and will allow me to study kind of seriously and learn to write decently.

To write well about the elegant world you have to know it and experience it to the depths of your being just as Proust, Radiguet and Fitzgerald did: what matters is not whether you love it or hate it, but only to be quite clear about your position regarding it.

My problem today is how to escape from the limits of these books, from this definition of me as a writer of adventures, fairy-tales, and fun, in which I can’t express myself or realize myself to the full.

The fact is that I already feel I am a prisoner of a kind of style and it is essential that I escape from it at all costs: I’m now trying to write a totally different book, but it’s damned difficult; I’m trying to break up the rhythms, the echoes which I feel the sentences I write eventually slide into, as into pre-existing molds, I try to see facts and things and people in the round instead of being drawn in colors that have no shading. For that reason the book I’m going to write interests me infinitely more than the other one.

One should never have taboos about the tools we use, that as long as the thought or images or style one wants to put forward do not become deformed by the medium, one must on the contrary try to make use of the most powerful and most efficient of those tools.

You can imagine how slowly my fictional output has been going this summer, you who know how much labor, dissatisfaction, irritability, uncertainty this work costs … However — and this is the point — it is worth it. Or rather: one does not ask if it’s worth it.

We are people, there is no doubt, who exist solely insofar as we write, otherwise we don’t exist at all. Even if we did not have a single reader any more, we would have to write; and this not because ours can be a solitary job, on the contrary it is a dialog we take part in when we write, a common discourse, but this dialog can still always be supposed to be taking place with authors of the past, with authors we love and whose discourse we are forcing ourselves to develop, or else with those still to come, those we want through our writing to configure in one particular way rather than another. I am exaggerating: heaven help those who write without being read; for that reason there are too many people writing today and one cannot ask for indulgence for someone who has little to say, and one cannot allow trade-union or corporate sympathies.

Even more annoying are those who theorize that the novel has to be like this or like that, that one must write the novel, etc. Let them go to hell! How much energy is wasted in Italy in trying to write the novel that obeys all the rules. The energy might have been useful to provide us with more modest, more genuine things, that had less pretensions: short stories, memoirs, notes, testimonials, or at any rate books that are open, without a preconceived plan.

Personally, I believe in fiction because the stories I like are those with a beginning and an end. I try to write them as they best come to me, depending on what I have to say. We are in a period when in literature and especially in fiction one can do anything, absolutely anything, and all styles and methods coexist. What the public (and also the critics) require are books (“open” novels) that are rich in substance, density, tension.

As a young man my aspiration was to become a “minor writer.” (Because it was always those that are called “minor” that I liked most and to whom I felt closest.) But this was already a flawed criterion because it presupposes that “major” writers exist. Basically, I am convinced that not only are there no “major” or “minor” writers, but writers themselves do not exist — or at least they do not count for much.

I found this letter that I had started to write yesterday evening and I reread it with interest. Dammit, what a lot of drivel I managed to write! In the end it’s impossible to understand anything in it. But better that way: the less one understands the more posterity will appreciate my profundity of thought. In fact, let me say: POSTERITY IS STUPID Think how annoyed they’ll be when they read that!

[many-but-one]

Things I didn't realize would happen as I started trauma therapy

To preface, this is written by Vivian (he/him), the current "main" host of the Many but One system. I am a trauma holder for childhood and teen trauma, but I am also highly functional despite this due to the fact that most of my really severe trauma is even further compartmentalized--I am one of those "alter with alters" type of subsystems.

So, this post is going to explain some of the things I didn't realize would happen to me, Vivi, as I progressed in trauma therapy.

I had to re-learn how to say "no." This was very hard to do in the beginning. My entire "purpose" was very heavily focused on "just let it happen, just let it happen, it'll be over soon" regardless of what the actual circumstances were. Even in a non-SA environment, I found it difficult to say no to people or to remove myself from situations I felt were uncomfortable. When my therapist helped me realize that I had CHOICES and could make them freely (within reason) that was...seriously mind-blowing. Intrinsically, I know that I am allowed to say no. I know that I can make my own choices. However, when faced with the actual situation or if I think too deeply about the freedom I have I actually lose my fucking mind just a little bit. It's like my internal wiring is so deeply set to "NO! You sit there and you take it, it doesn't matter how uncomfortable you are, you just let it happen." Going against such deeply ingrained beliefs about myself has been a doozy, but it's been such a relief to finally have some freedom from those lines of thinking.

I am not as apathetic and hateful as I thought I was. Don't get me wrong, when I get into a "mood" I can definitely be this way, however, upon working on healing myself I realized I actually, genuinely, enjoy helping people or taking care of them. I was never like this before because I was so deeply focused on keeping MYSELF safe, that I didn't even have the capacity to think or care about others. I was incredibly self-centered, and not in a bad way, in a survival way.

I don't have to let myself suffer all the time. If my body hurts I can take care of it. If I am hungry, I am allowed to eat. If I am uncomfortable in any given scenario, I can leave. I don't have to "just suffer through it." Suffering is not a virtue, and it doesn't make me stronger. It only makes me weaker.

People aren't as bad as I thought they were. From my limited experiences in the external world as a child and teen, every single interaction I ever had with someone was typically highly traumatic. Such is the way of a trauma holder who kind of "specializes" in the SA side of things. So as you can imagine, becoming a host and having to interact with people on a daily basis made it very hard to trust anyone around me. However, the more I interact with genuinely good people, the more I realize that "Humanity is Okay, actually." Yeah there are some really fucked up people, like our abusers, but there is so much genuine GOOD out there, and having my walls up at every second made it literally impossible to even see it. Learning how to trust and be vulnerable is still something I am working on. But I am doing it, and it hasn't backfired yet. Knowing who to trust has been hard because I typically just go "NOBODY," or at least, I used to. So I am very careful about who I put my trust in, and it has paid off immensely.

I am a genuinely good person, even when I do "bad" things. When I say bad things, I don't mean abusing others or things of that nature. But moreso, things that myself, our system, our brain, has ingrained in us as "bad." Such as coping with negative coping mechanisms (alcohol, drugs, impulsive spending, self harm), engaging in trauma reenactment scenarios, or being overly reactive (or the opposite, apathetic) to others around me. Just because I relapse into bad behaviors doesn't automatically make me a bad person, that just makes me human. And thinking that I'm going to get through this hell called "Trauma Therapy" without relapses is just ridiculous. Being kinder to myself has been a good step.

I am allowed to make mistakes. Kind of with the above, mistakes don't automatically mean I need to punish myself for making the mistake. Making mistakes is part of life, no matter how big or small they are. Showing myself grace when I do these things has been life-altering.

I am a human being. This one is kind of sad. A lot of our trauma holders feel very detached from being a person, including myself. A saying we have to remind ourselves of constantly is "We Are Human." We are a person, not a thing, not a demon, not a monster, not a faerie, not a statue, not a robot, not a doll, not an angel, not a god. We are human, and we deserve to be treated with the kindness and grace of one. That is the LEAST we deserve, is to be treated like a human. Unfortunately that has not been the case for a lot of our lives. But things are different now. And we are finally starting to understand that.

I don't have to live with one foot in trauma time and one foot in the present. This might be a bit confusing, but something our therapist noticed with a lot of us is that we often have one foot in the present and one foot still in trauma time. We often feel like we have to hold on tight to those experiences. During trauma anniversaries, we HAVE to relive them, that's our job. This may just be a personal system experience, but we didn't get closure when the trauma ended, so we never knew when it would happen again. There are so many parts in our system that are so sure it's going to start again even though it ended 15 years ago. They are still certain that "this year is different, this year they will come for us" which leaves us panicked and paranoid. Something we did to cope was essentially relive the trauma or reenact the trauma internally during those trauma times because we were so used to being traumatized the same ways all the time at the same times of the year, that when we suddenly weren't, we panicked. However, in therapy we have slowly started learning that the cycle is OVER and we don't have to live like this anymore. It's so hard. But we are making it work.

I hope by sharing these few things it will instill maybe a little bit of hope for those of you who are working through trauma therapy. I truly never thought I would be where I am today. I was considered one of our most self destructive persecutors for a long time, I would burn every bridge I could to keep people away from me, I would self harm and drink alcohol excessively, I would be reckless and impulsive to the point where there were many times that our gatekeepers had to frantically yank me out of the front so that I wouldn't end our life. The levels of pain I felt (and still very often feel, I am not "healed" yet) were so fucking immense that I just didn't want to be here anymore. But seeing where I came from versus where I am now has given me a lot of hope for where I could be in the coming months and years. I don't think I've ever truly had hope for the future, but now I am at the very least curious what it will bring. I think even just a mere curiosity is enough. You don't have to be excited for what is to come. Simply being curious is good, too.

I hope you all have a blessed day,

🪷Vivi👑

Many but One

[tomorrowsdrama]

I just finished Re-reading The Dreamer in the Spring Boudoir and omg it’s just amazing the second time around. Technically, this would be my first time reading it completely. The first time I read it, I got distracted at around the 90% mark and didn’t finish.

But omg I love this web novel so much. The characters are so flawed and complex and human! Trash Man aka Ning Yuxuan probably had the best character arc out of all the characters. I loved hating him in the beginning when he truly was a trash man. And then I gleefully laughed when Ji Man threw him for a loop and didn’t make life easy for him. Then I relished in his suffering as he had to grovel and work his ass off to try to win Ji Man’s heart only to fail. After that, I felt bad for him as he desperately tried to get Ji Man to open up her heart a bit. Then that turned to rooting for him to get the girl and also wanting to shake some sense into Ji Man. And finally, I swooned and awwed seeing the lengths he went to to protect Ji Man and give her a peaceful life. If you’re going to get swept up in a fight for the throne and dangerous political intrigue, Trash Man is definitely the person you want to be with!

The level of scheming and many layers of planning this man did was truly frightening albeit highly effective.

This line especially stuck out to me:

““Right now, was this considered a meeting of villains that were colluding together?”

Because viewed from a different perspective, Trash Man and Ji Man could definitely be the antagonists in another story bahahaha. I loved that Trash Man had once considered taking the throne for himself but only turned down the idea because of some weird clan rule that said his clan’s descendants could never ascend to the throne. He certainly could have usurped the throne several times easily.

And Ji Man! What a great main character. Just like Trash Man, she is frighteningly competent and not someone you want to mess with. I like that she doesn’t go after people unless they harmed her first. Oh boy does she hold a grudge and will do anything to get her revenge. What’s great about her is that she’s not omnipotent and gets into trouble/makes mistakes/misreads situations. She has a bit of an advantage since she knows some of the story’s plot and has her knowledge from modern times, but that isn’t always enough to keep her safe or out of trouble. That’s so refreshing to see in a transmigrator story!

And the side characters! I don’t know how this author did it but they got me to care about the side characters. I even teared up while reading the death scene of the second prince and his wife Pengyue. This author really has a way with words because I could totally imagine how the second prince looked and sounded as he dragged his body over to his wife’s bed, not realizing that she’s already dead. And the whole time he’s “berating” her for seemingly betraying him, he’s also making excuses for her and already talking about how she’ll have to make it to him. We didn’t get too many details about their relationship, but the author easily conveyed how much he loved Pengyue in just that one scene. I would totally read a story or watch a drama just about those two.

I was invested throughout the entire novel even though it’s super long at over 500 chapters. It’s THAT good. That’s why it pains me to think about that abomination of an adaptation. I haven’t seen it, but just by the trailers alone, I could tell it would not do the story justice. There are too many plot lines in this story that would not pass censorship. I mean, Ning Yuxuan was responsible for raising up and then dethroning three different emperors one after the other. No way would the censors have allowed that. But even if we were to put that aside, there’s just too much stuff to fit into 38 episodes.

Anyway, read it, loved it, would absolutely recommend it you’re into transmigrator stories. Now I’m off to read the bonus chapters.

[lorata]

Ive been doing a Christmas reread of all your amazing work and the more I think about the centre, the more I wonder what the trainers and trainees thought about the stunt with the berries. Did they turn it off? Did they get a talk about it the following day? More generally, is there much of the games that the trainers keep from the students? I remember when creed died they were sent to bed when it got too gruesome and I imagine a similar thing with Cato

I was gonna answer this one but I wound up writing it instead lol

Fic below! CW for blood, death, Arena-gore, etc etc etc

******

“She should have killed him hours ago.”

Blake’s voice growls low in Rowan’s ear, curled tight and ragged at the edges. Pushing the urge to cry into rage and fury like the trainers taught them. Rowan gave up as soon as the door shut behind them and the trainers couldn’t see, Blake’s undershirt a sodden mess beneath his cheek.

Still, though, that’s not fair. None of this is fair. Cato’s face in the shadows, pale but for the splashes of blood, the dark hole of his mouth, screaming. Twelve girl and her boyfriend, wrapped around each other, shaking. “What was she supposed to do,” Rowan says. The words taste sour, thick with choked tears. “She’s out of arrows. He’s dying of sepsis. Is she supposed to go down there and punch them with her bare hands? Cato has armour and they’re eating him. She’d get torn to pieces.”

“Okay, but —” Blake mutters a curse into Rowan’s hair. “Yeah okay, fine. But they should send her another arrow so she can end it, then. Nobody wants to watch this.”

Somebody does, Rowan thinks, stomach twisting. The Gamemakers used fire to herd Twelve girl toward the Careers, they used mutts to drive the final confrontation, they could, if they wanted to, find a way end this now. “I think it’s a warning,” he said. “Like our first year in Res, when they made us go to bed too. We’re allowed to train and stuff but we’re not — special. You know? We die slow and painful just like everybody else. No special treatment.”

“So don’t get cocky,” Blake says in a low voice, then, “Fuck.”

He hates it here. It pricks sharp and startling, like stepping on a forgotten blade. Rowan can try to soften it, dragging his mattress into Blake’s room at three in the morning and making their shoebox dorm into an impossibly cramped — but cozy — shared bedroom, wrestling with Blake during free time and cuddling on the couch when the trainers aren’t looking, pretending this is all a really intense athletics camp for him and his friends. But they’re killing people, numbers ticking up on both sides, and with each one Blake gets a little more faraway and it takes longer for Rowan to draw him back, and the Games are getting worse and worse and worse. Since Rowan joined Residential their tributes bled to death for hours and hours — had their skulls and pelvis smashed with maces — fought monkey-mutts while having chunks torn off them for almost half an hour — and now this.

He can’t even imagine what the Quarter Quell will look like.

Blake’s breathing has slowed and Rowan’s starting to drift when a loud hammering at the door jars them both. Rowan jerks up, slams his head hard into Blake’s jaw by accident as Blake bites back a yelp. “Up, up,” calls the trainer from the hallway. “I know you’re both in there, we don’t have time to pretend. It’s happening, now!” Rapid footsteps, shouts and door-pounding continue down the corridor.

Rowan shoots Blake a guilty look, scrambling out of bed and pulling on his uniform. “We gonna be in trouble later, you think?”

“Depends on how this goes, probably,” Blake says, grim.

They race into the gymnasium in time to hear the cannon fire.

Rowan skids to a stop, bile rising. And okay, they’ve seen a lot of ugly deaths, but this — it’s not even a person anymore. This — this is meat. Already there are sobbing thirteens being escorted out of the room, exit paperwork ready to go. A pile of fresh vomit steams in the far corner, but they can’t run for towels because this is endgame.

No trumpets. Cato a mutilated lump of flesh and still the Games go on. “Predictions,” calls out Livia.

“There never was a rule change,” says one of the Seniors, arms crossed. “It’s all for ratings. They’re going to make them kill each other.”

Jolted, Rowan mis-times his sit and turns his ankle, thumping to the floor in an awkward heap. No one notices, the others still piling in under the trainers’ impatient directions. Blake settles down a careful six inches away, which Rowan notices with a sharp squeeze in his chest. Onscreen the Twelves are whispering frantically, until —

Everyone turns to stare at the Senior who called it. He shrugs, not smug at being proven right, more like resigned. “They let Cato and Clove believe it was for them,” he says. “Come on. Had to be fake right there.”

“That’s mean,” says one of the thirteens, who hasn’t cried or vomited so they’re still here, but jury’s out for how much longer with an outburst like that. “Why would they make a rule like that and take it back?”

“Sorry, is this the everyone eat ice cream and hug it out games, or the Hunger Games?” This time it’s Russet, from Rowan’s year. He’s a good friend but the Centre draws out his mean streak, and this has been a rough couple of days. “Because they can. Because it’s more fun that way. Because the whole point is we go in there to die horribly on camera while people eat popcorn so that not everyone who’s in there dies too soon to be entertaining.”

And that’s Russet gone as well as the thirteen and the room is silent, save for the sound of all their ragged breathing. “Enough,” says Livia, sharp with warning, but they were right. It was horrible to let the tributes hope — both Twelve and Two. It was horrible to leave the Twelve boy by that riverbank for days, slowly dying of blood poisoning. Horrible to let the mutts chew on Cato for what, twelve hours? And now, horrible to ask the Twelves to kill each other after everything.

Livia stares them down, and whatever restless energy Rowan sensed surging flattens out. “Strategy,” she says. “You are Twelve. What now?”

Twelve girl aims her bow at the same time as the boy throws his knife into the lake. “Oof,” someone mutters. “Too bad he’s bleeding to death, that was a great strategy.”

“You are Twelve,” Livia repeats. She doesn’t say it, but everyone knows she means Twelve girl. “The boy is the only thing giving you audience appeal and you just threw all of that away. How do you walk away from this alive?”

“She can’t,” Blake says. Rowan holds himself very, very still. “She can’t, there’s no way. They’ve been a package deal from the start and he was holding her up. Giving her humanity. He’s going to sacrifice himself for her and she’ll be here alone.”

“Then she has to earn it,” Rowan says. The words scrape his throat. Twelve girl screams for the boy to take up the bow and shoot her. “She’ll spend the rest of her life proving she was worth the cost. But she — can’t — kill him. And he can’t make her. He has to do this, for her.”

Twelve boy tears the bandage from his leg, his pant leg soaked black with blood. Livia nods. “A high price,” she says. “And not one that would work for any of you. But for an outlier? Yes.”

They wait — but the Twelves are still arguing, fumbling in pockets, and — wait. Wait. The drones can’t pick up what the Twelves are saying, but even so the girl’s eyes are dark with challenge, finding the closest camera and staring at it, unflinching. They raise the berries to their lips.

(“Holy shit,” whispers one of the fourteens; another socks him hard in the leg without looking away.)

And then — trumpets. Livia’s entire posture sharpens. “Back to bed,” Livia announces, over the panicked voice of Claudius Templesmith. “All of you.”

“But it’s breakfast,” says one of the youngest thirteens, barely made the cutoff, only to wilt under the worst glare Rowan’s ever seen Livia give.

“Bed,” she repeats, like the thud of an axe through a fallen tribute’s spine. “Now.”

A few hours later the trainers call them out for breakfast. All the televisions in the commissary sit blank and silent, the screens reflecting Rowan’s face and the occasional shared glance before he and the other candidates hastily look away.

A tense, awkward week of pretending to train until everyone gets called back for the post-Games interview. Love story, they say. The twelves were so in love that they couldn’t bear to live without each other. But Rowan knew what he saw, the steel in Twelve’s eyes, the Gamemakers’ alarm. The Capitol ran a crooked game and Twelve outsmarted them — and now she has to stay alive.

“Obviously she’s lying,” says one of the Seniors, cynical. “I mean, it’s her cover, but —” They all jump when Livia jabs a finger.

“No. Stop.” Livia wets her lips. “As far as you’re concerned, those two are in love and that’s the end. Got it?”

“But —”

Livia marches across the room and strikes the girl hard across the face. “Got it?” she says forcefully.

The girl sits up straight, squaring her shoulders and tossing her head back to look Livia in the eye. “Got it,” she repeats, precision-sharp, a red splotch spreading across her cheek.

Livia returns to the front of the room, faces them all with her hands clasped behind her back. “The Games are over. We have a lot of training to catch up on. I don’t want to hear another word about it, am I clear?”

Rowan echoes ‘Yes, sir’ with the rest of them, but the ground beneath his feet has already shifted. 

When the trainers call him in to talk about Blake and his priorities it’s the easiest test he’s ever failed. Rowan closes his eyes on the blood and the screams and the berries and exhales hard. “I want to go home.”

[yandere-daze]

Hello!!

For the Imposter self aware universe, how would Mayou and Arashi treat the player? I really can't imagine them being mean and honestly wonder what they would do.

Hi there! Hope you enjoy this <3

I think it has been like a month since I last posted anything, sorry about that!

gn reader

tw yandere, stalking, obsession, mention of cruel behaviour towards the reader, mention of violence

How would Mayoi treat the reader in the imposter! Yandere self-aware AU?

I think Mayoi would probably be one of the easiest characters to deal with in this AU where the characters think you appearing in the game drove the player (also you, lol) away from them

This is not because he necessarily is super nice to you or anything like that but rather that he would mostly just leave you alone

Mayoi is shy and very nervous around people so he most likely wouldn´t ever really try to approach you, even if he is upset with you for driving away his darling

They were the one source of light in his life, the person that kept him going and now they´re gone because of you!

After the player is "gone", Mayoi will just turn into even more of a recluse, refusing to leave his room now that there is no point to anymore

So he would just silently wallow in despair within his room, silently cursing you for causing all of this but never once directly approaching you. Might still sometimes watch you from the vents though, kind of glaring daggers at you but then shrieking and immediately scrambling away if you notice him

He gets strangely engrossed in keeping a “watchful eye” on you and making sure you´re not causing any trouble, how strange...

How would Arashi treat the reader in the imposter! Yandere self-aware AU?

Now I think Arashi actually has the potential to be a good deal more hostile than you might have thought. To her, all is fair in the name of love and she would go to great lengths to achieve her perfect love life

Which is why she is very frustrated and angry when she realizes that her beloved player, the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, is suddenly gone and at the exact same time, you appeared in their world instead

Arashi is pretty ruthless when it came to her love rivals and now she would kind of just see you as an extension of that. You may not have been fighting for the heart of her darling but she sees you as the cause of her player disappearing.

If she rationally thought about it a bit more, Arashi might have taken pity on you. You look so sad and miserable, sitting all alone at your table while eating lunch, having everyone either purposefully go as far away from you as possible or openly insulting you while passing you.

Truly, your dejected look makes her heart tinge in an inexplainable way but she pushes all of that to the back of her mind as soon as it happens.

She cannot allow herself to show sympathy for the one that chased away her love. Deep down she realizes that it´s not really fair to you but she needs someone to push the blame onto, to have a person she can hate all she wants to try and make herself feel better about her situation

While Arashi wouldn´t beat you up (probably) she would definitely throw some snappy or mean comments your way whenever you tried approaching her. She´s not beating around the bush and will very bluntly tell you that she does not like you and that you should probably stay away from her if you don´t want her to get even madder

Arashi truly can be scary when you´re not on her good side

[atopvisenyashill]

On the theme of Laenor living, what if the whole Dragonstone/Driftmark polycule is still kicking when Viserys dies? (Because in the book at least, I'm convinced that at least Rhaenyra had arrangements with both Harwin and Laena/Daemon, and who's to say Laenor didn't have his own with Harwin and/or Daemon?)

oooo good question.

so this goes similar to the “laena lives au” i talked about a few weeks ago (i think?) (can’t fucjing find it of course), where rhaenyra is in much better shape because a) she still has vhagar and b) she still has her husband as a shield. if we take out harwin’s death as well, this either means no one ever set the harrenhal fire, or only lyonel died in it, or even that it WAS set but they survived, and that gives her a powerful ally in the riverlands, somewhere she needs a little push due to the infighting in house tully. okay bullet pointing here-

aemond keeps his eye, but not only is harwin not sent away, rhaenyra herself is not sent away - remember, in show canon she leaves on her own but in book canon, viserys bars her from the capital to keep alicent happy (number one mistake viserys makes, and also, this is what i point to when people say she's entitled or spoiled. bruh she's literally barred from making allies at court by her father!!)

this means rhaenyra is likely splitting her time between dragonstone & the capital. there’s still a lot of ways that a fight can occur but i think it’s much less likely something as violent as the driftmark brawl happens. without that catalyst to really entrench everyone in their own spaces, there’s an interesting political shift that could happen.

we don’t get an exact read on lyonel and his feelings towards rhaenyra. in the show, he’s clearly scared for harwin’s life but like. does he hate rhaenyra for putting harwin at risk? does he want to get close to the velaryon boys? does he think this whole situation is way too risky for him to possibly benefit from? for example, does he suggest viserys let him go back to being master of laws or even let him leave the council in favor of naming laenor and/or rhaenyra as hand or master of laws? because this opens the door for rhaenyra to REALLY gain a foothold in the capital - AND imo, it gives her an excuse to move daemon & laena into dragonstone by naming daemon as her steward while she’s on the small council, and she would have lyonel to thank for that.

regardless of lyonel’s actions, it’s just objectively better that he remains on the small council as hand over otto because then the small council isn’t being stacked with greens. for all he's a bit of an enigma, lyonel isn't actively trying to sabotage rhaenyra. HOW those empty positions get filled is kinda murky - if lyonel is allowed to do it, i imagine he’s genuinely finding people suited for the job, which means master of ships is likely a manderly or velaryon, which is good for rhaenyra. for master of laws, i have no idea but i doubt it’s jasper wylde which again, better for rhaenyra. no way in fuck cole gets to just sit on the damn council.

it’s kinda tricky to ensure the entire polycule remains intact for seventeen years (seven years with one husband, a decade with the other is the timeline iirc) because i think, without the driftmark brawl, criston & alicent do something similar to what they do in the show, which is purposefully spark harwin’s ire re: the boys to get him sent from the capital. so even if we assume harwin & rhaenyra have genuine feelings, he doesn’t mind her relationship with laena & daemon, and the velaryons + daemon are all fond of harwin for being rhaenyra’s sword sword and being so loyal, i don’t think he can avoid being sent back home after a certain point.

however, i do wonder if rhaenyra, daemon, laena, or laenor don’t decide to get him a marriage match THEY want him to have - someone loyal to them, someone who won’t spill their secrets. daemon & laena’s girls are wayyy too young even for westeros marriages but there is one potential match here imo - elinda massey.

by the time viserys dies, i imagine the polycule is more of a poly-penpalship. rhaenyra in the capital, daemon & laena at dragonstone, harwin in harrenhal, laenor at driftmark. but if they’ve retained this loyal, romantic relationship between them all, AND rhaenyra is in the capital when viserys dies which allows her to lock down the keep, call daemon & laena to her side, send a message to harwin to gather some men, have her siblings Not Quite Arrested, and aemond doesn’t have vhagar, i mean…..dance OVER lmao, she can take the capital, and if alicent or cole try something, she can have alicent confined and straight up have cole executed.

obviously, there’s pushback here - alicent still doesn’t like or trust her, aemond is still Like That, otto is likely plotting in oldtown, cole still hates her guts, helaena and aegon are probably still having kids, and vaemond is still here. but vaemond’s window of opportunity is minuscule here, with laenor still alive (and unwilling to kinslay for his wife) and the hightowers not in power.

i imagine lyonel gets pushback whipped up by otto from oldtown - regardless of what lyonel does, people may see his actions as covering for rhaenyra to get his blood on the throne. but this is similar to the pushback against maegor, aenys, and early jaehaerys - very contained rebellions that can be headed off with enough dragons & soldiers, and even factoring in rhaenyra’s temper, if she never loses harwin, if the council isn’t stacked against her, if she starts the war already in KL, and with the seasoned warriors like harwin, daemon, laenor, AND corlys on her side, i think she can commit a few war crimes and still keep control of everything lmao.

the main wildcard factor here is the stepstones imo - daemon & corlys are gonna push to really hold it, and if rhaenyra is on the council (or laenor) she’s going to get involved. maybe this goes well, makes her look competent, if she’s smart she settles some people there to gain their loyalty, OR maybe it’s another endless war to get involved in and she looks kinda stupid.

post war, harwin is guaranteed a spot on the council, as is daemon & corlys. harwin has had at least one child, i think it’s not unlikely rhaenyra has at least one more child past joffrey (whether it’s daemon’s or harwin’s lol), i do wonder if daemon & laena don’t have any more children after the issue with baby aegon. both versions of daemon, imo, have some hang ups about death in childbirth, so i don’t think it’s unlikely he just gives up on having a son with laena & settles either for the marriages or even having a bastard with rhaenyra that they say is laenor’s. really playing with fire in that one lmao but when are those two Specifically not doing already doing that. i think they gotta be CAREFUL bc viserys will NOT appreciate her having daemon’s bastard SPECIFICALLY and they risk getting sent back out from the capital. but again, if he’s her steward at dragonstone, i think that keeps him a lil busy & she might be able to fudge a timeline easy enough to Genuinely pass her kid off as Laenor’s which also helps her.

anyways i’m assuming these people are a lot more rational than they are so let’s dig into some likely dumb decisions too-

again, if viserys realizes somethings happening, he’s having a conniption fit and neither daemon nor rhaenyra have ever been one for subtlety. i think the likelihood of her having daemon's kid in this scenario is kinda high and while viserys does tend to just overlook what her kids look like, if one comes out with daemon's face i think it will piss him off just a bit.

i mean if we want to get really poly with it, imagine if laena has a baby that looks like harwin. that actually helps rhaenyra a lot but also that's soooo funny.

let's say a fight still happens between the younger kids. firstly, it's likely coming a few years later than it does in canon, which might be good, might be bad, but it does mean that even if aemond does something absolutely wild like claim vermithor, silverwing, or grey ghost, he gets less time training on dragonback, and is on a smaller, potentially less bloodied dragon. however, the flip side is if it happens too late, when they're older and perhaps a bit angrier, it could spiral out of control in a more violent way. BUT if there's never a reason for them to be alone and purposefully unsupervised (WHAT WAS COLE DOING. HOW DOES THIS IDIOT STILL HAVE A JOB), there's also never a reason for them to get so violent with each other.

i mean we know CRISTON is bothered by rhaenyra's relationships, but one thing i think people constantly discount is that even with the ingrained sexism and general prudishness of westeros......it just doesn't seem like many other people give a shit. the high septon definitely cares considering he also dislikes lady sam when she remarries to lyonel, and i'm sure several reacher lords care. BUT. i do think the way otto and the greens go about taking the capital pisses a number of people off because a lot more people declare for rhaenyra at the onset of the war than aegon. if she's perhaps not being as obvious about her affairs because harwin is gone, daemon is gone, and she's either living by herself at the capital or In The Same City as Laenor, i really think she has an easier time convincing people she's a better choice than aegon.

BUT I do think it can't be understated that some people might turn against her if they feel like she's clearly having an affair with daemon, particularly in the Reach and parts of the Vale.

AT THE SAME TIME. if otto is doing exactly what he does in canon - which is fuck all, btw, everyone always whacks rhaenyra for being stupid but otto does not do anything particularly impressive to gain himself allies, he just expects that going "well aegon is a man" is enough and it's just not. even rhaenys had her supporters and rhaenys was never named princess of dragonstone! as a matter of fact, this man is SURPRISED at how many people don't declare for him which really speaks to a level of superiority and arrogance on par with like 90% of the targs in this era - but he's doing it from oldtown instead of the capital, he has nothing. he has jack shit. he's got what, a handful of houses in the stormlands, reach, westerlands, and the triarchy, and potentially doesn't even have the capital. i'm not saying rhaenyra is gonna be smart and non angry but it would be perilously easy to just send Laenor and Rhaenys to oldtown with their dragons to be like "send that bitch out here right now or we start burning shit" and lock aemond, aegon, and alicent up while parading helaena and her kids around to be like "see i'm not a kinslayer, i love my sister and her kids, they've simply been manipulated by my evil stepmother."

even if rhaenyra isn't in the capital, the war gets easier - Alicent and Cole would have to take the capital themselves and kill like a LOT of people to do it. and meanwhile Steffon Darklyn is sneaking out to let Rhaenyra know something is UP. Then we got every single experienced dragon on Rhaenyra's side, PLUS extra help in the riverlands and driftmark. either otto gets his shit together or he's even more fucked than he is in main canon.

[matan4il]

what does it mean when you call us nonnie?/genq

It's just a cuter (in my mind) way of addressing an anon.

And in my attempt to catch up with replying to asks (all of which you can find in my ask tag), here are a few more with responses:

yo, as an openly jewish person, i just wanna make this post to appreciate you and give you a virtual hug :)

Thank you sooooo much, Nonnie, I'm so happy that I can do anything that helps fellow Jews! I hope you're doing good and taking care of yourself throughout this, and please know my blog is ALWAYS open to you if you need anything. Sending much love! xoxox

I vaguely remember someone saying Hamas/Gazan health ministryss numbers haven't been reliable despite that being the quote that keeps getting passed around. Do you know where this was discussed?

I've discussed it a lot on my blog, and you should be able to find posts about it, more and less recent ones, between my UN tag on my blog and my resources one.

congratulations on Independence! I only have some Jewish ancestry but I grew up being taught what an amazing miracle it was that Israel was established, that the hope of thousands of years of exile came to pass! The people who hate you only ever convinced me to dust off my duolingo Hebrew lessons. I really hope I get see your beautiful country for myself one day עם ישראל חי

Thank you so much, Nonnie, and I absolutely believe in the same thing, that our return to our ancestral land, de-colonizing it, re-establishing our ancestral language and culture, reviving our native roots, allowing us to walk the same streets and sites our ancestors (and yours!) did is nothing of a miracle. This should be a cause for celebration for all people who believe in native rights, not just for people with a Jewish identity and our allies. That notion is only reenforced by the fact that the generation who got to see this dream realized included so many Holocaust survivors, people who were human skeletons in May of 1945, and were called to defend the Jewish state from the invasion of several Arab armies in May of 1948, people who somehow won that war, despite having inferior numbers of soldiers, weapons, less training, no British help (including donated airplanes, weapons and even British commanders in the field) like the Jordanian and Egyptian armies did, and when many of these survivors were not even all speaking the same language (so just imagine how difficult even giving a simple order was)... Truly, even when I put Jewish sentiments aside, Israel winning its Independence War is a true miracle.

Just take a second to process that the people on the left are also the people on the right, who won this war, a victory the anti-Israel crowd mourns, because I guess they think it would have been better if these Holocaust survivors would have been subjected to a second genocide, this time at the hands of the Arabs? For having the audacity to return to their ancestral land after Europe almost completely wiped out their families and their people?

I love that you're studying Hebrew! :D It's so beautiful and so rich to me, and I hope you enjoy it, too. Don't hesitate to listen to Israeli songs as well, it def contributes to learning and to enjoying it! And congrats to you as well, since it feels like you're very much a part of this celebration, too! Am Yisrael chai! <3

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)