#i mean not really just tags the SHIT outta everything.

[the-ark-awaits]

sighs

[gojos-thot-patrol]

i DEFINITELY want more Frat Boy Sukuna!!! 😍😍😍😍

Oh man, you're twisting my arm so hard here nonnie, what ever will I do?

I guess I'm just going to have to post some headcanons and frame work I have for the up coming part 2 (Of which you can get on the tag list for it: here!) Oh! And if you want a refresher, you can find Seven Minuets in Heaven Here!

Now Presenting...

Some supplemental reading if you will ;)

Ok, lets start with just some basic information on our boy

Hes in the Alpha Beta Omega frat, or the ABO frat. The entire Frat is very quick to point out they’ve been around longer than ABO when you bring it up, minus Ryomen. 

He just tells you he’s an Alpha and asks if you’re trying to be his Omega. It normally gets whatever reaction he wants

He’s majoring in business against his will (Remember this: It will come up) with a minor in he’s really about: History

If taking over his fathers very lucrative business (Again: This will come back up later) fails, he wants to be a history teacher.

He often bonds with Nanami over hating their shared major and being annoyed with Gojo and Geto making out in the most inconvenient places.

He sells drugs on the side to supplement his income, but nothing harder than weed because “Weeds not even a drug when you think about it.”

Is known for being the biggest manslut in the manslut frat. But hey, at least he gets tested regularly. 

Ok, so now I want to start with a little bit of his background because it informs a lot about how I characterize him.

He’s Yuji’s older brother by about 4 years. Both of them look almost exactly like their father. The man really said Ctrl C, Ctrl V, Ctrl V. 

Their father left when they were 7 and 3 respectively. Yuji doesn’t remember, but Ryomen very clearly remembers how horrible their father was to their mother. To him, it was a relief when that asshole finally abandoned the family for good.

The family moved in with their Grandpa, who was one of the very old school “I will only tell my kids I love them on my death bed” types. He also died when the boys were only 13 and 9.

Meaning our boy never really had a good role model for how to perform masculinity, and now that he’s an adult he finds himself pretending to be the type of man media told him he was supposed to be. Somewhere between Tyler Durden and Joey Tribbiani. He doesn’t think he’s very good at this performance. 

The moment he turned 16, he started getting piercings to try and look less like his dad. The moment he turned 18 he got his tattoos to really separate himself from his father. Yuji thinks it’s insane, but Ryomen thinks it’s worth it to be able to look in the mirror without wanting to punch it.

His father reached out to him his senior year of high school. He offered to pay for 100% of Sukuna’s college tuition, as long as he majored in business and took over the “family” company once he graduated.

Yea, turns out dear old dads new wife couldn’t conceive, and his smoking had finally caught up with him in the form of lung cancer. Faced with an inevitable death, he was desperate for an heir. 

Ryomen may have despised his father with everything in his being, but he realized how stupid it would be to throw away not only a free education, but also a guaranteed career. So he agreed.

OKAY now that that’s outta the way, let’s get into how he is in a relationship 😈

You are his first real relationship. He’s had “relationships” that lasted officially about 2 weeks at the longest. He’s had a plethora of situationships where he’d make promises he had no intention to keep. But as far as actually, serious, relationships you’re number one. 

And genuinely this new emotion kinda scares the shit out of him. The first time he got love pangs he thought he was having a panic attack, the first time you brushed him off he felt like he shattered. this shit sucks yo, no wonder the Greeks thought it was a mental illness.

He has no idea how to properly love someone, he’s winging this shit: Doing everything entirely based on vibes

In his past “relationships” the moment conflict arose, he would leave. He doesn’t want to do that to you though, so head it is.

I’m not joking, the moment you have an issue he’s taking you to bed to try and distract you. And he’s always shocked when you still want to, ya know, communicate about issues you’re having after the fact. And he’s always even more shocked when you don’t just leave the moment conflict arises. 

Did I mention he has no real concept of how healthy relationships work?

He’s trying though. He’s trying harder to make this work than he’s trying to keep his grades up. 

Often catches himself flirting with other girls without even realizing it, it’s just second nature to him. He’ll always disengage the moment he realizes

Oh he’s jealous. Oh he’s so jealous. He sees you just talking to another guy and he’s spiraling in his head. He’s immediately getting involved and planting hickies on your neck right in front of whoever you’re talking to, because you’re his god damn it.

As such he loves to buy you jewelry. His dad’s got fuck you money, and he plans to spend it all on you. His current favorite thing to see you wear it a dainty, golden chain, with a ruby encrustedfrat b R hanging from it. It looked gorgeous on you, and marked you as undeniably his. 

Suguru has 1000% had to talk him out of getting a tattoo of your name, this man is down so unbelievably bad. He’s never really been in love before, and now that he’s feeling it he’s overwhelmed by it.

This man really thought he was above getting pussy drunk until he hooked up with you. Now he realizes he’s is Not. At. All immune to it, and is actually quite prone to it!

Ultimately, his goal is to marry you after graduation, even though his fraternity brothers are highly against it. Not because they don’t like you, quite the contrary, they love you! But they all know that marrying your first love probably isn’t the move, and that the two of you have a lot of problems to work through. They want him to at least wait a few years before popping the question.

Still, every once in awhile he catches himself looking at rings and day dreaming about the future.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Popping up in your askbox for the second time today oh boy- I really hope you don't mind me requesting again aaahhhh feel free to pick and choose one if you wish, no pressure at all! 🎔 Alright, this is actually not a romantic request but general hcs for the band! I'd love to see your take on how the band would be around their fifth member that is pretty much the most shameless and open person out there. The reader's not afraid to make snarky remarks on stage and interviews, will make a fool of themselves if needed, will wander around in undies like "one of the boys" (I hate that phrase but idk how else to explain it, I have to pull out my english is my second language card). Basically a chaotic free spirit of a person! Prefferably female reader but you can make it neutral too ^^

Have a great night Lana! ♡

(Jello! I love this idea and this is sorta me in my DR also! Sorry if this took a long time to put out, enjoy and have a wonderful night!)

Chaotic And Carefree Reader

Bill Kaulitz

He is most likely surprised on how open you are

And shameless

He thinks you are just like Tom

So it's no wonder you guys have all been friends since you were kids

He is happy you find it very comfortable with him

You often steal his shorts and wander around in a bra

He's so used to it he doesn't blink twice

Will ask you sometimes if you're okay with him being around you while you're not wearing a lot

Is surprised you don't give a shit but just shrugs it off

You're like his sister that clung onto his back so he doesn't mind

He finds your behavior in interviews so funny

You just pop outta nowhere with the craziest shit

Is collapsing into your side and giggling into your shoulder at your comments

He asks a lot why you say just whatever and you responded like it was nothing

He fears a scandal and doesn't say too much in interviews so he is slightly worried when you just put everything out there

Finds it quite normal on how open you could be about anything

From relationships, too hookups, to compliment's, insults, everything and anything

He's laughing as he tells you to stop insulting people in interviews but is laughing so hard he can't breath

The type you have to double over and take a minute

His laughs go silent

You have saved his ass quite a few times by making a fool outta yourself

You don't mind though but he feels as if he owes you

So get him to pay up or steal his shit because when he owes you he will let you get away with murder

You don't fear a lot of shit and just are you and he admires that

Will let you go about your style, laugh while you snark interviewers and disrespectful fans

When he needs someone to insult someone or just to make a snarky comment he calls you on what to say

Tom Kaulitz

He's still the playful asshole he is

So as you walk around in just a bra and underwear, not giving a shit, he doesn't blink twice

He will throw a flirty comment just for the hell of it and seeing you flip him off

You guys just have a game on who can piss each other off

But he truly doesn't mind when you hang out with him just in shorts and a bra like nothing

Some people have put you two in a dating scandal and you guys laugh at it so many times while just saying you're comfortable being like that around him

He doesn't mind it, neither do you so you guys don't get the issue

But tbh you guys found it funny to trick press with a dating scandal bc they started but whatever

He often times forgets you're not his sibling

It's most of the times when you guys are beating each other up and someone breaks it up saying

"Tom, you can't hit her! She's a girl!"

He doesn't give a shit and will fight them and you just to show them just because you're a girl, does not mean you can't fight

You and Tom probably tag team the person for doubting you

Tom and you don't use the phrase "one of the boys" rarely, if ever because you're truly best friends who are comfortable

He and you are assholes when making snarky comments

You guys are just alike that people need to be careful on what they say because you can make a joke or comment out of everything

You and Tom can't stop, it physically pains you both so much

He eggs you on when you make comments on stage or in interviews

He even joins in and you both can make someone cry, not that you mean to

He legit has to beg you to get him out of a situation by making a fool of yourself

You don't care what people think and would do it for free but you just wanna see him suffer

Georg Listing

Georg does not give a shit what you wear around him

Also doesn't blink twice when you walk in exposed in barely anything

He just says hi and goes about his day

You guys make up snarky comments to add to your collection like the assholes you guys are

Arguments between you two get so back but you somehow end up being best friends again the next hour

You have a confusing, funny and asshole-y relationship

You guys are the duo to be absolutely ruthless to each other

You say what's on his mind every single time you open his mouth

Will elbow you but is secretly laughing behind his hand

Loves seeing the faces people make out of surprise at your comments

He is also egging you on so much

He just enjoys the show you put on entirely

You say everything and anything and he just shrugs and goes along with it

You could say something horrid and he's like

"Damn. Why's that kinda true though?"

You act so open, shameless and comfortable around him he also often forgets you are not his sibling, much less a guy

He finds it weird to see you act like a actual woman

"Who the fuck are you and where's (Name)?"

"It's me, Georg."

"No, it's not. (Name) dresses like a homeless person, you have more than a shirt on. Can't fool me."

Don't try him because he will actually have a whole ass wrestling match with you

You guys are throwing punches, kicking, the whole nine yards over some bullshit

Gustav Schäfer

You say what's on his mind every single day of your life

He whispers you what to say when he can't and just laughs when you do

Gives you at least a shirt to put on when you wander around in underwear

He's comfortable around you but he doesn't want some creep that sneaks around to see or get pictures of you like that

You guys make fun of people so much that Gustav and you can't help but make comments

You guys look like the kind duo but are actually ruthless

He loves that you don't care what people think about you when you say shit

He admires that and is always supporting you when you do

You're very chaktic but he's there for the ride

Doesn't hold you back from your comments and is just standing there and agreeing with you

Gets you the dirt on people to use in your insults 100%

You guys are my favorite duo I gotta say

Laughs when you make a fool outta yourself on purpose

He doesn't have you save him by making a fool out of yourself

He also doesn't care what people think

He also says comments and is shameless about speaking his mind

He has strong emotions and does not conceal them and will say whatever with you

You guys can go on a whole rant for hours about insults and the person your insulting is just staring at you guys

[pitifulwolves]

Baby girl

Just a lil sneak peek for the fic I’m writing ☺️

Current rating: General (will change when the fic is finished)

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Rise of the Beasts

Relationships: Noah Diaz/Mirage (Transformers)

Characters: Noah Diaz (Transformers), Mirage (Transformers), Kris Diaz (Transformers)

Additional tags: “Accidental” Flirting, Mirage doesn't understand humans as well as he thinks, Flirting, Pet Names, Misunderstandings, feelings are reciprocated don't worry, Feelings Realisation, Light Angst, Other tags to be added, Rise of the Beasts spoilers

Words: 900+ (will change once posted in full)

Mirage was pretty well adapted to human interactions, from pop culture references to general personal relationships, in his eyes he has it pretty down pat.

Of course, in reality, the cybertronian couldn’t know everything, after all, movies and music could only teach him so much.

This, unfortunately, meant that some things got lost in social translation, and what Mirage expected to be universal- was not.

Mirage had recently fallen into the knowledge of pet names and nicknames amongst humans and interpreted it as a general show of affection between two people.

The memo he missed, however? Was the distinct difference between platonic and romantic pet names.

And that's how they ended up in their current situation.

Noah had just finished replacing Mirage's front bumper, the Autobot having practically ripped it off while out running a cop car during the last of his and Noah's escapades (the G.O.Es hadn't been too pleased about having to cover that little incident up).

Noah looked over Mirage’s freshly repaired front, checking to make sure everything looked right and sleek. He tilted his head to one side, mentally praising himself a little before asking “How’s that feel Raj’? Not outta place or anything?”

“Feels good man! You know you're getting pretty good at fixin’ me up, hell maybe even as good as our medics!” mirage stated, taking a moment to shift into his cybertronian form, stretching out his joints, letting out a much too casual and perky “Thanks for the repair baby girl”

“Woah- what did you jus- what did you just say?” Noah's eyes were wide at Mirage’s words, his face flushing as he spluttered over his words.

“What? Am I not allowed to thank my bro for fixing me up?” Mirage gave him a quizzical, clearly not catching onto the cause of Noah's flustered state.

“What- I never said that- you just called me ‘baby girl’ man, where did that come from?” Noah pointed out, hoping Mirage would realise his ‘slip up’.

“Well we're bros, right? It's, y’know, a nickname” Mirage explained with a small shrug “I don't get what the big deal is”

Noah sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose

“Pet name, Raj’, what you just called me, was a pet name”

“Okay, so? What's the difference? Aren't they both like, human affection things?”

“Technically yeah but- that one? That one’s usually saved for partners Raj’” Noah half laughed.

Noah looked up, eyebrows immediately furrowing at the look of hurt comes over Mirage's face, his voice having a small static crack as he asked

“What- so we’re not partners?”

“Hey- no, thats not what I meant-“

“No, I get it man, it’s cool” Mirage scoffed, ready to turn away from the brunette.

“Mirage- man listen-” 

“Noah, it’s fine, really-“


“Raj’ I didn’t mean that kind of partner!”

Mirage’s shoulders decompressed a little at Noahs words.

“Well what did you mean then?” Mirage asked, arms creaking as they folded over his metal frame.

“I mean like- that kinda shit is for people who are dating man- you know, that kind of partner” Noah’s eyes had shifted towards the ground now, an odd pang of pain going through him as the words left his mouth.

But of course, they weren’t like that, they were just. Work friends.

Mirage gave a small ‘oh’ his voice unusually small, sounding almost disappointed.

“Hey, we’re still bros, Raj’” Noah spoke, giving a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah, bros” Mirage echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, optics trying to focus on anything that wasn’t Noah. 

The atmosphere in the garage had shifted dramatically, a weight now hanging heavy in the air, and both of them knew it, but only one knew why.

As much as Mirage didn’t grasp all human shows of affection well, he was still very aware of his own feelings for Noah.

Gauging how Noah felt on the other hand, was a much more demanding task.

The banter they had, in humans, it could easily be brushed off as friendly, and nothing more than a joke, but Mirage held the hope that maybe, just maybe it was more than that to Noah.

Since their little, incident, Noah had been a little off around Mirage, no longer throwing back witty replies to Mirages teasing, only giving short acknowledgements of the Autobots words.

Even their late night drives became less and less frequent, and Noah was only found in the garage if he had to be there. Kris was the first to notice this. 



“So, what’s goin’ on with you and Mirage?” He asked through a mouthful of cereal, not even looking up at his brother as he spoke.

Noah’s eyebrows furrowed a little, tending to some near on burnt pancakes sitting on his plate, attempting to make them more appetising with a dousing of maple syrup.

"What do you mean? Everything's good with me n' Raj'" he responded, his tone just he slightest bit too defensive

"That why he's been moping alone in the garage?" Kris countered, finally looking up at

Noah, eyebrow raised questioningly.

Noah huffed out a sigh "It's grown up stuff Kris, nothing you need to worry your little head about, yeah?"

Kris rolled his eyes at Noahs response 
"whatever, you should still talk to him though, he won't stop listening to that stupid backstreet boys song" 

Noah rubbed a hand over his face, sighing yet again before nodding
"Yeah… Alright, I'll talk to him tonight"

@rottedmolarx

[mysticstarlightduck]

OC Explain!

Hopping on this open tag by @oh-no-another-idea (here)!

Imma go with Liam Steele and Dylan Millihan from What Lurks In The Hollow because that WIP is my new obsession/hyperfixation lmao

Okay, here we go!

LIAM STEELE

✨ Image ✨

✨ Song ✨

Break Stuff - Limp Bizkit

It's just one of those days when you don't wanna wake up Everything is fucked, everybody sucks You don't really know why, but you wanna justify Rippin' someone's head off No human contact, and if you interact Your life is on contract Your best bet is to stay away, motherfucker! It's just one of those days It's all about the he says/she says bullshit I think you better quit lettin' shit slip Or you'll be leavin' with a fat lip It's all about the he says/she says bullshit I think you better quit talkin' that shit

overwhelmed - Royal & The Serpent

What am I feeling? Can't look at the ceiling The light is so bright It's like I'm overheating This mind isn't mine Who am I to judge? Oh I should be fine But it's all too much I get overwhelmed so easily My anxiety creeps inside of me Makes it hard to breathe What's come over me Feels like I'm somebody else I get overwhelmed so easily My anxiety keeps me silent When I try to speak What's come over me Feels like I'm somebody else I get overwhelmed All of these faces Who don't know what space is And crowds are shut down

✨ Quote ✨

Liam fidgeted with his charm bracelet for a moment, in a compulsive, anxious rhythm, before taking a deep breath and closing his hands into fists, glaring at the bullies cluttering the street. "I don't think any of you motherfuckers heard me right, so Imma repeat myself - if you don't let go of that damn kid and get the fuck out of my way, I swear to fucking God I will bash your heads on the curb" He gave them a sharp, almost condescending smile, "And that's mostly because you're making me late for the arcade and I don't like that. Does that sound all good or do you need any more goddamn details?"

DYLAN MILLIHAN

✨ Image ✨

✨ Song ✨

Breakaway - Kelly Clarkson

Grew up in a small town And when the rain would fall down I'd just stare out my window Dreaming of what could be And if I'd end up happy I would pray Trying hard to reach out But when I tried to speak out Felt like no one could hear me Wanted to belong here But something felt so wrong here So I prayed I could breakaway I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly I'll do what it takes till I touch the sky And I'll make a wish, take a chance, make a change And breakaway

Fast Car - Tracy Chapman/Luke Combs

You got a fast car I want a ticket to anywhere Maybe we make a deal Maybe together we can get somewhere Any place is better Starting from zero got nothing to lose Maybe we'll make something Me, myself, I got nothing to prove You got a fast car I got a plan to get us outta here I been working at the convenience store Managed to save just a little bit of money Won't have to drive too far Just 'cross the border and into the city You and I can both get jobs And finally see what it means to be living ... So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk City lights lay out before us And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder And I-I had a feeling that I belonged I-I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

✨ Quote ✨

"Look, none of us asked for this. But whether we like it or not, we're siblings and we're stuck together. More than ever, unfortunately, as much as I loathe to admit it. So we need to make this" He gestures around them, gaze lingering at the, well, still quite decrepit living room of the house, before settling back on Amy, "work out for us, somehow. And we need to stop being at each other's throats all the time - which, by the way, um, I'm..." It seemed physically difficult for him to say the words that were stuck in his throat, but eventually, he sighed and droned out the phrase, earnestly "...sorry for all the stuff I said. I was just really tired and angry, but I shouldn't have said all of that. None of this mess is your fault, and I don't think you're a bad sister, like at all. You're a great kiddo."

Dylan paused unsure of what to say next, but when he noticed that Amy wasn't frowning or sulking anymore but actually smiling softly in agreement, his uneasiness seemed to fade into what could almost be a smile too. "Anyways, let's cut the emotional crap before I feel sick to my stomach more than I already feel. Do you want some more cereal?"

Tagging (gently): @sleepy-night-child, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @smol-feralgremlin, @wyked-ao3, @topazadine @littleladymab,

@winterandwords, @eccaiia, @sarahlizziewrites, @illarian-rambling

@agirlandherquill, @anoelleart, @ray-writes-n-shit

@writernopal, @anyablackwood, @unstablewifiaccess, @forthesanityofstorytellers

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @cakeinthevoid @thecomfywriter

@thepeculiarbird, @clairelsonao3, @memento-morri-writes, @starlit-hopes-and-dreams @amaiguri

@cherrychiplip @thecomfywriter @thelovelymachinery @bookwormclover

@differentnighttale, @leahnardo-da-veggie

[huntedhauntedhunter]

I have TADC agere headcanons...if anyone cares (prolly not haha)

Posting on art blog because I post my agere art here sometimes, so why not headcanons and writings too?

Will be tagged properly so you can blacklist it if you want.

Age regressors: Gangle and Pomni (FT. YOU)

Caretakers: Jax (yes and I will explain more later), Ragatha, and Zooble

Grandparent who spoils the agere and helps the caretakers: Kinger

I don't have...a spot/hc for Caine yet...sorry...feel free to tell me what you think he'd be good as though, and why/how!

------

🎀Agere Gangle: Its kind of obvious and she's not oblivious to it or in denial. She loves agere and finds it comfty and safe. She loves to draw for hours and have playdates with Pomni (she actually convinces Pomni its ok and to do it.)

I HC her caretaker as Zooble, who can be romantic or platonic! I just think Zooble would be a good caretaker for her.

📐Caretaker Zooble: Zooble is...meh about it on the surface. They don't care and they don't think they need to be so public about it. But once in the headspace, they're kind of like...a cigerette mom? Where they're sarcastic about everything, and they question almost all of your choices with a specific type of judgementalness...but they really care and if anyone (Jax) fucks with their baby, it's gonna go down.

Having Gangle as their little really opens up a protective side they didn't know they had in them. Beating the shit outta Jax becomes a more common occurence.

🤹🏻‍♀️Agere Pomni: Pomni is def in denial, and it takes a LOT of convincing from Gangle (and gentle coaxing from Ragatha telling her it's ok) to really let themselves get into it. She is very shy and anxious about it. At first she was paranoid about others finding out (namely Jax), but one Jax finds out and she becomes accustomed to...him, she really gets into. I feel Ragatha would be the best caretaker, whether platonic or romantic (altho I personally lean towards romantic!)

🔪Caretaker Ragatha: (Knife emoji is for a few reasons haha) I've seen everyone under the sun HC Ragatha as a caretaker...and so they've pretty much already said everything and I agree! Gentle, loving, sweet, but also firm and no nonsense. Her and Jax get into a LOT of fights over the littles...like, a lot. It's like watching two parents at a sports event scuffle over whose kid is better.

♟Grandpa Kinger: I HC Kinger as a grandpa figure. He isn't really a caretaker, but he spoils the littles and plays along with everyone whether he actually knows whats going on or not. Def lets them hide in his pillow fortress, whether to play in, sleep in, or be naughty and hide from their caretakers in. Teaches them about insects...plays silly games with them...etc.

🐇Caretaker Jax: OK...this one is purely for me and I have a lot amusing scenarios with Jax in which I think he'd be a fun and unique type of caretaker...So hear me out...(Since I don't see him as a caretaker for anyone in the circus, section will be xreader, sorry! I made him a caretaker for me, but if anyone does read this and enjoys it...here you go.)

It'd start with him finding out about you being an agere. And in typical Jax fashion, he would mock, berate, and tease the hell out of you every single chance he got. He would def make you cry and be paranoid, because he would go through your room and nitpick anything and everything he found.

Slowly though, and I mean SO slowly you wouldn't even notice it was happening...he would insert himself as your caretaker. Like, I'm talking he would just find amusement in teasing you and playing the part, making you upset and then saying shit like "what, aren't I a good daddy?" when he "helps" you fix the problem he caused...or sushing you by sticking a paci in your mouth, or threatening to spank you if you annoy him just a tad.

He would eventually just. Go to the playdates and sit between Zooble and Ragatha and just...start pretending he's your parent. Behind your back. You wouldn't realize he's doing this or talking about you in this way for awhile. You'd only realize it one day, when you Pomni and Gangle are having a fun competition, and you hear Jax yell at the others about how "his kids the best and gonna win", or some sports dad shit.

You don't know how to confront him, TBH...I'll let you insert how you'd personally confront him.

He's super teasing, loves having excuses to "punish" you (usually puts you in a poorly made baby jail), and acts like a mix between a deadbeat dad who only intercepts when he feels like it, and a protective dad who feels like he has to fight everyone about you being better than all the other "brats".

(Sorry the Jax part is so long, I just have lots of feelings about it...and IK the fandom would see "caretaker Jax" and laugh at how absurd that is which is fair, it's meant to be absurd! That's part of the fun and why I enjoy the idea so much.)

Anyways...yeah...that's it...just need HCs for Caine and Bubble and I'll be set....Sorry for how long this is and if you for some reason decided to read it...wow.

[latineslytherin]

It’s really hilarious marauder stans call Severus the dollar store regulus when it’s Regulus who is the bargain bin Severus.

Regulus = the DIY Severus.

Regulus = the off market build-a-Snape.

Regulus = Severus off Wish.com

“Oh you want Severus Snape? We have Severus Snape at home” and all there is just boring 1 dimension Regulus.

Everything in fic about Regulus beyond his betrayal of voldemort because he did not agree with Voldemort making horcruxes or hurting his property (house elf) has been stolen off Severus Snape and given to the little blank-face-no-personality-flour-flavored-milquetoast younger brother of Sirius Black, all to try to have a “spicy” Slytherin, when literally Snape is right there. But they don’t like him because oh no Snape was mean to some kids boo-fucking-who and said one slur word - when we all know it’s really because Snape is poor and they consider him ugly.

As if Regulus wouldn’t have had to be zealously all in to the death eater ideology to have Voldemort ask him for a favor and to use his house elf, in order to complete the protections of one of his very precious horcrux. Something he never did with Snape despite him being his right hand death eater.

Get outta here with this bullshit.

And if you come at me for tagging this with regulus black go complain to the assholes tagging their Snape critical posts with the main Severus Snape tag that keeps getting recommended on my dashboard. I stopped looking into the tag because tumblrs search function is so shit even just mentioning a character puts it in the search results and people are allowed to have their critical opinions about characters and posts about it, just use the correct anti or critical tag FOR it. But the main character tag is strictly for people who actually like a character. So you can start with this shit stain. Get them to remove the Severus Snape tag off that post and I’ll remove the regulus black tag off this one. Because others tried and I tried nicely and they blocked us.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

Chapter Summary: The first day in LA is a mixed bag.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, video call, awkward/nervous speech patterns, toxic mother/family of origin issues, food/eating/hunger, argument, mentions of: infidelity, addiction, death, and infertility, crying, comfort sex, dirty talk, eating ass, oral sex (both r) face fucking, deep throating, squirting, anal play and sex, impact play, hair pulling, maybe a hint of degradation

Notes: Chapter title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty. Oooo a new banner, who is she?! I apologize for how long this is, it really got outta hand. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

“Holy shit, Dee,” you breathe, squinting as your eyes adjust from the darkness of the garage to the bright, open home. 

Dieter walks ahead of you, tossing his keys and sunglasses on a glass console table, kicking his shoes off onto the gleaming hardwood floor. Each noise seems amplified in the jarring silence. 

It smells like lemon pine-sol, and, based on how uncharacteristically spotless everything appears, you guess that he has someone come in and clean while he’s away. 

“It’s–I mean, wow–” you stammer, shaking your head as you examine your surroundings. 

The vaulted ceiling’s stained teak backbone stretches from one end of the house to the other, rafters extending from the beam like wooden ribs. On one side of you lies a dining room and kitchen, on the other, a living room and patio entrance. Light pours in through the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows like giant frames showcasing the greenery of the patio, all lush with palm fronds and waxy-leaved bushes. 

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter. 

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist. 

Jewel- and earth-toned furniture, in all different finishes and fabrics, fill the open floor plan. The white walls are cluttered by art, a hodgepodge of creations. Prints and acrylic paintings and black ink illustrations, including some of Dieter’s originals. Plants are scattered around, next to windows and on tables, thriving in their glazed ceramic pots. 

Your fingers twitch, longing to experience every texture this buffet of materials has to offer. You feel yourself getting a little moon-eyed as you marvel at the place he calls home. It’s surreal.

And, if you’re being honest, daunting. 

When Dieter spends time with you in your domain, you feel you know him at his core. A loveable, chaotic, free spirit, who busies himself sketching and “taste testing” while you bake. Which mostly just means he eats cookies off the cooling rack when he thinks you’re not looking, but sometimes he draws pictures of you while he does it. 

You know him as someone who watches shitty TV and shittier movies with you just so you can make fun of them together, someone who theorizes out-loud about existentialism and Garfield in the same breath, who wraps himself around you when you sleep because, even when he’s dreaming, he wants your skin clinging to his. 

You don’t know him as Dieter Bravo, Academy Award Winning Actor. 

No. 

To you, he’s Dee. The man you fell in love with so haphazardly, it sometimes makes you question your own sanity. 

The existence of this other part of his life, with film sets and photoshoots and interviews and stylists and red carpet premieres, all these stringent show pony requirements, so paradoxical to the person you know and love… It makes you uneasy. 

Is he different when he’s here? 

Is Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Movie Star, the same man as Dee, Bubble Bath Connoisseur?

It’s something you’ve largely been able to ignore. 

But, since you’re being honest, you can admit that the disparities between his life and yours make your skin crawl sometimes. 

Like right now, when you’re standing here in the entryway of his gorgeous home, whose property value is probably greater than your lifetime’s gross income, holding the handle of your ratty old carry-on suitcase. Your piece of shit suitcase, with its broken zipper, and this big tear in the side.  

Which, really, has never bothered you before. It’s a goddamn suitcase. It holds things from point a to point b, and this works just fine. 

But Dieter has this ridiculous fucking suitcase with a heavy-duty metallic shell, and 360-degree wheels that glide effortlessly through airports, and a fucking phone charger. A fucking phone charger in a suitcase, seriously?

It’s just so… exactly how you fucking feel standing next to him sometimes. 

And, as if to prove your point, when you release the handle of your piece of shit carry-on, it topples over sideways against his space-age phone charger on wheels. 

All you can do is sigh. Stare at luggage. Try to ignore the voice that bombards your thoughts, telling you he’s obviously out of your league. 

Sneering at you, saying, “Get real, this fucking guy is way too rich to be humoring you.”

Saying, “Louella Rose, once he knows you’re trash, he’ll be gone for good, I can tell you that much.”

“Want me to show you around?” Dieter asks, the low timbre of his voice a butter knife cutting through the thick fog of your thoughts. He steps closer and plants his wide palm on the small of your back. 

You turn to him with a smile you know is flaccid, but nod, “Lead the way.” 

He studies you for a moment, dark eyes darting around your face, no doubt sensing the apprehension you can’t shake, and proves your suspicion true when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens and you drop your gaze to the colorful entryway rug beneath your feet, shaking your head as you admit, “I—I don’t know. I’m… kind of freaking out, I think,” your voice cracks, and words start to tumble from your mouth, “I just keep thinking that I don’t belong here, like I’m too fucking poor to be doing this, I mean, to be here, and-and I’m so fucking nervous that I’m gonna fuck this up somehow—”

“Hey, come on,” Dieter coos, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, “Look at me, Lua.”

You do. 

His eyes bore into yours, unblinking and sincere, “It’s gonna be ok. I promise.”

Your brows press together and you swallow hard, then nod. 

“We’re gonna do this stupid interview, which you’re gonna fucking nail–”

You look away. 

He tilts your chin towards his face again, refusing to let you hide, repeating, “Which you’re gonna fucking nail. You know why?”

You just stare at him, half-expecting him to say because you have to or I won’t love you anymore, but instead, he says, “Because you are fucking amazing, Louella. You are brilliant, and gorgeous, and genuine, and hilarious, and capable of fucking anything. Ok?”

His words, so sure and earnest, soothe your inflamed sense of worthlessness. 

A burning sensation works up your throat, then spreads behind your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and croak, “Don’t say things like that to me, it’s too sweet and makes me cry.”

“Listen here, doll,” he cups your face and raises his eyebrows, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, “I’ll compliment you as much as I goddamn please.”

You let out a wet, nasally chuckle and link your hands behind his neck, then sniffle, “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. His thumbs work against your damp cheeks as he brings his lips to yours, gentle and soft. 

When he pulls back, he clears his throat and turns back to the vacant house, “Alright, sweet cheeks, let’s give you the official tour.”

The term of endearment makes you laugh and shake your head, “Dieter, I swear to god–” 

He grabs your hand and tugs you onward, ignoring your feigned protest. 

At the tail end of the tour, Dieter swings open the door to his spacious bedroom. You recognize the tall, chartreuse walls and the puffy white linens tucked around his bed. 

Of all the rooms in his house, including the art studio set up down the hall, this is the one that feels the most like Dee. It’s a little messy, but in a lived-in way you expect from him. Relatively no-frills. Comfortable. Homey. It smells like him, not like lemon pine-sol. 

You gravitate towards a chest of drawers that sits opposite his bed, grinning at a pile of rings, lighters, coins, and crumpled up cash. A big, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall above it catches your attention. 

All kinds of paper mementos are stuffed into the mirror’s frame. Your eyes wander along the edge, stopping to study a picture of him, much younger and more angular than he appears now, with a woman whose bright, dimpled smile matches his. 

“Is that your mom?” you ask, pointing to it. 

“Yeah,” he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your middle, tucking your shoulder under his chin, watching you through the mirror as your eyes leapfrog to each little piece of him.

A ticket stub to a Prince concert at Madison Square Garden in July 2004. 

An old polaroid of two dark-haired young boys roller skating. 

“Tomás?” 

“Mhmm.”

You tilt your head and frown, “Can I ask you something?” 

“No,” he deadpans, blinking at you through the mirror. 

“Shut up,” you snort, then ask, “Why the fuck are you named Dieter?”

He laughs at this, throwing his head back to boom at the ceiling before returning to your reflected gaze. 

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks. 

“Yes!” you laugh, covering your mouth, “Is that your real name?!”

“No,” he grins, then shrugs, “Well, legally it is. But my parents named me Manuel Diego Soto Flores. Diego is what everyone called me.”

“Stop it, oh my god. You are blowing my fucking mind right now,” you shake your head at the whiplash this information gives you, then pause, “Wait, why did you change it?”

“My agent suggested I use a stage name way back when. Dieter Bravo sounded cool,” he explains, and chuckles a little as he tells you, “I got in an argument with my folks about it when work started picking up, and legally changed it just to piss them off.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows and laugh, “That is… truly petty.” 

“That it is,” he sighs, his smile faltering. 

“So, what am I supposed to call you? Diego? Dieter?” you smirk, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

You hold his gaze for a few moments, relishing the heat that swells in your chest, then resume your study of his artifacts, squinting to read the faded black ink of a few movie stubs lined up together: Eyes Wide Shut, Donnie Darko, The Departed, Fight Club, Whiplash, Titanic, Toy Story 3. 

Next to them, you spot a wrinkled brown paper square, etched with unruly black ink strokes into a blueberry branch. You tilt your head at it, then glance down at the blueberry branch tattooed on your forearm. 

Your eyes flick to the reflection of Dieter’s face and find him already staring at you. A question creases your forehead, and he answers with a shrug. Tingles spread across your belly. You smooth your hand against his and leave it there. 

“Look, I printed the ones from the elevator,” he chuckles, pointing to a picture of the two of you stuffed into one side of the mirror’s frame, stone-faced, black grease paint and mascara co-mingling with red lipstick, smudged all over your mouths and cheeks. Below that, the shot Dieter took a second later when you both broke, faces lit up with laughter, eyes bent up into barely visible crescents. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, hand flying to your mouth, “Come on, we have way cuter pictures than those.”

“Those are my favorite, though,” he smiles, kisses your cheek, then tucks your shoulder back under his chin.

You shake your head and sigh, grinning as you tell him, “Fuck, I like you.”

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his. 

“I like you, too,” he murmurs. 

“Thank god, or this would be really awkward,” you joke as you return your gaze to the relics framing his mirror. 

A snapshot of him, a generation younger, all gaunt and baby-faced, leaning against a high top table crowded with half-empty cups, ice cube islands rising from brown mixed drinks. Two young men across the table from him, his arm draped around a young woman’s shoulders. All four of them glow with a boozy shine, wide and carefree smiles stretched across their faces. 

“Who’re these people?”

“Old friends from my theater days in New York,” he murmurs, “I don’t talk to them much anymore. There’s Glenn, you might’ve met him.”

He points to a tan guy with a brown pompadour and a very punchable face, who’s wearing a baby blue polo shirt and holding up his middle finger. 

You sift through your memory for someone who might have looked like that fifteen or twenty years ago, but come up blank and shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“He was at Katie’s party that one night, and, uhh… actually, I almost brought him up to your apartment the first time I met you, but he was being an asshole and wouldn’t get out of the car.” 

“Not ringing any bells,” you frown, “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he mutters, “Well, I would certainly introduce you to them. If I had any.” 

You try to think of a contradiction to this statement, racking your brain for an instance of him at least hinting at the existence of a friend. 

“What about all the people you party with?”

“Haven't done much of that lately. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip, “Those aren’t friends. Never were. And, uhh… I did a solid job alienating my real friends a long time ago.” 

You look at him through the mirror. 

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away. 

A sharp pain splits your sternum. 

You wriggle around to face him, cupping his cheeks, brushing your thumbs against his patchy beard until he meets your eyes again. Then you tell him, “I’m your friend. Parker’s your friend. You’re not alone anymore, ok?”

His shoulders slump and eyebrows thread together, molding his features into this tender expression that makes your stomach flip and chest ache. 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. You slide your hands to the back of his head to comb your fingers through his soft curls. 

A commotion erupts at the other end of the house. The front door opening and closing. Rustling and conversation. A feminine voice echoes down the hall, calling, “Hello?” 

“That must be them,” he murmurs, and starts away, but you pull him back. You wrap your arms around his midsection and bury your face against his t-shirt. 

“Wait, just… a little bit longer,” you say, closing your eyes to soak up the warmth from his body. It seeps into your bloodstream and feels like sunshine in your veins. He rests his head against your hair, taking a deep breath in, and you feel his body relax again. 

The clack-clack-clack sound of heels against the hardwood floor draws closer, but the two of you just stand there, all wrapped up in the other, until someone crosses the threshold to his room, comes to a stop, and says, “Oh, you are here.”

You part and turn towards the intrusion: A neatly made-up, petite, brunette woman wearing a fitted navy blue pantsuit. 

“Darlene,” Dieter greets, crossing the room to envelop her in a one-armed hug. They press a chaste kiss into the other’s cheek. He returns to your side, palm sliding against the small of your back, and introduces you both, “Darlene, Louella, Louella, Darlene.”

You meet her meticulous hazel eyes and smile wide, outstretching your hand to shake hers, “Hi, so nice to meet you.” 

She reaches out and accepts the invitation. Both your gazes drop to study the contrast of your hands. Hers are dainty, soft, blemish-free; adorned with shiny, blush pink fingernails smoothed to rounded tips. Yours bear the scars and calluses earned by over a dozen years of baking, your naked, short fingernails hosting jagged edges from nervous biting. 

When you step back, heat creeps up the back of your neck. She looks so… unimpressed. Annoyed, even. The barely perceptible twitch of her thin eyebrow cocking, lip curling, eyes flicking around your person like she’s identifying weak spots. Then she plasters on a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and asks, “Do you prefer Louella or Lua?” 

“I don’t care,” you chuckle nervously, “Lou, Lua, Louella, whatever you want.”

You glance at Dieter, swallowing hard. He smooths his thumb against your spine.

“I’ll call you Louella,” Darlene decides with a quick nod, then looks from you, to Dieter, “Should we get started? We have a lot of work to do.” 

On your way to the dining room, you cross paths with a short, curvy woman whose brown, tightly coiled hair bounces around her round face as she hauls two thick garment bags into a bedroom. She peaks over the luggage and calls, “Oh, hi!” when she spots you. 

She spins on the heel of her beige pumps to face you, shifting the bags to one hip, “Louella, right?” 

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her. 

“Kelly,” her hot pink lips stretch into a bright smile and she shakes your hand, looking you up and down before diverting her dark eyes to Dieter, “Nice catch, Bravo.” 

Dieter smirks at the comment, eyeing her tenuous grip on the bags, “Need some help?”

She just scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him before spinning around and starting down the hallway. Dieter shrugs after her, then ushers you into the dining room, where a frantic looking young man is setting out three labeled mint green to-go boxes on the stained oak table, assigning seats to you, Dieter, and Darlene. 

“Lua, this is Lincoln, my PA,” Dieter gestures between the two of you, “Lincoln this is Lua, my girlfriend.”

“Hi,” Lincoln tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear and leans his tall frame across the table, extending his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” you meet his ocean blue eyes as you take it in yours and shake it. Dieter settles into his assigned dining room chair, leaning back against the burnt orange suede. You take your seat next to him. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Lincoln flashes a quick smile, then glances from Dieter, back to you, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” you grin over at Dieter, who’s crossing his ankle over his knee, watching you with amusement, and tell Lincoln, “Good things, I hope.”

“Terrible things,” Dieter teases, letting his head dangle to one side. 

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

A nutty aroma wafts up from the box with your name on it. You recognize the briny sharpness and name it, “Oh, fuck, did you get us pad thai?”

“It’s from that place you wanted to try,” Dieter tells you. 

You wiggle and clap your hands together, reaching for the box as Darlene approaches the table. Lincoln scurries into the kitchen and makes himself look busy. She sits down with a sense of urgency that makes you fold your hands in your lap and sit up straighter. 

“Here’s the plan,” she pushes the takeout box away, leaning over her open notebook, “Interview with DIRT at 4:00 today. Louella, we’ll practice your answers for a bit, then Kelly will help you pick some clothes,” her eyes flick from the notebook, to you, then to Dieter, and she says, “While you’re in town, I think it’ll be good for the two of you to be seen in public together, but I have some ground rules—”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” Dieter groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as he leans his elbows onto the table, “What are we, teenagers?”

“Well, Dieter, play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she blinks at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he scoffs.

“It means,” she snips, zeroing in on him, “With all the bullshit you’ve pulled in the past year, you’re not exactly rolling in prospects, are you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just clenches his jaw. 

She continues, “It’s a goddamn miracle you managed to land that Mike Flannigan job—”

You turn to him and gasp, “You got it?!” 

This big, giddy smile spreads across his face when he meets your eyes and nods, “Yeah.”

“But he could lose it if this doesn’t go right,” Darlene advises, pulling your attention to her. She shoots a glare from you to Dieter, “So we’re going to follow my direction, right?” 

Your face falls and you clear your throat, then stammer, “Y—yeah, of course.” 

Dieter shifts in his seat, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands. 

“As I was saying,” Darlene continues, raising an eyebrow as she drops her gaze to the notebook, “You’re both to be on your best behavior while in public. No drugs, no parties, no more than a glass of wine, no public fornication. We’re going full Disney rules of conduct, ok?”

When Darlene blinks up at you, you nod, “No problem.” 

“Alright, let’s rehearse some Q&A,” she sighs, turning her attention back to her notebook. 

She runs through questions the interviewer might ask, reconstructing your answers from nervous ramblings into practiced statements. It’s like a mental boot camp the way she attacks this, and, honestly, it’s quite impressive. 

When Darlene is confident you won’t respond to questions like: “How did you and Dieter meet?” with answers like: “We dropped acid in a closet with my best friend,” the drills cease. Just when you think you’re safe to open that mint green box with your name on it, Darlene stands from the table, “Alright, let’s go see what Kelly has for you.”

You have to physically restrain yourself from pouting as she starts off down the hall. 

“Here, quick,” Dieter shoves his open container of pad thai in your hands. You manage to take a few bites before Darlene comes back to see where she lost you. 

“Coming, sorry,” you swallow and give it back to him. 

Darlene and Kelly decide you’re wearing a balloon-sleeved white silk blouse and a high-waisted, billowing, floral skirt that comes down to your ankles. 

Once your makeup and hair are styled, and you're all done up and presentable, not unlike a feral mutt turned show dog, Darlene holds her hand out to you, palm facing the ceiling, and says, “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.” 

“Oh,” you frown at her, then at the simple gold band on your left hand’s ring finger. With a heavy blue sigh, you slide it off your finger, and drop it in her extended hand. 

When you emerge from the bedroom, Darlene trailing behind you, Dieter is pacing the length of the living room, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-up and navy blue slacks. He spots you and stops in his tracks. A grin spreads across his face, “Oh wow, look at you.” 

“Look at you,” you counter, matching his smile as you look him up and down. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, then strides over to you and kisses you. His lips are eager when they meet yours. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and arch your back into him, losing yourself momentarily. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “You look like… a sexy kindergarten teacher. I like it.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Oh yeah, this is doing it for you?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” he rumbles, then grips your waist and kisses you again.

“Alright, it’s almost time,” Darlene prods impatiently from a few feet away, “Where’s your laptop?”

Dieter mutters something under his breath, then steps back from your embrace and tells her, “I’ll go get it.” 

As he goes off down the hall, you plop down on the overstuffed couch. Its deep, rich brown leather feels buttery soft against the small sections of your exposed skin. You cross your legs, smoothing the soft fabric of your skirt over your knees, “Is it a video call?” 

Darlene takes a cursory glance in the direction Dieter went, then sits down next to you, her words hushed and serious as they flee her lips, “Louella, his career is teetering on the edge of a cliff right now. One more blow could send the whole thing crashing down. Do you understand how important it is that this goes well?” 

An icy rush of panic floods your veins. You meet her hazel eyes and nod. 

“Good,” she says, searching your face, “Don’t fuck it up.” 

Lincoln and Kelly leave for the day once everything is set up. Darlene stages you and Dieter hip-to-hip in the middle of his couch, then starts pacing behind the laptop, occupying a strip of the living room’s black- and white-striped rug between the glass top coffee table and a black brick-faced wood fireplace. 

Pixelated face pops up on Dieter’s laptop screen. You can make out David Alterman’s egg-shaped bald head and thick-rimmed glasses. He says, “Hello hello, how are we doing today?” 

“Pleasure to see you,” Dieter gives a nod and drapes his arm over your shoulders. You flash a smile to the computer and wave. 

David continues, “I just want to start by saying thank you for meeting with me today. On the phone earlier, Darlene said that there were some things you wanted to discuss regarding your new friend.” 

“Girlfriend,” Dieter corrects, glances at you, then back at the screen, “There was an article by your, uhh… publication speculating who she is. We wanted to go on record and introduce her, get it all out in the open.”

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

“Oh, ok—um, hi, my name is Louella,” your voice comes out too loud, and your heart starts pumping heat through your body, up your neck, across your face. You wriggle in your seat and explain, “Sorry, I’m really nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

David chuckles, “That’s ok, dear. Why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you met?” 

Your eyes flick to Darlene in the background, following her moving form. She gives you a nod of encouragement. You take a deep breath. 

“We met at Katie’s party in February. My best friend, Parker, convinced me to go, and, yeah, I ended up meeting Dee there,” a big smile stretches across your face as you explain, “I remember meeting him, and I felt this connection to him like,” you snap your fingers, “right away. It was fucking bananas—er, sorry, regular bananas. But. It was like I had known him my whole life or something, you know? We—me, Parker, and Dee—spent the night together,” at this, you see David’s bushy brown eyebrows perk up, and your cheeks start burning, “N-not like that, like sexual or anything, we just talked and joked around. Instant friends. It was so much fun. And, you know, it’s funny, because I didn’t even know he was an actor—”

“You didn’t?” David frowns. 

“No,” you chuckle, “The next morning when we were all getting breakfast there was this guy taking pictures of us eating pancakes, which I thought was fu—um, weird, but then Dee and Parker explained… Well, y’know. Paparazzi and all that.” 

“Is that when you started dating?” 

“No,” you shake your head, glancing down to your hands, “We were just friends for a few months before that started. My, um… my husband died about a year ago in a car accident, so I was… not in a hurry to start any kind of romantic relationship.” 

Your thumb rolls along the seam of your finger that’s usually covered by your wedding band. 

“And yet, here we are. What changed?” 

“I fell in love with him,” you explain, flicking your gaze from Dieter, who squeezes your shoulder, then straight into the camera, “You know when you meet someone and it’s like… they vibrate on the same frequency as you or whatever? Like they were made to be in your life? It was like that. I don’t know, it was fucking crazy. Shit, sorry for swearing—”

“It’s fine,” David says, “I’ll edit it out.”

You release a relieved sigh, “Ok. Well, anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, neither of us were expecting this to happen. But it did. So I took a chance on him, on us, and… yeah. I’m so glad I did.” 

“That’s great,” David smiles at the camera, then looks down at his notes, “So you said the two of you met at Katie’s party—Is that Katie Wainwright?”

“Yes,” you answer. It takes all your energy to remain neutral. To keep your body from twitching in discomfort at the mention of her. 

“Are the two of you friends? Do you run in those circles?”

“Oh, no,” you snort and shake your head, “Parker is a drag performer, under the stage name Jackie Lantern, and knows quite a few theater folks in New York. It’s all him. I was just tagging along.”

“I see. And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker.” 

“Pastry artist,” Dieter interjects, leaning forward, “She makes some of the best goddamn pastries I’ve ever had in my life.” 

You beam at this. He gives you an encouraging little wink that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Oh, you have a bakery?” 

“No,” you say with a little too much haste, then stammer, “Well, not really. It’s not a brick and mortar store or anything. I run it out of my apartment. But, I’d love to—you know, someday, open a bakery.” 

“Sounds like a good investment for your boyfriend to make,” David hints.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you clear your throat and shake your head, “I want to do it myself.” 

“Independent,” David observes, then looks down to his notes, “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it. Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Dieter’s body tenses beside you. 

You furrow your brow and frown slightly, then glance up to Darlene, whose stare can only be described as a warning. 

Downshifting your face from confusion to thoughtfulness, you answer, “I think… We both have pasts that present challenges in our relationship. It’s not exactly easy-breezy all the time, but that’s the thing with love, right? You take the person, demons and all, and choose to love them anyway?”

David jots down some notes. Your guts twist when you recognize the opportunity to do what you came here to do. 

“And, you know, speaking of which, one of the things I wanted to bring up during this interview is that I—um, I have a criminal record,” you swallow hard and turn to look at Dieter. 

He takes his arm from your shoulder and closes his hands into fists, thumbs pointed upward as he presses them together and draws a circle with them. 

Together. 

Warmth washes over you and you smile at him. He slides his palm against yours and interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Oh?” 

You turn back to the laptop and sigh, “Yeah. I was arrested in 2018 on drug trafficking charges. I was convicted of a felony—and, you know, I didn’t have to serve any hard time or anything, just probation, thank fucking god, and I’ve changed a lot since then, but it’s still… still a factor,” you drop your gaze to your lap and shrug, “And, of course, the dead husband thing is a considerable amount of baggage. We live across the country from each other. There’s—there’s a lot that’s difficult about this. But I still think that what we have together is so fucking worth it.” 

“It is,” Dieter confirms, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Thank you for being so open about this, Louella. This must be hard for you to do,” David says in a monotone voice, not looking up from his note taking. 

“You have no idea,” you release a big, elated sigh, “But, like mentioned Dieter earlier, we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.” 

“I appreciate your honesty,” David says mildly, looks down to his notes, then squints up at the computer, clicking around as he tells you, “Now, after DIRT published the article questioning your identity, we received a call. I’m going to play that for you now…”

You glance from Dieter, to Darlene. Their confused expressions match yours. 

“My name is Hannah—”

Your stomach drops to the floor. You whisper, “Fuck.”

“—I hear you’re trying to figure out who this woman is with Dieter Bravo. Well, I can tell you, that’s my daughter. Her name is Louella Rose Friedman. Now I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing with this man, but I do not approve. I mean, really now, her husband died less than a year ago!”

Static tingles in your ligaments and fills your lungs. Your head shakes back and forth in protest, but her shrill voice continues to project across the room, scraping against your eardrums. 

Dieter releases your hand and leans forward, trying to speak over the recording, warning, “Ok, David, that’s enough—”

“And this man? Dieter Bravo? Just like him from what I can tell. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—”

Everything moves far away in an instant as your mind disconnects from your body. A high-pitched ringing noise dulls the noises around you. 

From far away, your mom says, “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too.”

“Stop,” Dieter grinds out over your mother’s recorded voice.

“Lost his goddamn mind, tried to kill them both—”

Darlene scrambles over to the laptop and turns it towards her, “David, this is Darlene—”

“I just don’t understand what that girl thinks she’s doing getting involved with someone like this again, especially so soon?” 

“No, nope,” Dieter stands, then booms, “This ends right FUCKING now!” 

The sudden snap of him slamming the laptop shut and the dead silence that follows jolts you like a cattle-prod.

You flee the living room, down the hallway, into Dieter’s bedroom, then dial her number. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“Louella Rose, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” your mother’s heavy midwestern accent pierces your eardrum. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, mom? What do I think I’m doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” your teeth grit and and hiss, “Calling a fucking tabloid, really?”

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

“That is fucking bullshit and you know it,” you growl, crossing an arm over your belly, pacing the floor, “You wanted fucking attention. Well, you’ve got it, congratu-fucking-lations!” 

“I’m just looking out for your best interest. That man is bad news, Louella.“

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

“I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” 

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

“You don’t fucking care! You have never fucking cared! If you cared, you would have talked to me, not a fucking tabloid. That shit you told them—” your voice cracks, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “Mom, that’s not your story to tell. It’s mine.” 

An exasperated sigh crackles in your ear, then she says, “You shouldn’t get tangled up in his world, Louella—”

“What I do, who I date, is none of your fucking business. It’s not your decision. I am a grown ass woman.”

“You might be a grown woman, but you’re still my baby girl, and I don’t want you to wind up dead this time,” she clicks her tongue against her teeth, “I’d say you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids, but that’s just another thing Ethan ruined, isn’t it?”

Your entire field of vision floods with red. 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I hang up the phone, do not contact me ever again. You are fucking dead to me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, come on, Louella, don’t be dram—”

You end the call. 

Dieter hovers a few feet from his open bedroom door. His nerves tingle with anticipation. Hushed sobs call out to him and grip his heart. 

How long does he wait before going in to comfort you? Would you rather have time alone?

Part of him feels terrible for eavesdropping. Well, eavesdropping might not be the right word, considering how your heated words reverberated from one end of his home to the other effortlessly. It’s not his fault the goddamn place is like a resonance chamber. 

Dieter hears Darlene in the living room chewing someone out over the phone. The words “so fucking unprofessional” echo down the hall, filled with venom. She’s in full tirade mode. Out for blood. 

It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction hearing her wield this rage towards someone else. 

If he knows anything about Darlene, it’s that this will take a while. She won’t stop until she’s had her fill, until her belly is swollen and ripe with vindication. Then she’ll lap the sticky blood from her hands, smoke a cigarette, and say, “Here’s what’s next.”

He raps a knuckle against the doorframe and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” 

The word is soggy and muffled. He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and finds you sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, face buried in your hands. You don’t look up at him. 

He crawls onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of your neck. Warm notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts waft off your hair. You feel so rigid under his touch.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, tugging you closer. 

“Did I fuck it all up?” 

Your voice comes out in a squeak, like you squeezed the words from your throat. Wet sobs bubble up your throat and shake your shoulders. 

“No,” Dieter frowns, “Do you really think that?”

You shrug and release a shattered breath. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he assures you, “Hey, listen to me. You were fucking amazing.” 

“But—”

“No, no buts. You were perfect. And—and brave, so fucking brave,” he nuzzles into that perfect space between your shoulder and neck and says, “I’m so proud of you, Louella.” 

“Really?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, smearing black makeup onto the luxurious white silk. 

“Holy shit, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, relishing the way your hunched up muscles seem to slacken, “Before the bullshit that rat fuck pulled, you were perfection. Killed it, I swear to god, doll. And—and none of that last part was your fault. David shouldn’t have sprang that on us, and your mom,” he scoffs and shakes his head, gnashing his jaw back and forth as he tries to choose his words carefully, then finally says, “I’m sorry, but that was fucking despicable. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” you sniffle.

“No, I definitely deserved that,” he mutters, glancing up to the mirror, meeting his own eyes only for a moment before diverting his gaze.

Your hand slides over his and you move your thumb in gentle strokes against his skin, “She’s the fucking worst, Dee.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then inquires, “Was that her on the phone?”

“Yeah,” you answer, and your voice comes out all quivering and squeaky, “I, um… I told her to never talk to me again.” 

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe. 

His pulse jumps and he stammers, “I—I wasn’t trying to or anything, I swear, the noise just carries—”

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “It’s ok.”

Your crying wanes in intensity, but the air around you is still dense and stormy. Dieter kisses your shoulder and asks, “What can I do to help you right now, baby?”

You ponder this for a long moment. When your response comes, it jolts his insides. Sucks the air from his lungs. 

“Fuck me.”

He’s not sure he heard you right, and shakes his head, “Wait, what?”

Then you reach back and run your fingers through his hair. Unravel against his chest. Let your head roll back on his shoulder. 

Dieter cranes his neck to search your face. It’s all tear-drenched, your makeup smeared, eyes puffy and red. He reaches up and squee-gees the mess with his thumb, wiping the excess onto his white comforter as you quietly tell him, “I need to get out of my head. I want—I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want it to hurt. Use me. Please.”

His insides coil and twitch. Your lips part as you scrape your nail along his jawline, beckoning him closer. 

He smooths his palms along your torso, drinking in the heat of your body through your silk shirt. Your mouth draws him in closer: a bright flame, and he’s just a moth. 

That’s how it is with you, Lua, you have to know that by now. He’s just a bug, and you’re this all-consuming fire that could burn him alive and he’d say thank you, my love, thank you for your light.

When your lips meet, his vocal chords crackle. Your mouth, plush and pliable, so delicate, he almost feels bad for the force he uses in response. 

Almost. 

You have to understand how difficult it is for him to restrain himself with you. How the tether between his humanity and deprivation pulls taut when you writhe beneath his touch. 

What you’re asking, to make it hurt, use me, please… it electrifies him. Calls to the part of him that bucks against the restraints. Is that what you really want? For him to unchain that beast?

His teeth catch your lip and you gasp, but you don’t stop kissing him. In fact, you ball his shirt in your fist and kiss him harder. 

You fucking love it. 

He palms your breast and tastes the sweet whimper on your breath when he grips your flesh. Digs his fingers in, squeezes harder. You moan down his throat. Arch your back. Roll your tongue along his, soft and wet and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls through grit teeth. Grabs your jaw and licks the gasp from your mouth. You grind back against his cock and an intoxicating rush of heat rolls through his body, clinging to his bones, sinking into the folds of his brain, tinging his vision with this thick scarlet fog that makes his heart pound in his chest. 

Dieter buries his fist in your hair and sits up on his knees, ushering you to do the same. His lips hover at the shell of your ear and he murmurs, “Is this how you want it? Want it fucking rough?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides a hand to your neck, spreading the webbing between his thumb and index finger on your esophagus. 

“I wanna pull up your pretty little skirt, and bend you over—wanna play with that tight little asshole—”

You let out this throaty moan that vibrates against his palm. It makes his cock jump. 

“Would you like that?” he rumbles. Clamps down on your earlobe. Grinds the flab between his teeth. 

“Oh my fucking god, Dieter, please,” you whine, hips rolling against him, urging him to make good on his word. 

He shoves your face into the mattress and you just prop your ass up for him, pushing back as he rucks your skirt up to your waist. His hands slide up the soft, warm flesh of your thighs, feeling the weight of your ass in his palms. 

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, whimpering for attention, silk underwear all damp with want, clinging to your cunt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, hooking a fingertip around the wet patch of fabric, dragging his knuckle through your arousal, “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You let out a throaty, delirious laugh that quickly morphs into a moan when he rubs the knuckle against your clit, then slaps your ass with a sharp smack.

“Fuck yes,” you gasp. Your hips roll against his touch, seeking stimulation. But he doesn’t want you to have it yet. Not like that. 

He pulls away, and you whine, going to get up on your hands in protest, but he closes a fist around your hair and pushes you back down, grinding out, “Don’t you fucking move.”

Another airy, depraved laugh. 

Dieter grips your hair tighter, explaining in a whisper as he tugs your underwear down your legs, “You’re gonna stay right here, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, and let me do whatever the fuck I want to you. How’s that sound, love? Hmm?”

“Please,” you breathe. He hears the wet gulp of your throat. The hair between his fingers pulls taut when you nod. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, releasing your hair, tossing the underwear from around your ankles across the bed. 

He slides his palms over your ass cheeks. Parts them just long enough to gather a pool of spit on his tongue and let it land on your asshole with a wet splat. Rolls his thumb through the spit, smearing it around, making you gasp, “Fuck, that’s good—”

His cock twitches. Electricity writhes around his insides. He licks his lips, then purrs, “Yeah? It feels good when I touch your asshole, hmm? You fucking like that, princess?”

“Yes—”

Dieter spreads you apart, brings himself closer, throat rumbling at the scent of your heat. At the way your swollen, needy cunt is just fucking dripping, coated in a shiny layer of your slick. 

Fucking beautiful. 

He drags his tongue through the arousal pooling at your entrance with a depraved groan. 

You unleash a moan and try to wriggle around on his tongue, still trying to exert control, still not letting go. 

He raises a hand and lowers it on your ass cheek with a smack, talking at your cunt as he holds your hips steady, “Stop trying to run this, doll, let me fucking use you like you need me to.”

The response that comes is a whimper, but your muscles stop working under his grip. 

“Good, that’s it, baby,” he coos, then returns to your cunt, licking along all the soft ridges and valleys of you, savoring your nectar gathering slick on his tastebuds. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you croak, but you don’t rock against his tongue. Doing just as he asked. Heat surges through him, all that pride commingling with lust and love and need. 

He licks up your middle, painting you with short, broad strokes, all the way up to your tight, puckered asshole. Saliva pools as he laps away, rubbing back and forth, in a circle, flicking his tongue against you in wet little slaps. 

All the while, you’re whimpering and moaning, legs trembling, sweat coating your hot skin, damp against his palms. 

He brings the tip of his index finger to the center of your asshole, wriggling and applying pressure until the tight ring gives and allows him entrance. Your choked moan fills his ears and he moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the sensation. 

One knuckle disappears, then another, and when buried as deep as he can go, he ruts it in and out, the hot pool of spit lubricating his movements. 

You start to slacken, your sharp little gasps for air drawing out longer, surrendering to pleasure, whimpering and nodding, eyes fluttering. 

Dieter pauses and wiggles another thick digit against your tight hole, panting, “Fuck, you’re doing so good, baby. Fucking amazing. That’s it, baby, just relax for me—”

It slides past the barrier and he moans in unison with you, burying his fingers again and again, spitting thick, gooey wads of saliva where he fuses with you, making his movements easier, more fluid, while the hot, smooth inside of you grips around his fingers.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Please—please fuck my ass.”

“Take your clothes off for me, baby,” he sits up straight and begins to unbutton his shirt. You roll over onto your back and start to strip down while he throws the shirt on the floor, then lays back and takes off his pants. 

He reaches into drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube, then squirts a dollop of it into his hand and glances up at you. You're laying on your back, propped up on your elbows, lust-blown eyes glued to his cock. When he spreads the slick along his length, your pink tongue rolls across your lips, stoking the hot coals in his core.

Dieter crawls across the bed to you, murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

Your gaze locks onto his as your jaw drops open. He moves up your body and straddles your chest, holding his throbbing, aching cock out to you, “Wanna fuck that pretty face of yours, is that ok with you?”

You nod, threading your brows together, batting your lashes, eyes all half-lidded and hungry, and purr, “Use me like a fuck doll.”

The request makes his cock pulse in his fist. You curl your tongue against a bead of pre-cum hanging off the tip of him and wiggle it around. His head falls back when the delicate touch floods his body with pleasure and he groans, “Holy fucking sh—”

The words evaporate from his throat when your lips pull taught around his girth, the wet heat of your mouth engulfing him. His lubed-up hand falls to the wayside and he snaps his gaze back to yours. You hold eye contact and move at a slow, steady rhythm, taking more and more of him with each renewed bob. 

Dieter moans at the sight of you, lips all shiny and stretched out around him, eyelids fluttering. He brushes the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, gathering what he can reach in his fist. Tightens his grip. Pushes his hips forward. 

When he breaches your throat, you gag. A hot rush of spit pours from your mouth. Twitching muscles squeeze around him, protesting the intrusion. A wave of ecstasy rushes up his spine and pulls a moan from his stomach. 

“Are you ok?” he rasps, meeting your watery eyes. 

You pull off of him, panting, strings of saliva hanging between your reddened lips and his glistening cock, and nod, “Don’t fucking stop,” before taking him in your mouth again. 

So he thrusts forward again, carefully, every muscle in his body tensing with restraint. Your palms slide up his thighs, around to his backside, where you dig the tips of your fingers into his skin, urging him forward, and he knows now that you fucking meant it: Use me like a fuck doll. 

He nods with understanding, “You want more, hmm?”

The hum of approval from your throat ripples across his body and makes him groan. You bat your lashes up at him, eyes creased like you’re smiling but your mouth is all crammed full of his cock so it’s hard to be sure, but he can tell you’re just fucking loving this shit. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s almost more than he can handle. 

“Want me to fuck that pretty fucking face?” he growls, closing his fist around your hair tighter, rolling his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your mouth. 

You moan and it makes him moan, the vibration of your throat writhing beneath his skin.  

He adjusts his angle, releasing your hair to grab both sides of your head and plunge deeper, down past the back of your mouth, letting out a sharp groan as the firm ridges slide tight around him. His hips work forward in a quick, short burst of wet thrusts that light up every nerve in his body, then he pulls from your mouth. While you gasp for breath, he grips the base of his cock with one hand while the other grabs your spit-covered chin, “Is that what you fucking want? Fuck your face just like that?”

“Fuck yes, just like that,” you choke out, voice all gritted and airy.

“You pinch me when you need to breathe, ok?” he instructs, searching your flushed, messy face, “Pinch me right now so I know.”

This big smile spreads across your swollen lips and you squeeze a chunk of his ass between your fingers, “Like this?”

“That’s it, baby, do that and I’ll let you come up for air,” he nods, “Now stick out your tongue.” 

Your tongue stretches down to your chin, and he slaps his cock against it with a smack-smack-smack before sliding it back into the hot cavern of your mouth. He cradles your skull in his palms and thrusts forward, cramming himself down your throat. Your vocal chords buzz against him, and your mouth emits this sick, wet glug-glug-glug that sets him on fucking fire. You pinch him and he pulls out, both of you gasping and moaning. 

“So fucking good, fuck,” he rasps, waiting a moment for your breathing to be less desperate, then asks, “Ready?”

You hum a little mhmm and open your mouth, welcoming him back to fuck your throat. He can barely fucking stand how hot you look with your face all shiny with sweat and tears and spit, how your eyelids flutter then snap open to meet his gaze, how your body wiggles around beneath him, hips bucking against nothing, thighs rubbing together. 

If he didn’t have you pinned down like this, you’d be touching yourself, he just fucking knows it. 

The ecstasy tingling at the base of his spine starts to spread and you pinch him just before he loses control. He pulls out, but doesn’t dare grab himself this time, for fear that any stimulation will push him over the edge.

He gets on his hands and knees and leans down to press his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck and arch your back into the kiss, pulling him closer, rolling your tongue against his as soft whimpers flutter from your mouth. One of his hands trails down your body, between your legs, and he groans at how fucking wet you are. 

You gasp against his lips, throwing your head back as he plays with your clit, working you at a rapid rhythm that makes your face twist and flush, nodding in approval, quick little gasps and squeaks escaping your throat. 

He grins when he realizes how close you are. So fucking worked up from sucking him off, already coiling up, ready to burst. 

“That’s it, baby,” he husks, kisses you, then presses his sweaty forehead to yours, “That’s it, let me see you fucking cum, baby.”

“Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—fuck—”

Your words disappear with a sharp inhale, muscles tensing up, hips arching against his hand. He continues to move against you, fast and steady and firm, until you find your voice and release a choked sob. You collapse into yourself, body shaking violently, legs clamping shut, gasping for air. 

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and your body starts to slacken, but jumps like a live wire at his slowing touch. 

Dieter slides down your crease, through your arousal, propping himself on one arm to watch how your cum clings to his fingers in thick, heavy strands as he draws his hand away. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he murmurs, licks you from his fingers, then drags them along your warm, gooey seam again, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyebrows press together and lips part with a whimper, but you don’t appear adverse to the suggestion. In fact, you bring a hand to your chest. Cup your breast. Pinch your nipple and gasp. 

His body surges hot with want. He grazes his nose against your face, rumbling into your ear, “How’d you put it? Like a fuck doll?” 

Your throat lets out a little whine and your lips pout out into an O as he sinks two thick fingers into your cunt. You prop yourself up and watch him slide in and out, whimpering and nodding, “Fuck that’s so good, Dee—oh my god, yes—”

The hunger roiling at his core grows. He adds another finger, stretching you wider, and you release a choked moan. 

“Is this what you want, Lua? Want me to fuck you like a little slut, hmm?” he pants, shifting himself to hover above you, pumping his arm, cramming his fingers into your tight, wet heat over and over again. 

“Yes yes yes yes yes,” you babble, and start moving your hips against him, “Do that thing—”

Dieter smirks, knowing exactly what thing you’re referring to, and pulls his hand up towards the ceiling, rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against your g-spot, “That?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes, baby, just like that,” you moan, “That’s so good, baby, such a good fucking boy, fuck me so good—”

He lets out a groan and wiggles his fingers faster, “Yeah? You like when I make you squirt all over the place? Wanna soak my fucking bedsheets?”

Your response is a strangled noise, but you nod your head frantically, and your limbs start to tremble. And, fuck, the sight of you all shaking and whining, skin slick with sweat, makeup running down your pretty, flushed, contorted face, it’s enough to send his insides fluttering, barreling towards oblivion once again. 

Dieter has to close his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reign himself in, forcing himself to fill his mind with mundane thoughts about what to eat for supper, how this disaster of an interview will get resolved, whether or not he’ll wake up early to attempt making breakfast for you, all while trying to ignore the liquid hot squeeze of your pussy around his wiggling fingers.

When he feels he finally has a grip on his pleasure, he snaps his eyes open and moves between your legs. Buries his face in your cunt. Rolls his tongue on your swollen clit. 

“Yes, fuck,” you breathe and anchor your hands in his hair, pulling his curls into tight fists. Your breathing starts to come in shallow gasps. The muscles of your thighs tense and twitch. 

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, and he works you faster, moving his tongue in a circle, tickling the inside of you, groaning as you rub yourself against him, smearing your juices all over his face. You moan when the sound hits you, so he continues, humming from the back of his throat, and it’s just the push you need. 

Your hips stutter and still. A wild, ragged noise tears from your chest. You convulse around his fingers, and he pulls them out, sliding his mouth down to your opening just as a hot wave of pleasure gushes out. It splashes against his face, and he tries to catch as much as he can on his tongue, moaning at the taste of you. Grabs your waist and holds you there, lapping away at your cunt as you gasp for air, body jerking at the stimulation, but unable to move from his vice grip. 

He climbs your body and kisses you, hard and messy, letting you taste yourself. You rake your fingers through his hair, whining into his mouth when his tongue slides across yours. 

His cock aches with neglect. The steady inflow of pleasure burns between the layers of his skin and begs to be released. 

He pulls away from your lips and pants, “Flip over for me, love. I wanna fuck your ass.” 

And, you… fucking hell, Lua, you smile at this like he told you he’s buying you a brand new car. He sits up and you roll over onto your belly, then stick your ass up into the air, “Is that good?”

“Fucking perfect.”

Dieter grabs the abandoned bottle of lube,  squeezes some into his palm, then requests, “Spread for me, baby.” 

You reach back, pulling your ass cheeks apart. He squirts some of the lube on your puckered hole and you yelp, then giggle, “It’s so cold.”

He chuckles at this as he strokes his cock, smearing the slick lube along his length, then he asks, “Have you done this before? Anal sex?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ventured into ass play with you, but only with tongues, toys, fingers. You look back at him and shrug, “Well, yeah, but,” then you drop your gaze to his dick, “You’re, um… a lot bigger than anyone else…” 

The comment makes his ego swell, and he can’t help but grin, spreading the lube across your tight hole with his middle finger. Then he applies pressure to its center until it allows him access. Your eyelids flutter and you whimper, licking your lips, pulling your cheeks apart further. 

“I’ll go slow, but if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod.

He wriggles another digit inside you. You gasp and nod, “Fuck, that feels really good.”

“Good,” he purrs, rutting into you slowly, flicking his gaze between your face and ass, watching the way your lips part and eyelids drift closed, feeling the muscles inside you start to relax. 

You arch your back into the stimulation, breathy little whimpers and moans floating from your mouth like music to his fucking ears. Lust pools hot and needy at his center, making his heart thud and his cock ache. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, studying your face as you open your eyes and look back at him. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, holding his gaze as he pulls his fingers out and brings the head of his cock to kiss the tight, lubricated hole. 

Dieter pushes forward cautiously, pausing when your asshole surrenders to the very tip of him and you let out a sharp cry. After a moment, you nod, “Keep going.”

So he does. The tight ring squeezes the ever loving fuck out of him as he slowly, tediously, makes his way inside you. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, muscles quivering from the effort it takes to move at this pace. Your face pinches up with what could either be pleasure or pain, he’s not quite sure, but it’s accompanied by whimpers and nods, signaling your approval. 

Once the head of his cock is fully engulfed, though, and you adjust to his width, acclimate to the feeling, things start to go faster. He pushes your hands away and spreads your cheeks himself, hissing, “Fuck, this looks so good, baby. Love seeing your sweet little asshole stretched out around my cock—”

“It feels so fucking good,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Give me more.”

The request squirms around inside him and makes his throat rumble. He drives his hips forward steadily, and it’s a fucking vacuum of suction, pulling him in, swallowing him whole. You sputter and moan in reaction, croaking out quiet little whines of “oh my fucking god” over and over again.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, holy fuck, Lua,” he groans, throwing his head back, then starts to roll his hips, still moving at a languid pace, sliding his length along that ring that, even when your muscles loosen slightly, grips him so fucking tight it makes every ounce of sanity flee his brain. 

“Do you like that? Like when I fuck your ass with my fat cock?” he asks through grit teeth.

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes yes—”

“Tell me,” he demands, snapping his hips, heart jumping at the moan you choke out. 

“I like it wh—when you fuck my ass—” he snaps his hips again and you gasp, then continue, “with your big, fat cock—”

“Yeah you fucking do, don’t you?” He increases the tempo, moaning at the squeeze of you, how fucking good you feel wrapped around him, and grinds out, “Little fuck doll likes being used, hmm? Just like this?” 

“Holy fuck, Dee,” you groan, raising yourself up onto your hands, pushing back against his thrusts, “I fucking love it, yes.”

The force of your body moving with his, burying him to the hilt inside you again and again, fills him with fire. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back, heart fluttering in his heaving chest, hands tingling, limbs trembling, ecstasy pooling thick and hot at the base of his spine. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me fucking cum,” he warns, but doesn’t let up his pace. 

“Cum in my ass, baby, please please please,” you moan. 

The request tugs at the edges of him, and he wants you closer, wants to feel the heat of your skin against his. 

“Get up here,” he grunts, leans forward and hooks an arm around your torso, pulls your back against his chest, cradling your neck in his palm. Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your mouth is hanging open slack, frantic little moans fleeing your throat as he fucks your ass deep and hard, rumbling into your ear, “Cum in your fucking ass, hmm? My little slut wants her ass filled with cum?”

You bring your hand to the back of his head and grab a fistful of hair, breathing, “Fuck yes, please, Dieter, please—”

“Anything for you, love,” he pants, then you pull his hair tighter, and you start to rock your hips against his, and your whines get all high-pitched and airy, and he babbles, “I mean that, I really do, fucking anything you want, baby—fill your ass with cum, buy you whatever the fuck you want, fucking anything, I swear to god—”

Your lips cut him off, and you’re fucking trembling now, muscles all tight and coiled, squeezing around his cock, and he kisses you back with fire, groaning against your mouth as you whimper, then your breath disappears completely, you let out a strangled moan, and your body shutters from the force of your orgasm. The static buzzing in his center grows wider, deeper, tingling up his backbone, through his limbs, until it washes over him completely.

He thrusts into you one, two, three more times, spilling his load inside you.

His labored breathing puffs hot against yours. You bring your touch to his cheek and draw a circle into his beard with your thumb. He kisses you again, gentler, lips lingering on yours, then murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

A bright, wide smile spreads across your face. You let out this breathless little giggle, kiss him, then say, “I fucking love you, too.” 

Dieter pulls out and falls back onto the bed, stretching out, catching his breath. You follow suit and cuddle up to him, laying your head on his heaving chest. He curls his arm around your shoulders and rests his cheek on the crown of your sweaty head. 

The silence that settles is comfortable, and he notices that the rest of the house is quiet, too. Darlene must have fled sometime while he was fucking you, no doubt disgusted by the noises that were probably not muffled at all by the barrier of his bedroom door. 

His attention draws back to you when you whisper, “Am I doing the right thing? By cutting her out of my life?”

It takes a moment for him to understand what you’re asking. When it clicks, he frowns, “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.” 

You’re quiet in response, so he inquires further, “What’s your relationship like with her?” 

“We, um… we butt heads,” you shrug and bring your fingertips to his sternum, start drawing little swirls against his skin, “She’s always been so… I don’t know, self-centered? Childish?” you pause here, and he can hear the gears in your busy mind turning. You lay your palm flat over his heart and say, “It’s always about her. She didn’t come see me when Ethan died, or try to console me, or anything. She fucking—”

A frustrated huff of air blows across his chest. You shake your head, then sigh, “She fucking called me all the time crying about it, and posted all this bullshit online about how sad she was, and—and she fucking hated him. It’s like she expected me to comfort her. She never asked how I was doing. It was… fuck, it was just like when Dad died.” 

Dieter smooths circles into your skin with his thumb. Studies the ceiling, waiting for you to say more. Then you do. 

“When I would try talking to her about how much I missed him—my dad, I mean—she would get fucking mad at me. Say shit like, ‘Well, how do you think I feel?’ or—or, ‘You’re not the only one who lost him,’ or—this one’s my favorite, the uses it all the time, ‘It’s not all about you, Louella Rose,’” you pause and scoff to yourself, shaking your head, “So I stopped trying to her about it, and then she would get mad at me for not talking about it, so then I would talk to her about it, and she would either get mad all over again or squirrel the things I told her away to use as fucking ammunition against me the next time I made her upset, and—and, I don’t know. That’s just how it is with her.” 

Dieter’s mind whirs as he sifts through the million thoughts pouring through his brain, trying to find the right one to tell you. It feels like finding the hay in the needlestack, and when his mouth opens, all that comes out is, “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you snort, then comb your fingers through his hair and murmur, “I love your curls, they’re adorable.” 

He almost takes the subject change you dangle in front of him, but something lingers at the base of his throat, begging to be known. 

“Look,” he starts, shifting to meet your gaze, and sighs, “I really don’t think you’re making a mistake by cutting her out of your life, Lua. And-and not because she said those things about me, but because she treats you like shit. And, I know it’s not my place to say shit like this, but,” he shakes his head, searching your face, watching the tears pool in your eyes, “She might be your mom, but that’s not family, you know?”

Your face crumples up. 

He starts to fumble out an apology, “Fuck, I’m–”

You kiss him. 

When you pull back, you whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he breathes, brushing his hand against your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you scoot closer, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. A few peaceful moments go by before your stomach growls so loud it makes both of you start laughing. 

“Let’s get you some fucking food, huh?” 

[wraithsoutlaws]

[ SUBJECT INTERVIEW: ASHLEY "ZEPHYR" ZAIDE ]

NAME? This isn’t an interrogation, right? Y’know legally you have to tell me if you’re with the NCPD… NICKNAME? Well, Zephyr usually. I always liked it more. My aunt was the first one to call me that and it felt like sliding into a pair of old shoes that already fit real well and you don’t gotta break in again, you know what I mean?  GENDER? He/him baby. See this cool pin I got?  STAR SIGN? I guess I’m a cancer, but Misty knows more about that than I do. She knows everything about that stuff. She made a whole fucking chart about it once, tracked every second of my life based on stars alone. And it was fucking right, too. Spooky as hell if you ask me but I do like listening to her talk about it. She gets this crinkly little smile.  HEIGHT? I’m 5’7’’ which isn’t far off from the average height for men, by the way. If you care.  ORIENTATION? Truth be told, I’m not real picky.  FAVORITE FRUIT? I gotta go with cherry. I don’t really eat ‘em a lot, but fuck me, it’s one of the best flavors out there, isn’t it? I got this cherry flavored–you know what? Nevermind…hey, if you like fruit I know where to get the best ‘ganic plums you’ve ever tasted. All above board, of course. Legal like. Just let me know.  FAVORITE SEASON? I like the Summer…reminds me of being a kid. Before things went to shit… FAVORITE FLOWER? I dunno, I like those little weeds that come up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Little fucking guys. I try not to step on ‘em. FAVORITE SCENT? I got this incense from Misty’s Esoterica and I couldn’t tell you a single fucking thing about it, it’s not really my jam but…every time I light it it’s like she’s standing right next to me. Makes my place feel better. COFFEE OR TEA? Misty keeps pushing this special tea blend on me. Says its holy or, er…holistic. It tastes like fucking socks if you ask me, though I’m not really big on coffee either. Give me a few lines of synth-coke y’know, don’t be a pussy. I mean, not that I do that sort of thing. AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP? Kinda depends, I guess. Some nights I sleep like a baby. Others feel like they’ll never end…more of those than not these days, I guess. DOG OR CAT PERSON? I don’t really trust dogs. Been chased a couple times and bit in the ass more than I can count. Come to think of it, I don’t really trust cats either. They can see shit, you know. Right through you. I mean whatever happened to hamsters? But whatever man. If you’re in the market for some exotics, I got you covered. DREAM TRIP? Oh, I’m just counting the days and the eddies ‘til I can hightail it outta this city and settle down on a beach in Belize or the Bahamas away from all this shit. Sip a fuckin’ mai tai on a clean beach and watch the waves every morning.  FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER? Who’s that fucking dog…he does this little dance. I dunno, always makes me laugh though.  NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH? You’re assuming I make it to the bed…I mean, of course I do. Couple nights in the elevator don’t mean anything…just because I know the feeling of my bathroom floor better than my own mattress–hey, maybe I should leave the blankets in there? Shit. I’m kidding, obviously. I’m a normal guy. What–what was the question again? RANDOM FACT? I got a junk shop in Japantown, got anything you need or I can find it fast, and that’s a guarantee. Just don’t ask anymore questions, alright?

was tagged by @therealnightcity and wanted to complete the trifecta of my boys!! once again, won't be tagging anyone but as always feel free to tag me, i would love to read more!

[deconstructthesoup]

Holy shit, you guys liked my Hatchetfield/Fantasy High idea... still coming up with a good name for it. Just using "High School is Killin' Me" would be good, but that might get confusing in the tags.

That being said, oh boy do I have more, so... let's dive in.

Ragh: He's essentially Max Jagerman if he'd actually had the chance to get that redemption arc (instead of, y'know, dying and becoming a vengeful ghost). Back in his freshman year, he was that jerk, and when he met Fabian, it could've easily resulted in two equally hardheaded guys becoming each other's absolute nightmare, but after Fabian initially got rejected from the team despite being the best at tryouts---and after Fabian slipped Ragh the answers to a test in order to get into his good graces---Ragh stuck up for him and got him on the team. It took a while for them to really become friends, mostly due to the fact that they both needed to grow past the toxic masculinity, but they got there eventually, with Fabian being the first person that Ragh came out to. And, yeah, their relationship was initially "friends with benefits" until they got their shit together. (I don't know what Lydia's deal is yet---she might just have a chronic illness, but it could also have LiB connections.)

Tracker: Her story's fairly similar to in canon---religious family who kicked her out once she started questioning everything, moved in with her cool uncle as a result---only instead of dropping out of high school, she transferred from Sycamore to Hatchetfield High. This worked out pretty well, seeing as Jawbone had just started his guidance counselor position after getting clean and putting that psychology degree to good use. Tracker's adjusting all right to her new life---she goes to concerts at the Slaughtered Pig, she's getting really into witchy stuff, and she's bonded with the principal's daughter over having to go to the school your parent works at... and she's also somehow developed a gigantic crush on the local church girl, which she initially tells herself is completely hopeless. But at night, she dreams of a haunted forest, a full moon, and a woman with white hair whose face she can never quite make out. And one day, she and Kristen find a book in Jawbone's study...

Jawbone: He's kind of the Miss Holloway equivalent, because honestly? There's really no other character who fits the vibe. Instead of being an immortal 80's singer who became a witch, however, he's a seemingly normal guy who grew up in Hatchetfield and has left quite a bit off times, but always finds his way back, and he's staying this time. Part of the reason he always leaves is, of course, the pressure of being queer in a small town, but he also has always had unusual abilities that he can't explain, and he used to either ignore his powers through the use of drugs or show them off as party tricks that would eventually get out of hand. But after years of misspent youth, he decided to get his life together, kind of like Emma did... and when he came back to Hatchetfield, he found a copy of the Black Book and learned the truth. Jawbone's now a protector of the town, helping people in his own way---and sometimes, that means having to let people in on the truth about Hatchetfield.

Ayda: She's well known for being the principal's daughter, a total nerd, and a bit of a recluse through no fault of her own, but there is much more to Ayda than meets the eye. See, Arthur Aguefort, way back in the 1900s, made a deal with Tinky after he lost his wife---that if he never lost Ayda in that same way, he'd serve the Lord in Black for eternity. Tinky agreed, Arthur managed to find a loophole and get outta there with an indefinite lifespan and a seemingly immortal daughter, but Tinky wasn't too happy about losing a future resident of the Bastard Box, so he turned the gift he'd given Ayda on his head. Instead of living forever, Ayda is capable of dying, but every time she dies, she is born again, with no memory of who she was or the powers she has---the original Ayda could control flame, and so can every version of her. So Arthur has to watch his daughter die again and again, find herself again and again, struggle again and again... yeah, there's a reason he became principal of Hatchetfield High instead of the mayor. By this point, he's decided that if he can't help Ayda, the best thing he can do is get to know her well while he can. (She's gonna have a happy ending, don't worry---I'm not that cruel)

Aelwyn: On the surface, she and Adaine have the same relationship as they initially did in canon---constantly bickering, constantly competing, you know the drill---but underneath all that, Aelwyn cares deeply for her sister, and has tried very hard over the years help keep Adaine's powers hidden from their parents. It's really due to not wanting to upset their parents that Aelwyn doesn't try as hard as she should, and why she's fairly distant from her sister most of the time. Their relationship is sorta a Lex-and-Hannah situation... if Lex was a straight-A popular party girl instead of a grungy, rebellious high school dropout. Aelwyn does eventually find herself and grow closer to Adaine, but it takes a while for that to happen.

Zelda: She's still a super-shy and awkward dork who loves pretty much every alt-music genre known to man and has some mild anger issues. In all honesty, not a lot changes about her, aside from her being human and not a satyr---she has a crazy family, she's got a crush on Gorgug that eventually turns into a very sweet relationship, and she eventually becomes friends with The Seven... though, I'm gonna need to finish that season before I can give you guys any more information on the rest of them. However, I will say that the Penelope and Sam situation is gonna tie into the Honey Festival.

Other miscellaneous ideas/characters: Sandra Lynn is a park ranger in Witchwood Forest, Garthy O'Brien runs one of the only queer nightclubs in Hatchetfield, Basrar still runs his ice cream parlor, Gilear is still a mess

And... yep, that's it for now. I'll talk about some of the antagonists later, and then maybe I'll get around to The Seven.

[mrskreideprinz]

Hihi omg an event 💖 I would like to request "about deserve to be loved just like everyone else" with Albedo (because he really really really deserves it ;-;) Have a wonderful day 🌸🍄

i love seeing the roles switched with the comfort on albedo. mootie this is brilliant, thank you for the ask my beloved 🫶🏻

Albedo x GN!Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Insecure Albedo, You both are naked in this, Mention of past smut briefly, Minors do not interact please, about 800 words. 

Prompt: “You deserve to be loved just like everyone else.” 

Tags: @suyacho @themovingcastlez @dan-hengs

Albedo held you close, your naked body pressed warmly against his. The moonlight peeked through the window and illuminated your bodies that were covered in sweat. You squeezed his waist, pulling yourself closer to him. Never could you get enough of him and you swore to yourself long ago to never let him go.. You wrapped yourself around his body and sighed softly, you were in heaven. This was everything you wanted and more, you would never grow tired of Albedo, that you were sure of. 

It didn’t take long for you to notice something was off with your boyfriend. He usually wasn’t so stoic after the two of you had just made love, but this time was different. This time he seemed a little sad and regretful, and to be honest that scared the shit outta you. You pulled out of his embrace, noticing how his eyes never moved from the ceiling until you moved, and positioned yourself on your side. 

“Bedo?” You asked him. 

He looked at you and hummed in reply, his sad expression still visible. Now he was starting to worry. “Hmm? What is it, sweetheart?”

You smiled. He was so sweet, so charming, so good to you, but oh so sad. You knew there was something going on in that big brain of his, but you couldn’t figure out what exactly. So, you outright asked him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

His eyes widened and face turned pale as his eyes shied away from yours. He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. He was so ashamed that you saw right through him that he didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it, but he knew he had to. So, he gave it a small try. 

“It’s nothing of importance, let’s lay back down.” 

Although, it wasn’t much of an attempt. To be honest he didn't try at all, too nervous to admit what was wrong, but you were determined to get to the bottom of it.  

“You’re lying. Tell me what’s going on, Bedo.” You said in a gentle tone, pushing back some of his hair behind his ears.

The air was quiet until finally Albedo decided to break the silence and come clean. “I’m just a little.. sad, but it’s nothing of importance.”

You cocked your head to the side and asked him what he meant by that, confused yet patiently trying to understand where he might be coming from. Putting a hand on his cheek you waited for his next words to come forth. 

“I’ve been wondering whether I deserve certain things.” Albedo admitted shamefully. 

You grabbed his face gently and moved his turned away face to look at you. “What do you mean by that, Bedo?” Your voice was stern and a tad angered, but not so much that it turned him away. 

He sighed and leaned into your touch even as he was so certain that he did not deserve even a second of it. “The truth is.. I’m not so sure I deserve your love.” 

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing and from who of all people, but it was his truth he was speaking about, after all. Immediately you shut down any doubts or anxieties he had. You were never that good at comforting people, you and Albedo both had that in common, but you did the best with what you were given in that moment. Wrapping him up in your arms you held him close and reassured him that he was more than deserving of all the love in the world, but especially yours. 

You held his face in your hands, pressed your forehead against his and looked deep into his eyes and said, “You deserve to be loved just like everyone else.” 

Albedo began to sniffle softly as tears formed at the bottom of his eyelids. He was forever amazed and thankful to be loved by someone as brilliant and as amazing as you. He tugged you close and tangled his arms around your waist, holding you tight and painfully close as he cried softly into your bare skin. You were not used to seeing this side of Albedo, not that you hadn’t seen him cry before, but you’d hardly seen your Bedo be as vulnerable before as he was right now. Soon the two of you would spend the remainder of the night talking out these insecurities, but for now you promised to take such good care of the alchemist that he’d never question how he deserved your love ever again. You would make damn sure of it.

[boydcrowdr]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you @acorrespondence, my lovely mutual and writting buddy, for tagging me <3

How many works do you have on ao3?

6, under beezleebub (more under a secret abandoned account)

What's your total ao3 word count?

131,144 for my current account

What fandoms do you write for?

justified, primarily. with one deadwood fic, and a mcu wip in the works.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

"stay with me" is my most kudoed fic <3

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i try to! i never know what to say cus i'm always so blown away that anyone's reading my shit at all.

What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i try not to end on a sour note, but i feel like everything i write carries a general blanket of angst through it's narrative

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

probably "stay with me" just cus i was feeling nice that day

Do you get hate on fics?

not these days. i feel like ao3 users have a generally laid back approach to fanfic these days. don't like? exit the tab, easy peasy.

Do you write smut?

no? i have included not overly explicit sex scenes in fics bcus they can be a great tool for emotionally charged moments, good character moments, etc. but nothing crazy.

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

never ever. they're not really my thing.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

no lol

Have you ever had a fic translated?

nah

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no, i'm a control freak

What's your all-time favorite ship?

charles xavier/erik lehnsherr. easy. full stop. don't even have to think about it. there's something about them. something about the 60s/70s. something about two sides of the same coin. something about wanting the same thing but having morally conflicting approaches. i think about magneto every single day of my life since i was 11 years old. next question.

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

"keep it near" had such a choke hold on me. it was born of an offhanded discussion in the justified discord so long ago and a love of southern gothics and detective stories. i still love it sm but idk if i'll ever have the steam to revisit it. maybe when i rewatched true detective s1 it'll just pour outta me tho, who knows.

What are your writing strengths?

dialogue. i think i'm pretty good at back and forths between two characters that are saying something other than what they mean. i enjoy writing dialogue that is more revealing in what isn't being said. p.g. wodehouse also taught me a lot about tone in dialogue and witty back and forths that i really enjoy and think i have a pretty good grasp on writing those sorts of exchanges.

i also like to think i'm pretty good at carrying a tone through a story. giving something a general vibe. usually a haunted angsty vibe but still, it's an energy.

What are your writing weaknesses?

probably so many things. i don't like most of my fics that are up currently (with the exception of "keep it near" and probably "stay with me"), but we're all our worst critics. I feel that i struggle with writing action, motion, etc. i never want a scene that lacks dialogue to come across as "and then," "and then," etc, you know what i mean?

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

iffy. i feel like it can come across as jarring to a reader if they have no idea what they're even looking at. i've included snippets of russian in a wip, which i have been studying for quite a while, but i still fear it might come across as clunky.

First fandom you wrote for?

uhhh... probably batman? or marvel? unless we're counting the self insert assassin's creed fanfic i wrote in 6th grade before i knew what fanfic was.

Favorite fic you've written?

oh probably "keep it near" but by far my unpublished fic i'm working on currently.

don't know who's been tagged yet, but @praycambrian @raylangivins @norgbelulah @eff41 and anyone else who hasn't been tagged yet <3

[steviewashere]

Let's have a quick little conversation, Stranger Things fandom. This is a conversation for everybody, including those who create the amazing things we pass around our table of stories like bowls of mashed potatoes.

A lot of you guys are fucking mean. And I'm not talking regular mean. I'm talking a rotting, moldy, dilapidating, squelching sort of mean. I should know, I've given way too many speeches about this kind of shit. So, you're gonna listen good.

The new trend I'm seeing is bullying the bodacious babes within our community, and I won't fucking stand for it. I've had my fair share of bullying, both as the victim and as a bystander, and it's exhausting to have it spread into such a tight-knit space like this.

Let me reintroduce you to some wonderful technology on here, you hateful pieces of shit (no, I'm not talking about the people who are actually nice, but please continue to read this). (And, I'm not gonna be nice to people who are blowing up babe's Tumblr inboxes and anon messages and Twitter replies and AO3 comments. Or people sending death threats and threats of sexual violence. Because you don't deserve kindness. Not anymore.)

There's a "close tab" button located conveniently below your address bar. There's also a little bar on the side of your screen that lets you scroll all willy-nilly away from things you don't like. AND there's a "block" button! Oh, let's not forget the "mute tag" button! (Explosion sound effects here.) Isn't that crazy?! You can block anybody you want. You can scroll away. You can close out of a fic you're reading or a fanart you're viewing.

Isn't that wonderful? Because then, you don't ever have to see it again.

Fandom is a space for everybody, no matter what someone enjoys. Even if it's dead dove fics or unconventional kinks or relationship dynamics that may come off as "abusive" or "toxic".

If topics that are considered unsightly to you really bother the fuck outta your soul, then just ignore 'em. Ignore them. Leave them alone. Art, no matter the form, has always been made to make a statement; art is meant to be uncomfortable sometimes; art comforts those who may have gone through the same or similar experience.

Not everything is for you. That's what's so wonderful about tag filtering and muting tags and blocking users and content. That's what's so wonderful about the internet. You can get away from things that would otherwise be triggering for you.

You don't have to read everything. Or view everything. Or like everything.

Somebody else will like that piece of art, guaranteed.

And to artists, whether you're a writer or a painter or a scrapbooker or whatever you do that pleases your senses, continue to create. Continue to create because you do enjoy it, even if sometimes it seems that nobody does. Take breaks as needed. Walk away if you have to. That's alright. Taking care of yourself is so important and nobody is allowed to tell you otherwise. But at the end of the day, you are the poet and the artist and the muser. You are the creator.

The first person you should create for, because all fan work is self-indulgent on some level, is yourself. Always create for you. Create because it's something primal. Because it's an instinct.

Not everything is beautiful. But art can be beautiful. You make it beautiful. Your minds are beautiful. Everybody is gorgeous.

Fandom is like a museum, babes. Sometimes, the creator is going to be walking the same room as you, viewing their paintings sidelong. Keep your voices down, move on if you don't like the painting they made, and find something you do like. You're allowed to do that.

But by the gods, be thoughtful, be kind, and remember that the creator is always standing behind you in the art hall. And they're sharing their craft with you. And they don't have to. And sometimes they don't want to. But they do it anyway. Because it's important to create and tell their story and reflect on what is otherwise something shitty.

Telling stories is part of human nature. We've been doing it for centuries. It's in our blood. Don't be the reason somebody's blood turns cold or their pens fall dried or their mouths clink shut. Art is an objectively subjective form of culture, it changes from where you're going to where you've been and it's always changing and not every aspect is for you.

You do it for you, though. At the end of the day, your art should matter because it's an appendage of you. You're wonderful, you're beautiful, you're talented, and you're worthy of what you do. Because you're doing it. At the end of the day, you're doing it. That's something that matters.

But what matters most?

You do. You're the heart of everything you do. You're part of the thousands of arteries in the community we've built, you are the vessel carrying life in this community. And damnit, what a good job you do. You matter. At the end of the day, you will always matter.

Always. You will always matter.

[hoffmannwrites]

On My List

1  - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 + 1 Masterlist

Author’s Note: I'm gonna just post part 2 now because the response has been overwhelming and also I need to ride this train until it runs outta steam, yfm?

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson

Description: 5 Times Steve and Eddie kiss as friends, and one time they don't.

Warnings/Tags: Everyone lives, Nobody dies, 5+1, Kissing, Fluff, Idiots to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, some pretty brief mentions for drinking, smoking, being inebriated (the gang is drunk here but nothing too bad, just in a fun way), uhhh they're gay your honor, no beta we die like Barb, vague medical issue, fainting, let me know if I missed anything?

Every Breath You Take

Two

The second time Eddie and Steve kiss it’s not really a kiss at all. Robin and Steve are working a shift at Family Video - well, trying to work at least, because Eddie’s there which means everyone’s just sort of dicking around. Steve is processing some returns while Robin and Eddie argue about some sort of incomprehensible music shit. They’re both such fucking nerds about it that it makes Steve’s head hurt hearing them discuss the rhythm vs the beat and the symbolism of the song's accompanying music videos. Steve doesn’t understand why they have to analyze everything, why they can’t just like shit.

He’s not really paying attention until he registers the panic in Robin’s voice as she suddenly pushes off the counter and says Eddie’s voice just a little too frantically. Eddie has slumped slightly forward over the counter, eyes rolled a little too far back, and not responding to her calls for him. Steve immediately jumps into action, thinking about seeing Max in an eerily similar situation, about the fits Will had when he came back. Steve grabs Eddie and lays him gently in the ground, immediately crouching over him to do CPR, not bothering to check for a pulse or breathing. Just starting compressions, counting the way he learned how while hanging out at the hospital waiting for Max and Eddie to wake up. He couldn’t just sit there, and the hospital offered free training courses in shit like this, so he went. And he’s so glad he did as he starts doing rescue breaths on Eddie, ignoring Robin’s “ohmygodohmygodohmy-“ as she struggles to remember Hopper’s number when she finally stops freaking out enough to grab the phone. It doesn’t matter though, because by the time Steve is halfway through his second set of 30, Eddie’s eyes are fluttering open and he’s breathing heavily, but just fine on his own.

“Oh thank fuc-“ Robin starts as she drops to the ground on the other side of Eddie. “Are you okay? What happened? You just-“ Robin starts rambling, panicking that this meant the worst wasn’t over.

“Robs. Give him a minute. Go grab a water bottle,” Steve softly commands, his instinct to protect and help and heal outweighing his ability to do anything else. She does as he asks, and Steve starts to help Eddie move to a sitting position. “Easy does it, man. You can keep laying on the floor for a little if you need.”

“No, no. I’m okay. Sorry. I just, uh, had a minute. It happens sometimes. Happened a lot more when I was little. Stress, ya know? Was real bad right around the time I started living with Wayne. Had a really bad couple of weeks after Bonham died, too. But since, ya know- everything, it’s been happening again.” Eddie explains, rubbing the middle of his chest where Steve had previously been pressing. Steve just nods as Robin hands him the water bottle, watching, waiting for everyone’s adrenaline to slow.

“Jesus, dude. I think you almost cracked a rib. Way to put those muscles to use,” Eddie jokes, in between sips. Steve cracks a smile, but his eyes are still filled with worry. “Thank you for trying to save my ass, but in the future, I’m just fainting. No CPR required. Just make sure I don’t hit my head on the way down,” Eddie explains.

“Sorry,” now it’s Steve’s turn to ramble. “I just went into panic mode and I didn’t even check for a pulse or-“

“Don’t sweat it.” Eddie cuts him off. “I appreciate you wanting to save my life. Again.” He adds that last part a little quieter, knocking shoulders with Harrington. As Steve helps him to his feet, he adds even quieter “You sure you didn’t just wanna plant one on me again, Big Boy?” And Robin is too busy fussing over Eddie and asking questions about his fainting and yelling at him for not warning anybody that they’re both too busy to notice the blush that creeps up Steve’s neck and the way he flexes his hands like touching Eddie hurt. 

A/N: Not so fun fact! John Bonham, drummer for Led Zeppelin died in 1980 after a heavy drinking binge. This would have been absolutely devastating to a young Eddie Munson, as it was for everyone else with ears and a soul at the time.

Also, Steve does the Pride and Prejudice hand flex every time he touches Eddie. Convince me otherwise. I dare you.

[bonesandthebees]

NOT EVEN GIVING MYSELF TIME TO WRITE A N ENDING NOTE TO LAST ASK IM SPEEDRUNNING THIS SHIT IHKGYDD

NOOOOOO THIS HAS ALREADY GONE TO SHIT SO FUCKING QUICK WHATRHFUCK

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

THIS IS SO FUCKED THIS SIS FOSFUCKDJDKF

"This has happened before" oh my fucking god CHILLS what the FUCK

A FUCKIGN SYFRINGE??#?_?_!_ THAT ESCALETSD QUICKLY UH BEE WHAT THR RUFKCK???

What the fuck

NOOOO THIS IS SOO THIS SIS SPFCUCKSDUDPAHDODHSKFKDKDLF

NOOOOOO NO FUCKIGN WAYYY NOOOO THIS IS SO MANIPUTLKAITVEEE NOOO CANT U SEEEE NOOOO THIS IS WAY MORE FUCKED UP THAN I COULDVE IMAGINED HOKYFUCJINGHSITHSOSGSKFJSJDF NMOOOO NO WAYSHSKSKFLSLFJDK NOOODHFKDLD

YES TOMMY YWSHSOAHSLSJKD YESSJDJFKFL

What.

The. Fuck.

What.

What.

They can WHAT.

Omg jaw dropped ROCKETDUO?$??$?$?$ HELLOOOO

Oh god this chapter is fucking long I am terrified whaththefuck goes down ohkygoddd aaaaaaa

Pausing for now until I get home so I dont like have to wait an hour right after reading an almost death shfkfkfkfkkdkk

Okay back woot woot :D

Snuggled up in bed with my fairy lights on under two blankets and in my PJs I AM READY!!!!

OH MY FUCKING GOD WAIT.

JUST REALISED

SMOKE.

FIRE.

STATUE.

OH FUCK

NOOOOOO THIS IS SO EVIL OHKYFUCGODJDODJFLGKGLG

NOOOOOOOOOOO

WAIT. I DID NOT READ THAT RIGHT. HOLDUP. I JUST. NO. NO WAY. JACK DID NOT. THERES NO FUCKING WAY. WHATHTHEFUCK. OHMYGOD?

NO

WHAT

NO

OHMYGOD

NY MOUTH IS HUNG OPEN IN SHOCK WHAT

I'm putting onmysuperangstynplaylistforthissholyshit

Oh

My

God

I know he has the syringe but..but. but. But. But. But. But. That is traumatizing that is fucking traumatizing

Bee is this u practicing writing MCD for roses LMFAODJFKGK ohmygodddd I'm ow ow ow ohmyfuckingofdo ohmygod ohmygod the TRAUMA the fucking TRAUMAS the curse??? I mean. He's gonna come back to life but he died holyshit. Is Wilbur eve r gonna not wear a blindfold I'm insane. I'm so insane. I cannot. I don't even know what tod o ohkygod ohkudoboghdnsmfjfdls

This is so fucking cool I'm fucking obsessed

Oh god....

Oh god.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Everything hurts.

Everything hurts.

Ow.

HOW DID IT GET EVEN SADDER??$?$?#?#?$??_?_?_$ TOMMY FUCKING DIED IS THAY NOT ENOUGH OHMYGODDDD

It wasn't your time... That's totally why she didn't show up yes yes [cries]

HOW IS IR GETTING WORSE

JUST LET RHE BOYS REST OHMYGODDDJAKSHDKFKFLGF

WHERES PHIL AND TECHNO KHMYFUCGODDDDD

YESSS FUCK U SCHLATT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!

YESSDJFJGKDKFK I WAS WAITING FOR HIM TO USE HIS EYES AS A WEAPON YESSDDJFKGKD

Ily ranboo

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

That was so intense aaaaaaaaaaa

I don't even have WORDS, I'll probs have words once I read all the other asks but man. Man. I'm in shock. Wow. That was. So intense. Ohhhh my godddd so cool tho so so cool I'm gonna fozpsjdkf explodes beeeeee beeeeeee you're so good at writing holyshitttt this was such a satisfying climax ohmygoddddd aaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaa

I'm not going to get over Tommy waking up and just. Demanding why Kristin wasn't there. That's so. Ow?? Ow..ouch. ouch. Ohmhgodddddskskfkdkskfjfkskf

Beeeeeee beeee I am not okay bee ohmygod diaowjdoxishdkskdjf

At least I can unmute the tags now woOOOO FJFKFLDLFLGLDKFLFLGG EXPLODES IM SO GONNA REREAD RHE SHIT OUTTA THE REVIVAL SCENE OHKYGODDD OUCHH OUCHIE OUCHIE OUCHIE I NEED DADZAAAA

ch 27 time lets go icy

yeah things go to shit really fast lmaoooo

loved finally getting to talk about the pythia curse story I've had that one written up for a while

the syringe is a surprise tool that will help us later :)

that whole convo was soooo manipulative and fucked up but also!! wilbur pushed through!! he held onto himself he's made so much progress!!

smoke :) tommy's lungs :)) jack manifold is there :)))

maybe it's me practicing my MCD writing for rose who knows you'll have to wait and see on that one lmao

tommy died and came back but death wasn't the great thing he'd always been promised it was. it wasn't warm and he wasn't comforted. he was cold and alone and terrified.

AND FUCK SCHLATT

thank you so much icy I'm so happy with how that chapter turned out. it really felt like the perfect climax to everything i'd been building towards the entire fic. so glad you enjoyed <3

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Dragon Heart

There are a few things that come with becoming a dark side, one of which takes Roman a little by surprise.

Fortunately, he has a fantastic boyfriend and a... maybe not quite as helpful brother to get him through it.

----

| Ao3 |

Warnings: Mild body horror, self doubt/self deprication, Remus being Remus, hurt/comfort.

Pairings: Romantic Roceit, familial Creativitwins

Word Count: 3993

Notes: This is a oneshot for my Darkside!Roman au, which you can find here with the tag #Darkside!Roman, if you so wish :)

Otherwise, happy reading!

----

"Help me!" Roman yelled as he rose up into the dark sides' mindscape, his burned pillow clutched tight in his hand.

"Woah Prissy! What happened to you! Finally embracing the arsonist lifestyle?" Remus called from across the room, accompanied with a giggle. Janus glanced up, noticing the pillow and making his way over. 

"What happened, Roman?" 

"I don't- I dont know I just- I was lying on my bed and then I sneezed and my pillow was on fire" Roman ranted, waving the pillow around as he spoke, "So I put it out obviously but I don't know what happened!" 

"Alright alright, calm down darling, absolutely everything is wrong," Janus soothed, taking the pillow from Roman's hands, "I don’t think I know what's happening,"

"What? What is it?" Roman asked, huffing only for a puff of smoke to come from his nose and startle him, Janus chuckled.

"Oh my goodness, you're adorable," Janus couldn't help but coo. Roman saw red.

"Don't call me ad-" Roman's voice cut off immediately and he let go of Janus' shirt, which he'd grabbed without even realising and stepped back, "I- I don't - I'm sorry I- I don't know what that was…" 

"It's not alright, sweetheart," Janus said with a small smile as he smoothed down his ruffled clothes, "Believe it or not, Remus and I both went through something similar, once,"

"Wha-" 

"It's growing pains! Ro-bro! You're really becoming one of us!* Remus cried, leaping over and punching Roman in the arm, for some reason Roman found himself having to control the instinct to attack his brother in a show of strength.

"What Remus means," Janus said, "Is that you're getting your creature trait," 

"My…' Roman paused for a moment, "What?" 

"Your beastie!" Remus giggled, sharp teeth on show, waving a summoned tentacle in the air, "I'm a kraken, if you didn't know," 

"Yeah, right, but-" 

"And, as I've so well hidden, I express snake like traits, though they are actually rather subtle compared to other dark sides," Janus said, "My 'beastie' as Remus put it, is a Naga," 

"But how does that relate to me?" Roman cried, clenching his fists, he was glad Janus had taken the pillow or he probably would have ripped it. "And why do I keep - doing stuff I don't want to do! These stupid - mood swings!" 

"You're getting your beastie, Ro-bro," Remus said with a grin.

"O-oh…" 

"The mood swings and weird instincts don't come from that transformation," Janus said, "But rest assured they'll remain this bad forever."

"Jan used to bite shit," Remus giggled, "like- if you put something in front of his face he'd just- *nom*! It was super funny, but I made him a bunch of those little chewy stim toys so he'd stop biting everything else," 

"Oh like you're much better," Janus rolled his eyes, "You spent two weeks at the bottom of a lake!!" 

"The webs were the worst though… y'know I usually like creepy crawly spiders cuz they pull webs outta their butts and scare people shitless but when I can't get into the imagination because of the mass of spiderwebs…." Remus shivered, "Never breaking a spider web again."

"Are you… talking about Virgil?" Roman asked with only the slightest caution, Remus nodded, "He… never did anything like that with the light sides," 

"The animal traits almost… fade away… when a dark side becomes a light side," Janus explained sadly, "So Virgil's more spider-esque traits faded away over time,"

"He still hissed though- and liked to climb high things," Roman said, before thinking, "Sounds more like a cat to me actually," 

Janus laughed, "You should have seen him when he was here… he had spider limbs and everything, made webs like you've never seen, and he'd attack anyone who touched them," 

*Now I see why Remus is scared," Roman snorts, before coughing up smoke, "God fucking damn this- eugh!"

"It's alright, Roman, you won't learn to control it, especially not after we work out what your creature is," Janus said, patting Roman's back until he recovered. 

"We won't be able to tell until the physical bits come in," Remus said, leaning on his shoulder, "Boy how Jan was surprised when he grew a second -"

"Oh Remus sweetheart isn't there a mess you should be making or- I don't know some poor light side for you to torment?" Janus interrupted, waving Remus away. Remus' eyes sparkled at the suggestion and he sank out. Roman couldn't help but laugh.

*So… I just have to deal with this?” Roman said, looking a little scared.

“Fortunately, yes… but rest assured you will be completely alone,” Janus patted Roman on the shoulder, we will not help you with anything you need,”

“Thanks, Jan,” 

—-

Roman was scared, of course he was scared, though admitting that he was scared was the scariest part.

He’d woken up that morning only a few days after their conversation to a throbbing pain in his head, which wasn’t a headache per say because it wasn’t in his head, more like on top of it, like someone had smacked him in the skull multiple times and left throbbing bruises all along his hairline. It hurt to all hell and left Roman wanting to do nothing more than curl up into his pillow and die a a quick and painless death.

Of course that wasn’t what he actually got, all he got was Janus coming into his room when he hadn’t appeared by midday and- once his boyfriend had realised something was hurting him- had immediately rushed to find some pain meds to give him for it. They hadn’t helped, not really, but Roman appreciated the sentiment. He’d especially appreciated it after Janus had offered to kiss him better and then spent the next ten minutes smothering him in affection.

The happiness hadn’t lasted long though.

Vaguely Roman was reminded of one time- his memories were a little hazy on the details- when some of Thomas’ extended family had hosted a reunion. His own family had made the unfortunate decision to stay over the night since the house where the party was held was much to far to drive after such a party. Roman remembered that Thomas had been kept up all night by one of his aunt’s screaming baby, the kid had been teething.

This particular memory was bought to the forefront of his mind at this very moment because Roman couldn’t help but sympathise with the child. Because here he was, curled up in the corner of his bathroom. He sobbed into a pillow in the hopes that it would muffle the noise as something grew right out of his head.

Janus had warned him about this, the physical traits of his… beastie… coming through. He’d been warned about how painful it could potentially be- Virgil had been bedridden for two days as his spider legs pushed their way out of his back, it had been horrendous, apparently. For some stupid reason- because Roman’s reasons always seemed to be stupid, that’s all he was, stupid reasons and stupid ideas- he hadn’t listened to Janus. He’d thought he could deal with it. Obviously he was wrong, he couldn’t deal with this whatever the hell was growing from his skull was just proving that to him.

It felt like he was growning new bones from his skull, for all he knew he was. There was absolutely no way he was getting up to check, he could barely move from the pain as it was. 

By the time the pain had died down even just a little Roman had cried himself out of tears for the time being, now he was just stuck with hiccups and sharp breaths that he was certain weren’t good for him but he couldn’t seem to get them under control. Every time he managed it there would be another throb and the whole process would start all over again. Not only that but the clock on his wall showed that it was 6:57am. He’d been here on the floor in his bathroom for over five hours. Fortunately the throbbing pain in his head made it easy to ignore the aches and pains in his limbs from sitting in the same position for way, way too long.

Tentatively Roman attempted to move, only to experience a shooting sensation of pins and needles- like his leg was being stabbed by a milion tiny little pins that had come just to make his already shit day- and mind you it was barely seven in the morning- a whole load worse. Especially, that is, when the surprise at the sensation caused him to jerk back and hit his- well he could only assume whatever had grown out of his head in the last five hours- against the bathtub and he had to clamp his hands over his mouth to keep from screaming.

It’s ok Roman, you’ve got this, just stand up and look in the mirror, it’s right there, not so hard.

Roman whimpered as he attempted to urge himself forwards with his thoughts, reaching up to grab hold of the rim of the sink and use it as leverage to help him up. This was so pathetic, he thought, needing all of this just because of a little pain. 

When he saw his reflection in the mirror he really did shriek. 

He had horns. Massive red horns that sprouted from just behind his hairline. Two shorter in the middle that pointed straight up, the colour fading from red to orange to yellow like fire.

And next to those smaller ones were larger horns, with the same gradient though these pulled back and down and around his ears so they curled around to point forward in line with his cheekbones. They would have looked majestic on anyone else. Any other dragon.

Because that’s what this was, these horns, it was unmistakable. Even if somehow he could try to convince himself that he was just a ram or- or some other animal with horns- he knew somehow in his heart that he was a dragon. 

And he hated it, he already hated it so much because dragons were evil beasts, evil, greedy, mean, horrible foes. Dragons were the ones that kept the princesses locked away, not the ones who saved them from their towers like the dashing prince he was supposed to be.

No, he wasn’t a dashing prince anymore, Roman thought, glaring at his teary reflection in the mirror. His eyes were rimmed red, cheeks stained with tears, the horns were there, plain and vivid on his head like a raging fire. Roman was the dragon now, the villain of the story, the one that killed the dashing knights who came for the princess, he was the one who hoarded treasures in a cave and threatened anyone who came near with fire and destruction. This just proved it, if his spirit was a dragon, then he was the villain. The one in the wrong. Everything he thought was true.

Roman watched in the mirror as his eyes filled up with tears once again, though this time they weren’t allowed to spill because there was a sharp knock on his bathroom door. Roman froze, staring wide eyed at the door behind him using the mirror. He didn’t make a sound, he couldn’t maybe whoever was there would just go away.

“Roman?” A carefully controlled voice called in. It was Janus, and his tone was soft and gentle and that alone made a tear slip down Roman’s cheek, “Roman are you alright in there? I heard- I heard you scream…”

Oh god, Janus had heard him. Roman whimpered, he couldn’t help it and he knew he was about to start sobbing again.

“Ja-” Roman tried, “Janus-”

“Roman!” Janus called, his voice sounding so relieved it sent a stab through his heart, “Can I come in?”

“Yes- you- yes you c-can-” Roman stammered out, he tried to hard to get his voice to smoothen out but it seemed to be in vain, the door clicked open and Roman couldn’t bring himself to turn, he could only watch in the mirror as Janus- still disheveled and in his pajamas from sleep- stepped into the room before stopping, eyes widening when he saw the state Roman was in.

“Oh sweetheart,” Janus breathed, and he sounded so worried, it almost made Roman flinch- it reminded him so much of Patton- hah, if only Patton would see him now, what would he say? Probably that Roman’s horns made him dishonerable, they were unprincelike.

“I…” Roman started, before trailing off, he really didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He could only turn slightly to see Janus who smiled sadly when they met eyes.

“You’re so… beautiful,” Janus breathed, stepping closer, before pausing and looking over Roman properly. Roman was certain Janus could see the evidence of the crying and- hell the guy had heard him scream, of course he was worried. And, well, Roman knew he didn’t really mean the compliment. 

“...My goodness Roman have you been up all night?” Janus said sadly, stepping forward and cupping Roman’s cheeks, Roman startled when he felt cool scales and skin instead of the familiar fabric instead of gloves, “It must’ve hurt so much… how are you feeling?”

“I- I-” Roman stuttered, glancing around but finding that the only thing he could focus on was Janus’ eyes, he suddenly felt such a strong possessive urge he almost physically moved, the strange urge to keep . Roman felt it so strongly that the only way he could find to deal with it was bursting into tears.

“Oh- oh, oh,” Janus mumbled nothing words, before taking his hands from Roman’s cheeks. He barely had the chance to whine before Janus opened his arms in and offering of a hug, “C’mere, yes that’s it, it’s alright,”

Roman practically collapsed into his arms and Janus pulled him tight. It was a little bit awkward, Roman couldn’t exactly bury his face in Janus’ shoulder like he wanted to because of the sharp points he now had to be careful of, so instead he hooked his chin over Janus’ shoulder. And Janus wrapped him up so tightly, four of his arms around Romans back- holding him close, another in his hair- stroking through the strands in a way that was incredibly gentle, almost too gentle, and his final hand found Roman’s and laced their fingers together. 

He rocked them gently where they stood, one of his hands rubbing reassuring circles onto his shoulders as Roman once again cried himself out of tears. He began to hiccup all over again and Janus didn't stop rocking them both. 

"Everything will be alright, sweetheart," Janus muttered, "Come, let's go somewhere more comfortable, alright?" 

Roman could only nod and let Janus lead him slowly back into his bedroom until they were both sitting down on his bed, he waited as the other side pulled one of his thickest blankets around his shoulders and took his hands.

“Alright,” Janus said quietly, rubbing circles onto the backs of Roman’s hands as he looked into his eyes, “You can nod or shake your head, or speak if you’d like to, but I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

Roman nodded slowly, he didn’t trust himself not to start crying the moment he attempted to utter a word. 

“Do they still hurt?” Janus asked, Roman considered for a moment, before shaking his head as he realised almost all the pain he had felt had faded out. There wasn’t even any of that pinpricking pain left. Just the pain in his heart left, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t what Janus was asking about.

“Thats good, sweetheart,” Janus said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, “And do you feel alright? Both mentally and physically,”

Roman wasn’t sure if he should tell Janus about everything he was thinking. On one hand, Janus had proved he would help before, when Roman first crossed over but also… he had almost been disappointed when Roman spoke badly about himself, and even though Roman now had proof that he was evil in the dragon horns on his head, he doubted Janus would be happy to hear that, so he shook his head.

Somehow, Janus seemed to know he wasn’t being truthful.

“Are you sure?” Roman nodded, but he was as certain as the sun rising in the east that Janus hadn’t believed him. He moved on anyway though, and Roman couldn’t help but be grateful for that. 

“Do you know what your- beastie- is?” Janus asked next, “I uh- me and Remus, when we first got ours, once the physical traits started coming on we could just sortof…. Get a sense of it? Do you feel that?”

This head shake was so frantic that Roman found it slightly difficult to stop, Janus raised an eyebrow. 

“...Why are you lying to me, Roman?” Janus asked softly, squeezing his hands, “You- you know I won’t judge you, for whatever it is, don’t you?”

Roman looked away, trying to blink away more tears, because somehow despite all he had cried by now he still had more in him.

“I’m… sorry,” Roman mumbled, “I just… you’ll be- you’ll be disappointed you were wrong…”

Now Janus looked slightly alarmed, raising his eyebrows in confusion, “What… do you mean, darling?”

“I just…” He paused, trying to find the right words, “Everything- everything you’ve tried to tell me about- about me being good- it’s- it’s not true…”

“Roman, I don’t understand,” Janus told him, “How is it not true? I thought we’d gotten past this…”

“We- we had but- this- this is-” Roman paused, pulling one of his hands out of Janus’ hold to wipe at his eyes before gesturing to his new horns, “Dragons are evil- and- and mean and horrible beasts and I- this just proves I- I’m- like- that too-”

“Oh, Roman…” Janus mumbled, a frown on his face, “Now I’ve never heard something so plainly false, and I’m the liar in this relationship,”

“Wh-what?”

“Roman, love, your beastie doesn’t fully represent you anyway, and even if it did, dragons aren’t all evil,” Janus told him, “Hell, do you think I represent fertility? Fuck no,”

Roman laughed, a meek, pathetic laugh, but it seemed to placate Janus just a little bit.

“But… Dragons are the enemies! The ones that have to be defeated to rescue the princess- or- or- the- the-”

“You know what, Roman,” Janus interrupted, tapping his hands to bring his attention back, “Will you wait here for a moment, there is something that I need to do,”

“Of- of course,” Roman nodded quickly, Janus pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before standing up and sinking out of the room after sending him a small smile.

—-

Janus was gone for just long enough that Roman was beginning to get worried that he wasn’t coming back. Maybe he had realised while he was gone that Roman really was evil, and he wasn’t worth the effort, so he was just going to leave him to deal with this on his own. And not to mention that now he felt that same tingly almost-pain he had felt in his head yesterday in his teeth now, he guessed that would be the next part of him to change. He was about to just accept that Janus wouldn’t be coming back when his door was kicked open.

“Hey Ro!” Remus yelled, running in and grabbing Roman’s wrists in a way that wasn’t gentle, but Roman could tell it was friendly, “Janny said you were feeling down ‘cuz of your beastie, so we’re having a movie day,”

“I- wait- but-” Roman tried to protest as Remus pulled him to stand up and began to drag him out of his room, Roman attempted to dig in his heels, “Do I get a say?”

“Nope!” Remus said, popping the ‘p’ as he grinned back at him over his shoulder, “You’re not allowed to be sad,”

“But- I’m-” Roman tried to protest, “Do you not even see what I am?”

“A big strong badass beastie for my big strong badass brother?” Remus said, blinking at him as if that was the most obvious thing ever, “I don’t see the problem!”

“But-”

“Oh shut it!” Remus said, turning around and slapping his cheeks, making Roman make an involuntary ‘pop’ sound with his mouth as his face was squashed, “You’re watching movies with us and you don’t get a choice, now sit down,”

“I- um- ok?” Roman said, gingerly sitting down in the middle of the sofa. Janus- with a soft, knowing smile on his face- sat down next to him and Remus through himself on top of them both and grabbed the remote, pressing play before any of them said anything. 

Roman knew even as the first few notes of the score played with the emerging dreamworks logo what they were watching and when he turned to Janus, he just smirked.

“What?” Janus said innocently.

“Why- why are we watching this?” Roman said slowly, as the film moved on to Hiccup describing Berk, showing scenes of dragons attacking the town.

“Because,” Janus smiled, “I believe you need to learn the same lesson as a certain Viking chief,”

“O-oh-” Roman choked, turning back to the screen. He didn’t want to admit that he was about to cry again as he watched Hiccup shoot down the nightfury, he knew this film, he’d watched it at least twenty times. Of course he had, it was an amazing piece of cinema and had the most spectacular music, but this…

“And afterwards we’ll be watching Raya and the Last Dragon,” Janus commented idly, “And then Eragon, and after that, if you still need convincing, we’ll be watching Mulan”

“Mushu is hardly a dragon,” Roman cried with a choked laugh, understanding the theme of their movie night, he also understood that he didn’t have a choice.

“He’s still a dragon!” Remus yelled, “And if you’re still being sulky after that we’re watching Shrek!”

“I- alright I- just so you know I um-” Roman said, before trailing off to watch as Hiccup cut Toothless free.

“What do we need to know, darling?” Janus said quietly, nudging his arm to catch his attention again. 

“The um- the tingly pain-” Roman said, “Like- like what I felt before these horns- um- appeared, it’s… back,”

“Where too! Ooh what’s next?” Remus asked with a gasp, leaning uncomfortably close to him, Roman attempted to laugh and gently pushed him away.

“My teeth,” Roman answered quietly. Remus gasped even more dramatically.

“All of them?” Janus asked.

“No I… don’t think so,” Roman said slowly, “Just some…”

“You’re getting fangs!” Remus yelled, way more excited about that than Roman could even think about being, “That makes all of us! We all get fangs,”

Janus smiled, before taking Roman’s hand, “It’ll be alright, but Roman?”

“Yes?” Roman asked, looking over at Janus, suddenly he was worried that he’d done something wrong.

“Next time you’re in pain, please tell one of us… don’t just hide in your bathroom all night, alright?” Janus said with half a smile, Roman went red and looked back at the screen.

“I’ll… I’ll try,”

“Good, now watch the film!” Remus said, shoving him, Roman shoved back and it very quickly turned into a shoving match on the couch before Janus looped his arms under Roman’s to wrap around his chest and effectively stop the playful fight in it’s tracks. 

“Now boys, no fighting on the couch, remember?” Janus scolded. Roman looked sheepish while Remus just grinned. 

“Aweee Janny! You love us really,”

“I hate you both very much, I just aboslutely love having a destroyed couch that I need to work out how to replace again after Roman set it on fire yesterday,”

“Hey! You know I couldn’t control that!”

“Of course, darling, but that doesn’t make replacing it any easier,”

“...That’s fair I suppose,”