#light drug mention tw

[transbro]

More Blinkies saved from the feed!

[kaspermoon]

This is my month for sure

Skinny me here I come 😜

[hannahssimblr]

There is heat. Actual heat on my skin.

While Jen and I amble along the edge of St. Stephen’s Green I'm dimly aware that she’s saying something, and really, I should be listening because it is her birthday and she deserves my undivided attention, but the sun has just appeared from behind a building and for the first time in months I am experiencing its warmth on the side of my face. Months of dark, wet gloom have almost made me forget what this feels like. It’s a familiar rush, actually… MDMA. Yes. That’s what it's like.

“Are you listening to me?” She says accusingly, and she snaps sharply into focus. 

“Yes, of course.”

“Well then what did I just say?”

“Um,” I peer around for clues. It is the fourteenth of March. The shops and restaurants surrounding the park have begun to put cheery little shamrocks in their windows, and the Shelbourne Hotel has hung tricolour flags up above the grand doorway. We squeeze in close to the iron railings to allow a slow moving crowd of Canadian tourists with fluffy green Viking hats, and Guinness t-shirts under their coats pass by. “Uh, you were saying that you hate St. Patrick’s day.”

She scoffs, “Um, well, I do hate St. Patrick’s day, it’s gimmicky, but that’s not at all what I was saying,” she makes a swing for my arm and I manage to dodge her, “I can’t believe you weren’t listening to me on my birthday.”

“I’m listening now, sorry, sorry…” The sunshine glints between a gap in the bud laden branches overhead and I squint against it. God, that really is nice…

 “...driving me kind of crazy, like, honestly, if we could even talk about something else for a minute…”

Oh, shit. I focus really intently on what she’s saying. “Michelle,” I announce triumphantly, “This is about Michelle.”

She rolls her eyes, “Yes. Of course. If someone could enact a ban on her going on and on about Evan all of the time, it’s like, Evan this, Evan that, ‘Evan is so sweet, he’s just not like those other boys’…”

I snicker, “Oh, they’re just in love. Don’t be such a misery guts.”

“Yeah, nobody goes on about it as much as them. I get it. It’s been like, six months now can they not just cool it?” She heaves out a sigh, “And I’m just saying, I’m not a selfish person, right?”

“Nuh uh, never.”

“But if we meet them in a minute and all they do is gaze lovingly into each other's eyes I’m going to be mad, okay? I’m going to be fully upset about it. It’s my birthday. They can bloody think of things to say to me.”

I sling my arm around her as we amble through the gates of the park. The spring flowers are in full bloom now, and the smiling faces of the daffodils beam up at us from the borders along the path. “Of course they’ll make a fuss about you, Jenny, they’re not monsters. Yeah, they’re full on with the PDA and talking about their big feelings but they love you and they’ll want your birthday to be special.”

“Well, good,” she says primly, “This is my one day.”

“They’ll have me to answer to if they don’t behave.”

“Ooh, big scary Jude,” she giggles, “Will you shove them in a locker or flush their heads down the toilet?”

“I never did that to anyone!” I elbow her gently in the ribs, “who do you think I am?”

“Like I don’t remember the breast-pocket-ripping rampage you went on in first year!”

We’re both tittering as we round the gentle curve of the path and are assaulted by the sight of Michelle and Evan in the grass by the Pavillion, lying horizontal and open mouthed kissing each other. I gasp and shield Jen’s eyes with my hand. 

“Ugh! No! Too late, I’ve seen them,” She cries, and I spin her around to me and get into her eye line instead so that she has something appealing to look at instead. “Do you think it’s too early in the year for ice cream?”

“No,” she says. “Are you gonna buy me some?”

“Yeah, as many scoops as you want. Maybe when we come back those two will have finished their little performance.”

“Ugh, yes please. How do you always know what I want before I do?”

I shrug, “talent.”

“Jude Turner,” She shakes her head as we walk towards the exit together, “you're such a friend to women.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

[princematcha]

shouto todoroki x reader || wc: 2k

cw: no pronouns for reader but in a dress, 1 mention of drugs (a joint), alcohol, everyone’s a little tipsy, sfw

pls no minors or ageless blogs

You’ve kissed Shouto, once. 

If anyone asked, you would say no. That they’re wrong, he’s been one of your closest friends for forever. You’ve never thought about him like that when your other friends want to hear something “hot,” oh my god, he’s your friend. 

You’ve never looked a little too long at the skin of his abdomen that peeks out when he takes off a sweater and his shirt rides up. Never woken up before him after falling asleep next to each other, and just admire him.

(You’ve gotten used to not looking at his face too much. He once adjusted his hair over his left eye when you were smoking together and you were staring at him. You asked him what was wrong and he asked if he had anything on his face as he took the joint from your hand. Shouto swallowed hard when you told him he was heartbreakingly pretty, his adam’s apple bobbing as he glanced around your face. 

Sober you apologized. 

Shouto still angles himself in his interviews, right side facing the cameras.)

Never known the feeling of his chest to yours as you breathe heavy breaths into each other’s mouths.

–it was New Year’s Eve.

//cut//

Your head hurt. You couldn’t remember if you hit it, or if it was because you smoked half a cigarette on the balcony with your friends after quitting cold turkey half a year earlier. Standing in your and Shouto’s kitchen in the way too nice apartment, you filled a glass at the sink. There’s a pitcher in the fridge, but you just downed two shots and there was already a glass rim down by the sink.

You turned around as Shouto rounded the corner to see you gulping water.

“Hello.”

You lifted a hand off of the counter to wave to him. He watched in silence as you finished the cup. You teetered back and forth on the heated marble floors, then slouched against the crowded counter.

Shouto was wearing a dark grey suit, blazer thrown over his arm. The off-white button-up underneath was rumpled by the collar and around his waist, partially untucked from his pants. Cufflinks you helped him choose and put on: gone; his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“What are you doing here?” You asked.

He shrugged and leaned onto the archway next to the fridge. Messing with a picture of the two from a purikura on a boardwalk, “Why? Need me gone?”

You smiled and shook your head, “No, always want you here.”

He glanced at you.

Sliding your glass across the counter until it hits a cheese platter one of your friends brought, you looked down at his mismatched socks, “I thought you had a hero thing. Fancy party with,” you picked up an empty bottle of overly sweet wine with a celebrity printed across the front, “fancy food.”

Shouto huffed, a small dimple on his left cheek showing itself, “Who needs fancy food when I’ve got this at home.” He ran his eyes back and forth the counter as he stepped closer, getting stuck on you twice. “They didn’t have any konbini mochi there.”

You laughed when he shook the room-temperature sakura mochi at you, Shouto giving a small smile at yours.

“What about your friends? People you actually like?” You joked. When you asked him if you could host a small get-together for New Years and told him who would be coming, his face stayed purposely flat. Your friends were a lot when you were able to wrangle them into one place.

His head tilted, “I like you.”

“I know you do.” His smile dropped a touch, goosebumps rose up your bare legs, a chill suddenly in the air, “It would be weirder if you didn’t.”

Shouto stared into you like the time you came home with tears in your eyes after your partner broke up with you and suddenly you felt as if you said something wrong.

“You know because– we, uh, live together.” Words fell out of your mouth like water between your teeth. “And we’re-”

The glass door to the balcony slid open and one of your friends came ambling through, yelling Shouto’s last name the minute she saw him, inviting him out for a drink.

You smiled up at him, ready to be free from that look.

“You comin'?”

Making Shouto play drinking games was much easier than you anticipated, though no one was prepared for how horribly good he was at every single one of them. 

After the third game of beer pong with the other side of the table left with one solo cup, and your shared side missing just one cup, you hip-bumped him out of the way when it was his turn. 

“This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

You saw him look down at you in your peripheral vision as you aimed your throw, the world shifted and wobbled before you. 

“You asked me to come out here,” Shouto says. 

Your friend loosely ushered you back telepathically, her quirk tired and unfocused. “Too close,” she muttered, “Rules.”

“I thought we were going to play a game, not demolish my friends with no mercy.” You threw the ping-pong ball. 

It bounces once on the table and then rolls off to the side. Your friends cheered, hugging each other in great celebration.

“Are you not having fun?” Shouto’s mouth is much closer to your ear than you were prepared for, warm breath running over your ear and neck. You find yourself staring as he stands back up to his full height.

Your eyes dashed between his. “I’m, yeah, of course.”

He nodded and opened his mouth to say more, but a door slammed open, shouts of how the countdown is soon. 

You gazed out over the balcony, Tokyo feeling crackly and alive. People in the streets with their heads pointed up to see the fireworks that would shortly fill the night sky. 

“Do you remember when I spent a few months in the States?” Shouto asks after all of your friends shuffle inside. 

You stared at your hand as your eyes unfocused, half of it disappearing for the glowing building behind it. “I don’t think I could forget Shou, could’ve bought out half of Japan with the international phone bills.” You smiled at him to show you were joking. 

He blinked at you slowly like a sleepy cat. 

“You celebrated with your family that year.” You nodded as he spoke. 

Shouto celebrated in the States; alone. “I meant to call you back the next-”

“You were there when it mattered.”

You turned to him, your back to the city. He was staring at you, but you weren’t sure if he ever really looked away from you. There’s a serene look on his face that makes you want to ask him anything, everything. Questions you’ve already asked, questions that roll into your brain when you’re bored, questions you can only ask in dreams. 

Why he texted you every morning and every night when he was across the world. Why he shares an apartment with you that he could afford a dozen of. Why he was standing right in front of you looking like he could-

“There’s a, ah, tradition they have,” he rubbed his palm on his slacks, “Back there. In the states.”

He stares at the air over your head as you wait for him to continue, you like hearing about his travels, his thoughts. “At the end of the countdown. They kiss someone.”

Your thoughts stalled, “Oh.”

“For good luck.”

“Ah.” Your eyes betrayed you as your focus darted down to his mouth. Lips parted, a small cut running over his bottom lip from a fight he was in the other day. The cold always makes them a tint darker, you suspected he wore lipstick for a bit in high school. “Did you-?”

Shouto watched your gaze bounce down and up. “No.” 

“Cool.” You found yourself interested in a hair that fell on his shoulder. “Sorry.” What? Is going on. 

“Your dress.” He suddenly said, walking towards you with determination in his eye. 

You glanced down and saw a strap was falling, moving to push it up and thank him, but his hand met your shoulder before you could. “I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” You whispered.

Shouto’s palm didn’t leave your shoulder, warm fingers playing with the fabric of the thin strap. Skin soft on yours. 

He smelt like mint. And tea. You accidentally took too deep of a breath, head dizzy with the smell of him; you leaned against his chest. Shouto didn’t say anything, his heartbeat raced against your head, his firm chest stilled. 

“I thought about you every day.”

“Me too,” you spoke into his shirt.

“I, still, think about you every day.”

You looked up at him. “You see me every day?” 

“Not enough.” He gazed directly into your eyes, and the feeling dripped over you like warmed honey. You wrapped a finger around one of his belt loops, readying a question in your mind. 

“Ten!” 

The shout of your friends inside made you jump, Shouto smiled as he slid his hand from your shoulder over your neck and onto your cheek. 

“I’ve thought about this-”

“Nine!”

“About you,”

“Eight!”

“For so long.”

“Seven!”

“About what?” You asked. You knew, you think. You always knew, but you just- you just need to hear it. 

“Six!”

His thumb traced your bottom lip, eyes shamelessly glued to your mouth. 

“Five!”

“This.” He said. And brought his nose to yours, pressing them together. 

“Four!” 

His breath was cold as he breathed into your mouth, the air sticking to your tongue. 

“Three!”

“Can I,” Shouto’s top lip brushed yours as he asked, “kiss you?”

“Two!”

You nodded against his cheek, your hand against the buttons of his shirt, “Yes.”

“One!”

“Please.”

“Happy New Year!”

His mouth melded against yours like that was where he was supposed to be his whole life, so, so softly. Your eyes fluttered close as fireworks littered the sky, the loud popping nowhere to be in your mind. 

Shouto tasted like the strawberry soju you keep in a high cabinet as his tongue ran over yours, one of his hands gripping your waist for life. You met each other at every breath, slow and heated movement. Not wanting to be apart longer than necessary. 

His chest pressed against yours as he walked you back towards the balcony railing, your back pressed against the cold stone. It didn’t matter as Shouto ran a hot hand over your collarbone, a warm feeling sizzling in your gut. 

The sound of glass breaking woke you though. An ice bath for your warm gooey mind. 

You pushed him back suddenly, eyes wild and looking everywhere but him. What were you thinking? He’s drunk. He probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

You were drunk too, but why would you think about yourself?

You don’t know what face he was making. You don’t want to know what face Shouto was making. 

“Sorry.” You turned to help your friend with the champagne glass she dropped. 

//cut//

(When you woke up, it was with another brutal headache. Shouto brought you a hot drink in bed and asked if you remembered last night. You said yes. 

For a moment he looked mortified. 

You were embarrassed. 

You told him you remembered that he came back, but not much after that. You’re not sure if he could tell if you were lying. You’re not sure if it matters.)

You glance at your phone for any new messages. 

Just a text from your boss about a deadline on friday. 

“I just can’t believe it.”

“Hmm?” You look up at Ayame sitting across from you. Your friend wanted a recovery brunch from the drinking this weekend. 

“I mean you live with him, you’re telling me you didn’t know?”

You shrug, glancing at the gossip paper sitting on the table next to yours. “I try not to pry.”

“You never saw her come over?”

Reading over the headline, you feel tears building at the back of your eyes but you hold your breath. “I don’t know. Maybe just, like-”

10 January 20XX

       New Beau for Top 30 under 30 Pro-Hero Shouto?

“I don’t know.”

A cover photo of Shouto leaving a restaurant with a woman, smiling down at her; the ink buries itself into your mind. 

Ayame sighs, “Damn, I could’ve sworn I saw something between you at the party. You sure nothing happened?”

You rub your eye and stare at the bubbles fizzing up in your drink, “No. Nothing happened.”

[positivelybeastly]

🐤

[spidersins]

@veneror plotted starter

TREMBLING HANDS turned the volume up as loud as it would go, blasting pop music through cheap speakers. he knew he was likely disturbing everyone within the block of apartments, not in the least his roommate, but he didn't care. not late at night, and not now, in the early hours of morning after returning from val's penthouse, once more with bruises on his thighs and blood on his lips.

he didn't give a shit about the noise complaints they might get - the music was a desperate attempt to push away the tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath, the impending sense of doom that washed over him in relentless waves. as the vocal hook repeated on loop, he gasped for air between tracks, wondering how long he could use the distracting melodies to keep the panic at bay this time.

the panic attacks always started the same way - his hands would tremble slightly at first, then the shaking would intensify until his whole body quivered. his heart would pound erratically in his chest, the palpitations making him feel like the organ was going to burst through his ribcage. and as the shortness of breath set in, anthony would fumble for his music player, turning it up as loud as the speakers could manage in a desperate attempt to anchor himself.

BUT IT RARELY HELPED FOR LONG.

anthony sank to the floor, his back to the wall as he drew his knees to his chest. the more he struggled to draw air into his constricted lungs, the more disconnected he became. he could hear the sobs, wracking through through his body as his surroundings became distorted. but not in the way he needed - not like it did with val.

[crowrelli]

ive had a migraine for THREE days and it just keeps getting worse

[poisonedspider]

Things that have randomly come up while doing threads or talking to others, as per usual.

Angel Dust will not be caught dead wearing polka dots of any sort. Do you know how badly that would clash with the pattern of his stripes!?

When it is just him and Fat Nuggets, he mostly speaks Italian. It shows his comfort level when he is able to just fall into his native tongue, and also takes away from the 'act' he has to put on. It's something that ties him in to his past life that was 'stripped' from him when he became a star. He can often be seen wandering around the hotel with Fat Nuggets in his arms, cooing to him in Italian words.

I think I've mentioned this before, but (as far as we know), Angel is the only one that 'died by his own hand.' He didn't kill himself, but he did take the dangerous amount of drugs without thinking that ended up in him dying. He wasn't poisoned like Pentious, or shot and murdered like Alastor, or anything like that. That gives him a guilt he doesn't talk about a lot. Almost makes him feel weak, because in the end it was ultimately his fault, even if it wasn't his intention.

Something that came up about Angel's, ahem, anatomy. So I can repeat it five thousand times, but Angel has both a vagina and a penis. Hell is supposed to be, well, eternal damnation. Eternal suffering. So I imagine that was part of his 'curse' in a way. His feminine tendencies always had him being insulted by his dad and brother, that would call him all sorts of slurs, Henroin talking about how he 'wasn't raising no girly boy'. Being gay immediately equated him to being a woman, a 'sissy', especially in a traditionalist Catholic home in the twenties. He was terrified to not be seen as a man just because he liked pretty things, and liked pretty guys. He's very firm in his gender identity, so that would be the absolute icing on the cake of Hell sucking. That his dad and brother would have been right the whole time. That he wasn't a true man because true men don't like men. So it was almost a manifestation of his worst fears.

Which honestly gets into Catholic guilt. I have soooo many threads where other sinners have told Angel that him being gay wouldn't be part of what got him to Hell (we all know his mafia ties and horrible behaviors absolutely were but), but Angel firmly believes this is a big part of why he got sent there. Understandably, being raised Catholic. (Even though as a Catholic myself I will fight anyone that says it discriminates queer people in the Bible because that isn't the actual translation and judgmental Catholics can fight me). Part of me even thinks that gay people would automatically be cast out, because of Lute's comment about Vaggie and Charlie's relationship being an 'abomination.' Which can be for several reasons but, let's be real, the angels in this show are proving to be pretty shitty so you're telling me they probably aren't homophobic? Mmmm.

[mars-ipan]

marijuana. is cool

[katalist]

If weed was legal in Paris literally none of this would have happened

[kaspermoon]

🦋✨ Update ✨🦋

These past 2 weeks have been a MESS, I was meant to keep you guys updated on my weight loss journey but so much has happened and I apologize

I recently relapsed on drugs honestly i knew this would happened as soon as i moved back to my hometown but surprisingly I lasted way longer than I thought i would

For the past 2 weeks I have been doing OMAD, and since i’ve been working, my average steps are 10,000-22,000 yay me

During OMAD I lost 9lbs but I binged for 3 days straight and gained half of it back. This week, I have lost 5 lbs mainly from the ❄️

Make sure to always stay safe and hydrated!! <33

[smolselfshippingaxcycat]

Oh, okay! Let me toss the question back at you--how about you and Netzach? How'd you two meet and what kicked off your relationship?

Only if you feel like sharing, of course!! /gen

~ librarian-lover 📖

ofc ofc!! thamk fur the ask @librarian-lover! /gen sorry i took so long two answer :'3 and sorry abt how long the answer is, too! /lh

i dont have a whole story planned out yet (beclaws chronic illness is a meanie) nor a name fur my s/i, just vaguely put twogether bits and pieces here and therer, but im hapy two share my ideas!! ill put them under the cut so that the post isnt 5 meters long /lhj

Local Idiot™ somehow manages two get hired at L Corp /lh

they start out in the welfare depawrtment, as one of the furst mempurrs

they dont dislike being there, but being that deep underground offsets their agoraphobia a bit- not enough two cause them panic, but it definitely makes it so that their mental corruption levels rise quicker

so they sign up two transfur two the safety team instead (beclaws control team is "too yellow" and info team is too menacing and safety sounds. not scary and ok maybe they just enjoy how green the halls are there if they cant have bloo)

they happen two bump intwo netzach on one of their furst few days there and they introduce themselves two each other

and while my s/i's attempting two make small talk (and mostly failing), theyre kinda like.. "huh, something abt him seems kinda sad.... oh, people have said that about me a lot! and im purretty touch starved, maybe he needs a hug...? wait, but it'd be weird two hug someone yew just met, right?? maybe i can be his furriend or something thatd be supurr awesome and nyaice-"

they're having All the Thoughts™.... they just cannot stop Thinking™ /lh

so they're trying two come up with excuses two talk two him day after day- while noticing his alcohol and enkaphalin usage, which... kinda worries them. they've definitely been stressed enough themself two the point where they've wanted two turn two drugs... was this a similar case??

efurry time they try two go up and talk two him, though, their voice just... won't come out.

so they have the idea of writing a letter instead! maybe thatd be easier..

theyre very nervous, and constantly state how "its not a crush or anything, i just wanna be furriends and get two know each other meowre!" followed by something like "oh but no purressure if yew dont want i mean i just want yew two know im feeling this way is all!" beclaws they're not quite sure if 'friend-crush' or 'squish' is an ok term two use, beclaws feelings are confusing. the way their brain automatically thinks of the worst case scenarios also makes it so that the letter starts off with something like... "if yew're reading this im purrobly dead or i dropped this on the floor somewhere"

they put said letter in an envelope and seal it with a white heart sticker that they color in the queerplatonic flag colors and write netzach's name on the back.

and they go "ok tomeowrrow im delivering this!"

tomeowrrow comes. they fold the letter intwo their pocket....

and they dont have the guts two deliver it-

"ok ill just carry this around in my pockets while working. in case i die or something.."

they still make attempts here and there two try and deliver the letter two no avail

other agents in the safety depawrtment have obviously taken notice of this and occasionally tease them about having a (supposed) crush on the sephirah of the safety team- meowre in a teasing playful way than anything else

but these teasing interactions turn out two be a bit of a blessing- the whole safety team kinda grows closer twogether with these mischievous lil interactions and hangouts (my s/i included ofc- im just keeping it vague beclaws i wanna make it so that others can bwoop their nuggets intwo this kinda scenario if they wanna ehehe)

uhh i dont have meowch else past this point but like.

theyre sneaking around during netzach's meltdown (although they very definitely shouldnt be, they want two be of help somehow- think of a scenario similar two how the sephirah meltdowns play out in teequeue's playthrough on the lp archive?)

afterwards, they meownage two listen in on bits and snippets of the manager's talk with netzach after his meltdown

that kind of... intensifies their feelings twowards him! like "whoa thats so cool of him actually two keep mewving furward even when life is so scary... i wish i could be like that"

so it becomes not only "i wanna be his furriend" but "i think... i really look up two him."

followed by "and also... its confusing but i wanna give him platonic kisses. does that make sense?? are- are platonic kisses a thing??"

ofc theyre just kinda talking two themself in their head trying two figure out "its not romantic but i think i wanna kiss him?? but! thats purrobably weird ill just say its a squish and try two deliver that letter..."

they. still dont meownage two deliver that letter even after the fall of L Corp

but thankfully, they get another chance two in the Library!

there, they actually manage two work up the nerve two talk two netzach, learning furrom their past mistake of just letting the oppurrtunity slip by- and they do it on their furst day, too!

they actually get along quite well and are p relaxed with each other!

my s/i doesnt drink (just beclaws they think there are better tasting and smelling things out there) and they encourage netzach two purractice some moderation beclaws they just worry like that a lot

often times after receptions, they nap snuggled next two each other (meowch two the delight of my touch starved s/i)

the qpr really only "started officially" after my s/i was explaining two another assistant librarian that "even tho i wanna kiss him it isnt romantic but i cant explain why it just doesnt feel romantic"

but they were explaining loud enough fur like. efurryone on the floor of art two hear beclaws. "what is volume control im neurodivergent also stop making me so flustered /lh"

netz has (purrobably?) nefur heard of anything like that befur, but is willing two give it a shot

so theres always kisses on the cheek or forehead pre-reception and purrobably meowre kisses and closerer snuggles post-reception. sometimes occasionally kisses on the lips, lots of hand holding or havin an arm around the other or little ways of showing physical affection (ᶦ ʳᵉᵃˡˡʸ ˡᶦᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᶜ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ⁿᵉᵗᶻᵃᶜʰ ᶦˢ ˢᵘᵖᵘʳʳ ᵖʰʸˢᶦᶜᵃˡˡʸ ᵃᶠᶠᵉᶜᵗᶦᵒⁿᵃᵗᵉ) tl;dr: local idiot joins lobcorp, tries and fails two befurriend netz, meownages two actually gain the nerve two talk two him during the events of ruina and talks a little too loudly but it turns out two be ok beclaws qpr

[starborn-souls]

...god damn it

so that last post got me in the mood to write about Diederick, and I don't even have his full bio up if I remember correctly. So I guess it's just, general character analysis bullshit at midnight? Shit below the cut

But anyways, like I mentioned in my last post, Diederick really didn't grow up in a healthy environment. He was neglected and abused, and really just didn't have any consistent healthy support/guardian figures. And that situation really didn't ever improve, especially once he started to look physically old enough to be on his own and was expected to take care of himself without any of that support.

In short, this resulted in Diederick growing up with very little self-esteem or any sort of sense of self-worth but still craving any sort of positive reinforcement/attention he could get.

So I guess it really shouldn't be any wonder that he ended up turning into somewhat of an adrenaline junkie and fell into drug abuse on top of being easily manipulated and a people pleaser. Poor guy never had any real positive relationships and is desperately lonely. And so he's become reliant on adrenaline rushes and drugs to get that artificial high.

Drugs that he eventually couldn't get enough access to on his own, which eventually led him to his current boss a couple years ago, a coke dealer and pimp that ran a strip club in a red light district that essentially offered supply in exchange for Diederick working for him, no questions asked. A deal Diederick took without really thinking much of because he was desperate at the time and needed that fix, didn't particularly care how he got it. What was supposed to be just serving and performing would turn into flat out sex work that just became part of the cycle of abuse that Diederick's stuck in now. And he doesn't even think enough of himself to try and get out and he's still emotionally isolated, so he doesn't even have anyone really pushing for him to get better.

just

this man deserves a hug and a blanket and so much fucking therapy.

[maytheoddshq]

Mahlon McCreary (he/him). District Twelve Mentor. 111 Victor. Twenty-eight. Ray Nicholson.

Trigger Warnings: tw abuse, tw violence, tw domestic abuse, tw alcohol, tw drugs, tw addiction, tw overdose, tw death, tw gore, tw body horror

Everyone knew the McCrearys were cursed – with bad blood, bad tempers, bad endings. Mahlon remembered Pa saying it wasn’t always like that, but it didn’t matter. It was that way now, and there was nothing to be done for it.

The McCrearys were as old as the dogwoods, with bark twice as thick. They used to work in the coal mines, and then the Hob, and then nowhere at all. With idle hands, they became the devil’s playthings, and Mahlon grew up against a backdrop of poverty-fueled desperation and despair. He wasn’t even a bad kid, in the beginning, but when you’re told you’re something long enough, when it’s beaten into you, it starts to stick – starts to feel like a well-worn jacket, threadbare denim fitting perfectly to form. 

He started smoking young, and drinking younger — and when he did show up to school, he always caused a scene. Mahlon knew he was owed nothing, so he took everything, desperate for the attention. 

He initiated most of the trouble kids in Twelve could manage, and most of the violence too – claiming a back section of the woods as his stomping grounds where Peacekeepers rarely did rounds. Around Twelve, he sometimes cracked jokes, sometimes punches. It all worked, in a way. He polarized the world around him into friends and enemies, with no appreciation or consideration for a gray between. And while this crassness and cruelty earned him plenty of ire, it also afforded him a tight circle – and kept the McCreary name out of people’s mouths, or it at least made them think twice before speaking openly.

After all, there was plenty to talk about.

A family tree of fuck-ups before him, Mahlon McCreary Sr. had been in and out of jail his whole life. When he wasn’t sleeping it off in a cell, he was doing the same shit that would land him back there in a few month’s time. Virginia McCreary bore the brunt of it, and Mahlon swore he could tell how soon Pa was going back to jail by how banged up she looked that day. In Mahlon’s early teens, Virgie once ended up with two broken ribs and a fractured collarbone – and the first vial of morphling appeared. If he’d known then what he knew now, he’d have dumped it outright, but hindsight was always clear. 

He was a child, barely old enough to make sense of the world, when he had to become their sole provider. No one would employ the McCreary’s – they knew better than to let them close – so he lived largely off what little the land could provide. He set traps and hunted for meat, fur, and hide. He tilled barren earth for meager produce, which rarely grew in the ashen soot. He stitched their clothing, and patched their wounds, and stole from others who were even minutely better-off. Sometimes, he thought it would be better if Virgie died. If Pa never came home. Fewer mouths to feed. Fewer humans to bruise. He grew bent and broken, a cruel and seering thing – capable of such harshness that he saw less of himself in the mirror every day, and more of his father. It made him sick.

Mahlon never understood how someone could cause so much harm and still evoke some sense of righteous justice – and then, on the cusp of adulthood, he was Reaped. No one batted an eye at his selection, not even Virgie, who’d been so subdued by morphling that she didn’t realize he’d been called. Mahlon knew it was the curse. It had come for him; there was no sense in fighting it. Twelve was a better place with him gone – safer too. But even the devil craves life, and as the arena approached, Mahlon fashioned himself into a monster capable of the atrocities it would take to emerge alive. In his private training session, he killed, gutted the dummy, and skinned it for its hide, describing in graphic detail how he planned to murder and repurpose each of the 23 tributes in time. It was so disturbing, so detailed and sincere, that he’d watched one Gamemaker turn in disgust, and he knew it was possible: the chance to survive. 

They’d awoken in an arena that was barely 12ft by 12ft. It was a cement room, no windows, a hole in the ground. A platform moved through it, piled high with weapons, food, medicine, supplies. Mahlon had watched it lower down, had stared in confusion at the only other tribute there – his own district partner, as it settled on the ground. They were structured according to district first – One at the top, Twelve at the bottom. By the time it reached the bottom, there were only a few items left: a pocket knife, a roll of gauze, a bruised apple, a bottle of salve. They were instructed to select one item each. Any more, any cheating, and they’d be killed on the spot, thanks to the trackers that had been embedded in the tops of their spines. They’d sat across from each other, backs pressed to parallel walls, the whole night, in a stand-off…until they’d been put to sleep by the arena’s gas. 

Mahlon awoke in what felt like the same room, but the hole was now on the ceiling and floor. He was higher up in the structure, with a new cellmate – the girl from Two. He recognized her as having earned the same training score, and he understood that they were being matched based on some series of metrics, some combination that changed each night until someone won. They preyed on alliances and dynamics, pairing lovers and enemies together until one of them died. Mahlon knew no one had to die each time, but it was better if they did. Fewer future swaps to survive. 

In the finale, there were only two left, but they’d been dropped in separate rooms. They’d been made to find each other, Mahlon understood. But as the platform lowered or rose to each floor, a new horror awaited – the mangled, revived bodies of tributes from before, traps triggered by movement or body heat and sound, and finally each other where they met on the middle floor. Mahlon had kept the pocket knife from that first night, and he did as he promised: gutted and bled the other tribute dry. 

In the end, he embarked on his victory tour. The last stop was Twelve – a grand return home. But no one was waiting, no one was left to. Virgie had overdosed, died the day before he’d won. And his father was gone – maybe to rot in a Capitol prison, maybe into the woods and beyond. Mahlon was the only McCreary left standing, and he wasn’t sure if he’d fulfilled the curse or merely managed to get by this time. Now, he returns to the Capitol each cycle to coach the next batch on how to die. It doesn’t matter; it never would. He only cares to fuel old fires and to spark new ones. Mahlon wants the world to burn, until it all looks like the hell he’s come to know.

PENNED BY: Lena

[rosydreamiing]

When you can’t tell whether your muse is high, sugar-rushing, sleep deprived or just being herself.

[pappstrohhalm]

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